I didn’t cry the second time either. I
liked it. He was gentler. He told me it was our secret, our special
thing, and no one should know about it.
I went to him the third time it
happened, it was raining and the thunders scared me. We did it again, I
enjoyed it. We began to do it more often, and each time I enjoyed it
more.
I was twelve that first time, and a
happy child, happier than any other child I knew. I doubt if any other
child had so much love. I was my father’s lover and he was mine.
Everything was perfect.
And then, on my twentieth birthday, the unthinkable happened.
My father broke up with me. Just like
that. He said it wasn’t right, what we do, and that we must stop. End of
matter. It felt like a full stop at the end of an epitaph. It was too
sudden.
I had no warning, no premonition. The
break up was like death. I had taken the week off from school just to be
with the only man in my life, the best man I ever knew, or so I
thought. I thought my birthday would have ended sensually, like all the
others. It was usually the best birthday present he gave me, a
passionate night of love making right out of a romance novel.
It had been a while. My higher education
had taken me away. And I sorely missed my beloved father. I went home
that day with thoughts of my father obscuring all other thoughts. I
arrived late in the evening. He wasn’t home yet. I made myself as
adorable as he liked. It was not hard. My allure had never needed much
artificial furnishings; a touch here and a touch there, and I would be
set to win any beauty contest. That evening I was at my best.
All my preparations and quivering anticipation was to have ended in bliss, the kind only my father could give me.
Instead, I got the shock of my life.
That terrible day, I knew exactly how the Deer must feel when the
hunter’s bullet crashes through its heart. I learnt how it must feel to
be shot out of the sky.
I had hoped he didn’t mean it, that this
was just another punishment, but the way he said it convinced me it was
final. I knew my father; I knew the look on his face. It was the same
look he had when he shot Dragon our Alsatian. This was not like before
when he would refuse to touch me because I misbehaved. My father had
never hit me or scolded me; his punishments were usually more severe and
silent. He would simply refuse to touch me for days on end. Such days
were hell for me. I could barely survive without him. When he was
pleased with me, he really would take his time and give me much pleasure
that I never knew was possible.
I was a very well behaved child; I had all the proper manners for a proper lady. Thanks to my father.
But this was no punishment. This was a
cessation. This was my death. I tried to make him see reason, to
convince him that we were to be forever. I told him of our joys, our
laughs and how love couldn’t be any better. I begged him not to kill his
beloved and only child.
The man was like a stone.
It is true what they say. Men are beasts; unfeeling beasts.
How could he end something so wonderful,
something so perfect? He said he still loved me, but I didn’t believe
him, I couldn’t believe that. He couldn’t even look me in the eye when
he said it. There must have been a reason, but I didn’t care for
whatever it was. I knew it wasn’t about right or wrong, there is no love
that can be wrong, especially the kind we had. It was beautiful; we
were one, my father and I. Our love transcended that of a father and his
daughter. It was the stuff of heaven. No, His reason wasn’t religious,
not at all, my father wasn’t that sentimental. I was his sole religion,
he worshiped me.
There was no one else either, I knew
that much. My mother died while birthing me. Ever since, I had been my
father’s heartbeat. And he was my breath. I never missed my mother. I
never knew her, never would meet her. I would, perhaps, have liked to
know her, but somehow I thank God she wasn’t with us. It would have been
awkward. I don’t think I could have shared my father with any one.
My father gave no reason for killing me.
He couldn’t explain why we could no longer have what we had. There was
nothing I didn’t think, there was no thought I didn’t wish to explain
his decision by. Something, perhaps, must have happened to his hormones.
I couldn’t believe this was my perfect father. I couldn’t believe my
day could ever become so dark.
He only said he was doing it for me,
that it was for the best, my best. How could I have ever believed the
man loved me? He even looked sad that day, so sorrowful and tired. In
better times and in our previous world, I would have taken him in my
arms as I was wont, and work my magic on him. Over the years I had
learnt his special recipe. I was the only one who knew his mix. I had
never asked him, but I sensed that even my mother didn’t take him to the
heights I took him.
