And All My Dreams, Torn Asunder
by Oro

Suddenly, you're pushed against the wall and he grabs you. It is the strangest intimacy: an unfamiliar body flushed against yours, warm breaths against your neck and the feeling as though your blood is slowly being drained from you; as though you should've seen it coming but it's too late now.

Before you know it he's got his gun pressed against you and you can't even produce a scream to let somebody know that you are in here. And somehow, the worst thing about this is the tears, streaming down your cheeks, making you feel again like that small child you were before your father pushed you, trying not to wrinkle your dress, into the swirl of his ambition.

"Be good, honey," mom said, "We're going to be on television now."

There was so much light, then, and so many flashes and so many questions, and you all seemed so happy and united in those photographs they showed in the newspaper the next day. And she said you behaved so well, and you grinned and he got elected once, twice, then president, and by then you had started college.

Those kids gave you the strangest looks that first day, but you were so used to it by then. They're all out there having fun now, and this is what your graduation night looks like.

"Where's your daddy now?" A whisper, cruel and almost inaudible, makes its way into your consciousness.

(You don't have the guts to admit you've been thinking the same thing in the back of your mind.)

He drew a picture for you, once, of what it would be like to have his daughter kidnapped, but he never said a word about what it would feel like for you to be in this situation -- only from his perspective.

But daddy doesn't know that gunmetal is more than just a color, it's a feeling; cold and penetrating and impersonal at that. He doesn't know what it's like to be shoved up against that dirty nightclub bathroom wall with your head suddenly pounding and your senses cloudy enough to make you unable to do anything but give into your fears and sob like the little girl that you are.

"Shh," he says. "It would be over sooner if you won't make a sound, baby." You can feel his voice pulsing inside your ears, sending electrical messages through your nerves and into your brain to shut the hell up and do as you're told.

You become eerily quiet as he puts his gun to your head while his other hand brings an ether-dipped cloth to your mouth.

Sleepy goodness mixes with the pleasure and the paranoia of the drug you recall being given earlier, and it's not at all painful, and your body is suddenly made of soft, woolly warmth.

The dancing's stopped now; you're vaguely aware of those tears running down your cheeks as you fall unconscious, heavy in his arms.

You're all alone now, baby: it's graduation time.


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