She remembers how she would sit in the dark on her bed, her back against the cold wall, and her eyes on the door. Sometimes, she would wish that there were locks on the door, but how could she ask for one? or to Whom should she ask for a lock?
It would always start the same, silent foot steps except for that creak on that loose floor board, and her heart would start pounding, as the handle of the door starts turning.
Sometimes, he would just look at her and then saunter away, other times, he would say he came to give her a goodnight kiss. Oh, how she dreaded him, his touch made her feel so dirty, so vile, so disgusted.
2 comments
Is this autobiographical?
I feel all the fears and emotions