Every night, he would undo my frock, lift me up in his arms, and then lay me down on his bare body. He would hug me with his fatherly warmth, and slide his hands over my back, reaching my posterior.
“This is a bad touch. You should never let anyone else touch you like this,” he would say, wandering his fingers like a bunch of earthworms set free on me. I would just lie on him, and I remember his eyes close for no reason, or a reason that was yet to be found out.
“And if someone ever, ever touches you here,” he would whisper, shifting his hand from my back to my chest that was yet to flower into breasts, “then you should come and tell us at home.”
“Papa, only you can touch me here?” I would ask him, embracing the comfort of his warm body.
“That’s right, my little girl.”
~ Eighteen Years Later ~
I am home, after nine years since I had left. I don’t know why I haven’t been home ever since. Perhaps because, with age, my father’s love and care for me had grown a lot. So much, that I found it somehow comforting not to be loved anymore. By anyone.
I kiss his grey bearded cheek, as my mother watches us with a smile that makes me realise how she never knew how much her husband loved his daughter.
I kiss his other cheek, and whisper into his ears, “This, Papa, is a very good touch. Not every one would do this to you.”
There are some things you do in life, and with time, the perpetuity of those memories outgrow your ability to cry them out of your system. To my father, his love for me is one such thing. He swallows hard, his oily chin quivering till his tears crave to fall off his eyes. Tears that only I can see, exactly how only he could touch me where others couldn’t. And that is my revenge.
Image Source: flickr.com