The Girl named Daughter

The soft hum of the dishwasher was my only company, muted by the separating wall between me and the kitchen as I scrutinized the supply closet in front of me. Fallen brooms and empty bottles scattered at my feet, the offending supplies offering little more than a plop against the floor when I kicked it. 

“Father…” I growled, soft steps and the creaking of the bathroom door barely recognizable over my own muttering. Bent over the mess of spilled bottles and broken brooms, a soft, barely- there touch grazes across my neck, sending shivers through my being as a boisterous laugh fills the once calm silence I was in.

“Darling, you really need to take a break once in a while. Did you even wash your face this morning?” Father remarks, pinching my cheeks softly as if I were made of unhardened porcelain. A familiar warmth pooled in my cheeks, shame floods through me at his words. As he continues out of the room, a faint sound of running water floods the silence. Following him out, I anxiously twiddle with the dripping towel in my hands while I wait for his attention to fall back to me.

It feels weird to not have his attention fully on me. Father always comes back to the dome just before sunset and immediately dotes on me, rushing me to the nearest seat and propping my feet up. 

“Honey?” His voice is much closer than I remember, breath tickling my ears and raising the hairs on the back of my neck. As if he noticed my discomfort, his hands found my shoulders and began kneading the muscles there. It should’ve made me uncomfortable, especially with how weird he’s acting, but the familiarity of the feeling makes my heart calm a little. I sigh, almost giving in to his wishes when I feel his breath against my neck and his voice vibrate across my skin. I turn towards him, his face soft and loving until I tilt my head. His eyebrows fall, mouth twisting into a deep, unforgiving frown.

“Do you not listen to me anymore?” His voice is sharp and unkind, similar to how it was last night. I had asked about Mother again, something I should’ve known not to do. Father never likes when I ask about Mother. He always acts like she’s a horrible memory, looking away from me and refusing to talk about her.

“I’m sorry, Father?” I do my best to sound as unassuming as possible, beginning to feel like I know exactly why he’s acting so weird. He shifts in front of me, suddenly towering over me. He looks all the more intimidating and imposing in the stark sunlight our windows provide.

“I said, ‘Do you understand why I’m upset?’” 

A silence follows his sentence, too long and tense for me to even hope to lie my way out of trouble this time.

“...Yes, Father. I understand. Really, I do. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, do you? Do you really? You understand how hurt and ashamed I am? You understand that this all could’ve been so easily avoided?” A deep rumble follows every word he says, his face a deep bloody red as he begins to huff. 

I really didn’t understand why he was so upset, if he’s even referring to what I think he is. The event was not the huge deal he was making it out to be, rather a simple question he didn’t like. 

“I spend my days out in the cold, the dark, hopelessly searching for some sign of human life for the both of us,”

It wasn’t cold or dark. I knew that much, even if he wouldn’t allow me outside. According to Father, others who had survived what he called "the apocalypse” made domes out of leftover rubble and supplies from fallen buildings and trees for the vulnerable while they searched for other survivors. When I asked him how he knew this without seeing other people, all he would tell me was that people from the past had done so. The dome Father had built had large windows everywhere, he made sure of that when he built it. 

“I do everything in my power to keep you safe! To keep you happy, and you repay me with nothing but disrespect and insolence!”

I just wanted to know what was out there. Why does he get to explore the world? Why does he get to know what’s going on? Why am I not good enough?

“God, what happened to you? You used to be so good, so sweet, so quiet. Just like your mother was. Why can’t you be more like your mother?”

Mother. The word hits me like a shot to the chest, venom building in my heart and lurching to my throat. He always did this. Comparing me to a woman I never even met, shaping me into a perfect little puppet version of her. 

“I-.. Father, I’m-” The words catch in my throat, suffocating any breath that would’ve dared to come out. But, I refuse to let this man win this argument again.

“I’m not my mother. You must know that.” A long, heavy silence fills the room before a sharp slap echoes through it. My cheek immediately begins to throb, and I don’t need a mirror to know there’s a vibrant red handmark there.

“Get. Up. Stairs.” His voice is a deep rumble, and I’m barely able to stop my shaking voice from breaking as I continue despite the fear that now fills my heart.

“I’m not my mother. I never was, and I never will be. I don’t even know her.”

“Sweetheart-,”

“I’m not done! You never let me finish! You never let me think for myself, or do anything,” My voice is becoming breathy and squeaky. I know it is because Father always smirks whenever it does, knowing his victory is right around the corner. But I can’t stop now, can’t let him win. I’m almost done. With what, I don’t know, but I know I want to finish it.

“Why can’t I go outside?” I ask, this time giving him a chance to answer. But, when he does nothing more than turn an almost purple shade and huff, I continue my attack.

“Why don’t I have my own room? Or my own bed? All the characters in the books I read have their own rooms, their own lives. And, why can’t I go outside? Why do I have to be in the dome? The book you gave me said the domes are only for pregnant women and those with weak immune systems. And even they get to spend at least a little time outside!”

It’s then I finally realize how far gone I really am. We’ve gotten into fights like these before, but they were never this intense. Father never yells at me, and he’s certainly never hit me before. But he also never looked so angry either, face all scrunched up, red and blotchy. It almost made me forget why I ever brought this up to him in the first case. Almost. 

“Father, I’m just trying to-“

“You- You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He replies, words stilted and muffled behind his teeth.

“Yes! Yes, I do! I really, really do!” My voice wavers again, but I barely pay it any mind now.

“No, you don’t! You’ve never acted like this before! You were always such a good girl! Did everything I told you to!”

