From Here On Out

From Here on Out

"Guide my words", she softly articulated to no one in particular, for no one at the moment was adjacent to her. Even if someone was there, standing right in front of her, they would be able to hear her incoherent articulation yet whether they would be able to decipher it was another story entirely. As she lay prostrate on the marble, diamond embedded floor of her room, her thoughts consisted of one thing and one thing only: her colossal graduation speech which she would present to the graduating class of 2010 tomorrow afternoon. She tried earnestly to direct her attention to something more of the pleasant, non-nerve wrecking variety but seeing as that were nearing impossibility, she quickly turned over, lying unprostrate now on the floor which now consumed her troubling thoughts. She arose the floor which was her thinking chamber, her constant companion who had shared her many tears and her deepest fears; the one whom she could confide in and no one else with. It was at these desperate times in her life where she almost, sometimes, half-wished she belonged to a religion, had a god in whom she could trust.


The aspiring, young valedictorian, no matter her certain troubling circumstances, thought she had everything she could ever want: two completely filthy rich parents who loved her deeply, although they didn't understand her, (not that they made an earnest effort to). Two of the most endearing, beloved best friends in the entire galaxy who were always there for her, despite her tendency for smugness in certain circumstances, and the best thing she treasured most about her life was her poetry. Her poetry was the only thing she possessed that was truly hers and hers alone. It was, in dire cases, the only thing that kept her somewhat sane when the rest of her world fell into the horrifying dark abyss of her past. Her past, the only thing she fervently, earnestly attempted to completely erase from her sometimes child-like memory...
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"SAMANTHA!!” a voice bellowed from downstairs breaking Sam's now nauseating thought process and she was grateful for the distraction. Judging by the husky, muscular voice that the particular cry came from, it had to be none other than her father, Vlad Jakers Peterson Jr. As she quickly descended downstairs, tripping over her own feet as well as the stairs, every horrible thing imaginable flooded her adolescent teenage mind and her fears arranged themselves into a series of mini screams as she dismounted the last stair and fearfully and hastily scampered to her father's aid. As Sam had been, Vlad was now lying prostrate on the floor with shattered glass all about him. No broken bones, just a few scratches here and there, she thought to herself as she turned her father on his backside, facing her. In a millisecond, her present demeanor took a transition that seemed to resemble a cobra ready to strike.


"What happened?!" she hissed through clenched teeth and with an even more clenched heart. With a demeanor of a little boy now, Vlad stared at his teenage daughter as he intelligently tried to search for words that would adequately explain his present dilemma to the young woman looking down at him. For a split second he thought: Umm...such nice, sexy curves... but he pushed the thought away as he opened his mouth to tell his 16 year old daughter why he was on the floor and how he had gotten there.


"Well...” he began. “I wanted to celebrate your valedictorian thingy so I tried to get the special wine glasses. You know, the ones your mother bought before..." His voice trailed off as he remembered when they had acquired the wine glasses. It was Vlad and Yvette’s 2nd wedding anniversary. Because they were, at the time, in between lower and middle class, they wanted something special to drink their favorite wine from. (It just happened to be the finest 1989 bottle of Moet). He remembered his wife on her deathbed. Remembered how he had promised to love and care for Samantha despite the fact that Yvette was leaving them forever after only 5 years of marriage. And although Yvette wasn’t Sam’s biological mother, she still treated her like family. Yvette was the mother Sam had never had and treasured her step mom as she would gold. Samantha was only nine years of age at the time and she didn't understand what all the commotion was about; relatives coming over with a myriad of food, spending the night, and occasionally pitifully looking at her and saying (usually to themselves) "You look just like your mother!" or "You have your mother's eyes".


She wasn't allowed to attend the funeral; for fear that it would emotionally scar her for life, so she spent the night at a friend's house. When her father came to pick her up the next morning, however, she knew there was something wrong with her Daddy by the strange, outlandish way he acted. He was sluggish and apathetic not really caring about anything. It was as if he was stuck in a daze and he couldn't bring himself to the light. After that night, things were never the same for Sam. She often awoke in the middle of the night, screaming from terrible nightmares and breaking out in cold sweats. One night after waking up from a particularly bad nightmare, she went into her father's bed. She snuggled next to her father, who was already awake and waiting....
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As Samantha curled next to her father, sleeping peacefully and soundlessly, Vlad's hormones started to go hay-wire. In order to relieve himself, he quickly and quietly pulled down his boxers to reveal his throbbing penis. With too much eagerness, he thrust his hand down to that sacred area and commenced what he christened his "play time". No matter the quantity of fun he was having, he knew to keep his moaning to the lowest level possible, so that he wouldn't wake his precious angel. However, as time quickly passed as he made due enjoying himself, his moans of pleasure grew ever so louder that he eventually woke Samantha. Yet, she was, on the inside, very grateful, as she had readied herself to cry out in the middle of the night again due to the reoccurring, distressing nightmare.


"Daddy?” she asked her father, for she saw him sweating and moaning, "What are you doing?" Curiosity and her mild innocence played such a part in this that Vlad couldn't help but lie to his flesh and blood.


