Deepest, Darkest …

Stop it.
Get your hands off me, you filthy pervert.
Stop!

Ooh, the boys aren’t going to like you, Granddaughter.
You’re supposed to like this, you know.
You’re a freak if you don’t.
This is what all men do. Didn’t you know that?
Be grateful you’re getting a lesson here.
Not that any man is actually going to want you, but just in case someone is that desperate, you’ll know what to do to make him happy.

I said stop!
If you don’t, I’m going to tell.
Stop!

Who are you going to tell?
Your mother won’t believe you, and you know what she’ll do to you if you do tell.
You can’t tell your dad. He’s already in the hospital and this will make him sicker. You don’t want him to die, do you?
Now shut up and stay still or I’ll have to go and find one of your little sisters.

Hey, Great-granddaughter, how about you come out to my workshop?
I have all sorts of neat things out there, just ask your mom.
Chuckle, chuckle.
Oh yes, you loved my workshop when you were young, didn’t you, Granddaughter?

Your grandfather died this morning.
Grandma wants you and Stephanie to be the urn bearers, since you’re the eldest grandchild and she’s the eldest great-grandchild.

Never in a million years.
Nor will we be attending the funeral.
I don’t care how upset and angry people get, I need to stand up and do this for myself, my daughter, and my sisters.
I will not pretend to mourn for him, just for the sake of appearances.
He doesn’t deserve it.

The morning of September 11th, 2001 was horrible for so many reasons. But it was a time of liberation for me, personally. Liberation from my deepest, darkest secret, and, most importantly, from my deepest, darkest fear. He got away with his crimes against me, but he never managed to get his hands on my daughter. Thank God.

For more interpretations of the “deepest, darkest” prompt, make your way over to Sunday Scribblings.

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