Wednesday, February 1, 2012

A Gift of Mirrors

Sexual content-reader discretion advised

I am nine years old.  My step father is in a good mood today.  He has brought me gifts.  I have asked for a mirror in my room and instead of one there are three long panes and an antique from his refinishing store that is adjacent to the house.  While I was at school he arranged all three of the long mirrors on the wall by my bed.  The antique is on the opposite wall.  It is speckled with age, reflecting only fragments of my face, but it is charming and I think it must have belonged to a princess.  He says that if I am good I can keep them.  That means that instead of brushing my hair as I look at my spotty reflection, I will have to fetch a towel and come to his room.  I walk past him, trying not to look disappointed and remember that I can braid my hair soon enough- I just need to do my job first.  I am surprised when he tells me to bring the towel back to my room. 

He is showing me how the mirrors can help me to see the things I can do while I am on my knees.  He says it is extra fun for him to be able to see it too.  It is in these mirrors that I bear my first sense that something about this is exceptionally wrong.  Our reflection as I work on his body and as he pulls at my hair and throws his head back is grotesque.  I am not able to seal my eyes and go about this chore as a robot anymore.  He slaps my face when my eyes try to wall me off from him.  I will have to become accustom to this new routine.  And later I will not look at myself in the princess mirror.  I don't want to see my own image anymore.  I know what my hideous face is meant for now and I know that mirrors can be broken and made into weapons to fend off my despicable self- carving tools with which to whittle at my loathsome flesh.  Besides, I would only shame the memory of that maiden fair, so long ago, who once gazed upon her perfection and rightly loved what she saw.

I am scared.  I have been scared before, but this time his frantic pawing and the sounds that come from his mouth make him into an animal-like a frothy-mouthed  dog that may or may not lunge at me.  I take no chances and keep a rhythm around his hardness.  I know that will bring him to an end.  But he holds my head as I take him in and I am gagging, vomit rising to my chest and then settling as I gulp air upon release.  In the mirror I see that my face is wet with tears that come not only from this strangulation, but the agony of realizing a truth I have not known to realize before.  I am doing something very, very wicked. I am an accomplice to his games and his games are not harmless anymore. 


  1. Seeing it makes it real. You cant pretend its not happening anymore. that bastard took the last of your ability to seperate the deed with your sense of self. He should have been tortured. slowly. painfully.

  2. There is evidence that he did feel tortured at times. The struggle is wishing the worst death on a parson who does these things and realizing you are better than that. I go back and forth all of the time! He is gone now- not as much of a struggle for me except for when I feel angry that he got off so easily. What I know, is that I have no control over where his soul is, and unlike him, I like that I have no choice.

  3. "He says it is extra fun for him to be able to see it too."

    I sometimes read this as if you are talking about a small boy collecting insects. One day he finds a butterfly, he enjoys being with the butterfly but becomes absorbed with having the butterfly's beautiful wings all to himself. The more obsessed he becomes with the butterfly, the more he traps the butterfly and keeps her away from the world she needs to be in to spread her wings and learn to fly. The small boy doesn't see it as wrong, he believes that the butterfly is happy to be with him in his world. He fails to notice the torn wings that no longer fly, even when she can. He forgets, if he ever knew, that living creatures deserve more. The small boy is lost in a world of his own pleasure, no longer caring that his pleasure is at the expense of a non-consenting other's pain.

    Sadly, the person you are describing, was, in fact, a man.