"Daddy's just playing a game", he assured her; but before she could revert to her previous condition, the now demonized man already knew what he wanted-her. "Will you play with Daddy?” he asked innocently, knowing that she'd do anything for him because he was all she had. With an innocent nod of her head, Vlad's "game" was commenced.



He eased her small body onto his large, muscular body and proceeded to pull her night-gown up and over her head so that all she laid in was her pink and purple spotted panties that were much too big for her. With one hand running through her golden hair, he took his other hand and let it travel to the secret dwellings of her nine year old, undeveloped body. It was here that he rubbed his calloused hand on her vulva moaning as he did so. He then stuck his ring finger into her vagina and wiggled it a bit. As he was doing this, his left hand, which had been running through the hair of his daughter, was now traveling on her undeveloped chest. He bent his head down to lick at her nipples and, pretending there was milk coming out of them, he sucked on them hard. So hard he sucked that Samantha dared to cry out in pain and as she did so, he abruptly pulled himself on top on her. The sight of his penis, which now rested on her pale stomach, stuck her as odd and yet, as curiosity would have it, she reached out to touch it. She had barely laid two fingers on it when her father pushed himself farther on her so that his penis could reach her mouth. He grabbed it, wiggled it for her, as if it were a toy, and forcibly shoved it in her mouth! The pungent and potent odor of the residue of his "play time" was quite strong and Sam found herself gagging and wanting that horrid thing out of her mouth but when he only thrust it more into her mouth, ignoring her gasps for help and oxygen, she knew she had to take action into her own hands for it was now burning her throat. And so, in a state of desperation, she bit it.


He gave a loud yelp and removed his penis from her mouth but not before slapping her and tossing her hard to the floor as if she were a rag doll. Unfortunately, his loud scream woke the neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, who had grown fond of Samantha ever since she was born. They broke in through the living room window( which was always slightly ajar) and came into his bedroom, looked him square in the eye as though they knew this would one day occur, and with no questions asked, immediately took Samantha, who was bitterly weeping from pain and confusion at this point, into their arms and carried her out of the two-story, dingy hovel and into their apartment across the semi-lit hall.


Once in their apartment, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson took little Samantha into the bathroom. They played with her in the water, making splashing noises and giggling. After her warm and relaxing bath, they put a large, burnt orange-colored t-shirt on her and brought her into her bed with them. She, however, was quite reluctant and resisted all the way, but her body was much too weak to fight them and so, with one sleepy, adorable yawn, Sam climbed into the Wilson’s bed and dozed off to sleep only to wake up an hour later crying and screaming because of the horrid images of her father and what he had done to her. In her childish mind, yes, he had hurt her, but she wasn’t fully aware of the evilness her father had bestowed upon her; in years to come, she’d find out soon enough. Mrs. Wilson, an aged lady of seventy-five, pulled her salt-and-pepper hair into a tight ponytail before lifting the weeping child into her arms. She began to sing a lullaby, one that was guaranteed to make Sam fall asleep and not wake up again until the new break of dawn.


The next morning when Sam awoke, she realized that something was different. She knew not how she knew, but something had altered the atmosphere from the previous night as she climbed out of the massive bed and transitioned into the living room. When she entered the living room, she discovered what was wrong: sitting in a mahogany chaise opposite Mr. Wilson was her father, who, by the appearance of his lethargic eyes, his matted hair that attached itself to the side of his receding hairline, and the fact that his attire consisted of a dirty, too-small, dog saliva-covered, sky blue shirt and the same boxers he had worn the previous night, looked as though he hadn’t slept at all.


She stopped, as if in a military stance, and opened her mouth, wishing that some kind of sound would produce from her young vocals but all that came about was a whimpering noise, like that of a fearful, abused, and lost puppy, a clamor, one that was the obvious product of unknown fear, fatigue, and hunger. Vlad stood and took a few staggering steps towards her, it was obvious he had been drinking before he came over, and said, “Sweetie, Daddy’s here to take you home now.” An awkward silence consumed the room. So thick was the silence that he swallowed briefly before continuing whilst Mr. and Mrs. Wilson shared a somber look of concern, dismay, and unbelief. “Don’t you wanna come home with Daddy? We could watch Lion King as many times as you want, if you come home.”


As intriguing as the offer stood, it wasn’t sufficient enough to wean Samantha out of her present disposition. She stood afar off from her father, who transformed in that one instance from the drunken, unconscious state of a hyena, as far as the subconscious mind was concerned, to a bellowing, controlling lion after finally being conscious of her youthful rebellion and disobedience.


Grabbing her violently by her arm he said viciously, violently, and almost demonically, “You are coming home with me this instant!” He paused dramatically to gaze fiercely into the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, almost as if he were blaming them for her present boldness unknown to him beforehand; as if they were the ones whom had hurt and maligned his only daughter before continuing. “Besides,” he said almost sweetly, “you’ve perturbed these good people long enough sweetie. I think it would be best for us all if you just came home with me. You do want to come home with me, don’t you?” The query was one of reverse physiologitic proportions that which he knew she was ignorant of, thus silence muted any response she could have muttered, had she the desire to do so. An almost rueful and lugubrious expression crossed his stiff silhouette, but it was merely a façade to dissemble his true, insidious nature.