“Exactly! Everything you told me to! Because I was a child, and that’s what children do with their parents.” A strange look overtakes his face now, a look foreign and unfamiliar on my father’s usually cheerful face. In it, I saw less the father that raised me and more a man. A scary, unfamiliar man.

“You weren’t-,” He sighs, a long sigh that makes me squirm in fear despite my apparent anger, “You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand? You always say that! How do you know I won’t understand if you never even tried to explain it? All I’m left to do is guess what you’re trying to say. And with how you act, it may as well be that you’re in love with me!” 

The air around us suddenly feels dry and uncomfortable, and I let out a soft chuckle to try to disperse some of the tension. It was meant to just be a thoughtless jab, but now that I’ve said it, I suddenly feel the need to defend myself.

“I mean- Just because, y’know.., you always compare me to my mother, and the two of you…”

He’s silent again, and I start to worry that he won’t ever talk to me again. Then, he scoffs and turns towards me again, his eyes still hard and cold.

“You’re not like your mother. I would never do what I did to her to you.”

My heart stops at the implication, and when he makes no move to respond other than that I’m forced to ask,

“Father, you didn’t.., respond. And, what do you mean what you did to her? What did you do?”

A strange look takes over his face, and when he sighs the horrid and grotesque truth finally dawns on me. Without a second thought, I rush toward the large window overlooking the two of us in the living room. I know better than to try the door, as he always padlocks the door after entering, and my good sense is rewarded with a sharp crash and the searing pain of glass entering my skin.

The fall is painful and my shoulder immediately starts throbbing, but I continue running. Sounds are muffled by the wind, and I think I hear another set of footsteps and my father calling my name, but none of that matters right now. All that matters is getting as far away from that wretched man as I possibly can. Rocks pierce the bottom of my foot and my chest is already burning with each breath I take, but I have to continue. And I did until my legs gave out and only a sad whimper of a breath would leave my mouth. Exhausted, I collapsed against a gray stone wall, my hair and clothes catching on its ridges as I went down. Caved in buildings and fallen light posts blur together and a weird hum reverberates in my chest. A warm, wet feeling on my leg draws my attention. And, even though I can’t focus my eyes, I can tell that the gash there is huge, taking up most of my calf. 

A sharp, painful gasp forces its way out of me as I blink rapidly, beginning to refocus my eyes. A white blob begins to take form in the corner of my vision, and soon I can recognize its soft, fabric-like qualities. Maybe, if it was clean enough, I could wrap it around my calf and stop the bleeding. Slowly, I crawl towards it, careful of the gravel coming into contact with my leg. Up close, the blob looked much less like fabric, with a thick film of dirt and a certain sheen to it that makes me immediately recognize it as plastic. Picking it up, my suspicions are confirmed. Disappointed, I go to crawl back to a wall in search of some support when a voice breaks my focus. 

“Darling?” the voice shouts, familiar even in my panic broken haze.

With a start, I scramble to my feet, ignoring the searing pain in my calf as I dart down an opening between scattered with pieces of destroyed buildings. Nothing makes sense here. Why is this place just column after column? Where are the woods? The flowers or the animals? I jump as a pebble tumbles into my shirt and I’m tempted to just turn around and go back, but the tiniest idea of a footstep taunts me, and I begin to sprint through the opening and into the demolished streets. Every turn of a corner makes my body cry out in pain, but I continue even as the wound on my leg begins to tear further. I’m sure there’s a trail of blood leading him right to me.

After passing what felt like fifty piles of debris, I could feel my adrenaline thinning. A break between two buildings catches my eye and I duck into it when I get close enough, scraping my still throbbing shoulder against a wall as I do. The opening was small, dark and cut off by rubble. As I limp into the opening, my foot catches on something and I tumble into a nearby wall, still caught in whatever it is I tripped on. I pull my foot out and look down to see a loose brick in the rubble, a cavernous darkness just behind it. As quickly and carefully as I can, I pull away the neighboring bricks and rubble, hunkering down in the makeshift cave. It’s small, cramped, but better than spending another second in that stupid glass dome. I can breathe now, I realize, slowly lowering myself on one leg to the ground. My shoulder and leg throb as I get closer to the ground, scooting back until my back is being pricked by the sticks and rocks that make up the back of the cave. Something pricks the back of my thigh, but I ignore it in favor of pressing myself further away from the makeshift entrance. 

I listen closely for any sign of someone coming, stifling my breath despite my protesting lungs. When one, maybe two minutes pass, I decide I’m safe and relax. That same prick in my thigh becomes prominent and I shift to avoid it, but it seems to follow me. Reason strikes me far too late because I reach under myself and rip the opposing object from under me. It feels as if I tore a chunk of my own skin off, but I’m too scared to check. My hands and feet begin to tingle, and I remember a book my father gave me saying that was an effect of cutting off nerve endings. Blood quickly begins to pool under me as I shakily raise the object to my face. A rusty, bent butcher's knife wobbles in my grasp, as if trying to apologize for sealing my fate. I try to stay optimistic, but as my thigh numbs and my shoulder makes a queasy popping sound. I give up.

“Oh,..” Is all I can muster, a warm, fuzzy feeling filling my chest and spreading to the rest of my body until I feel too weak to even lift my head off the wall behind me. Suddenly, the silver lining hits me. It’s over. No more cleaning up after that old man every waking second. Or awkwardly shifting away from him when he rubs my shoulder for too long. Or having to smile and nod as he complained about the dinner I’d make. And, no more having to silently swallow the weird feeling I’d get when he told me to be more like my mother with that stupid smirk of his. I can finally relax.

Until I take my last breath.

A faint sound of feet against gravel disrupts my peace, and a low, familiar chuckle sends shocks of fear down my back.

“Oh, what a sad sight. My poor daughter.”