But his words belied the sorrow on his
features. He had said the break up words so casually, so matter of
factly, as if he had thought it through and found it a simple matter.
There should be a special kind of voice and words for pronouncements of
that nature, something equal and suitably terrible. The normalcy and
casualness of his words were a negation. It was like mockery. I didn’t
know I could ever stop being what I was to him; I had never thought our
relationship would end. But end it did, and in so shocking a manner.
Good things shouldn’t end that abruptly. Relationships don’t die at
once. Death is not a casual occurrence.
The most painful part of it was that I
didn’t die. I felt like dying. I wanted to die. But I didn’t know how to
go about it. I should have killed him too; I should have hurt him too.
He looked like he was hurting, but I should have made sure. It is too
painful to feel the pain of death and yet be alive. There is no pain
worse than the pain of death.
And then, the man wanted us to be Father
and Daughter, just father and daughter. I couldn’t understand why he
would want to reduce our love to something merely biological and normal.
Why on earth couldn’t he see that I could never be happy as just his
daughter, and that I could never be remotely happy with any other
arrangement? We were happy, I made him happy. Why do some people reject
their own happiness?
For a long time I had believed my father
loved me. On my twentiethbirthday, I knew the truth. That day was my
awakening to the heartlessness of men, and the absurdity of love. That
day, I grew up, I grew old and I died.
It was the last day I spoke or saw my
father. He killed me, so I made sure I remained dead to him. I became a
living dead, dead inside and alive only in looks.
As I left him that evening, I looked
back a lot of times. He didn’t recant, he didn’t rethink. He watched me
leave. The tears were streaming from both our eyelids. I could feel his
sorrow; it was thick enough to touch. The feeling was apt; death had
occurred.
The man came for me twice, later. But he
came as a father coming for his daughter. He should have come for me as
a soul for its soul mate, like breath for air, like the dying for life.
That was what we were; romance and its love.
He came, just that twice. I waited for him too, but he never came again. I gave up.
I made a new resolve. Men would learn
from me, the very hard way. I have what they want. My beauty is the
glaring kind that every body agrees with. But my heart would be a
different matter. I knew most men wouldn’t resist me; they can’t be as
tough as my father, my looks were not enough for that man to change his
mind and do the right thing, the best thing.
It wasn’t easy. It took a while before I
could stand the touch of any other man, but vengeance helped me detach
my body from myself.
I would forever be grateful for my
looks; it was my ultimate shield. It helped me survive and helped my
resolve. I set off on a mission, to hurt as I had been hurt. I soon
became very successful. I brought both boys and men to their knees. I
killed them and still left them alive. I remember the families that
fought themselves over me, the brothers that would never forgive each
other, the scandalized churches and governments, the suicides, the
bankruptcies. There is a lot a body can do when it is rightly motivated.
My father didn’t know what he unleashed.
Payback is a beautiful side of nature.
There is no payback as sweet and profound as when it’s total and final,
like death. No man recovered that encountered me.
But vengeance was not so much fun. I
didn’t feel any lasting relief. Hurting men didn’t make me feel much
better; it was a constant reminder to my own heartbreak. But I couldn’t
stop. Sometimes I wondered what the whole point was. I could never lose
the pangs I had for my father’s touch. Payback did not completely fill
the chasm that my father dug in me. I doubt if anything ever would.
I would have easily given everything up for things to get back to what it was.
I lived like someone on a mission, and I
wanted to be free from the service, but I just couldn’t. In moments of
weakness, I would always think about what my father and I had. Thinking
about our perfect love brought me tears and gave me joy. At such
moments, I would really try to feel and have fun, I would let my guard
down to see if I would be alive again. It was no use. No other man was
like my father. No one even came close. No one was able to get me right,
something was always missing. With my dad it was perfect, he knew just
what I wanted, and how. No two people were ever in sync as my father and
I was. No other man could bring me alive.
The last time I had pleasure was with my father.
This many years have past, since I lost
my beloved father. And more recently the world lost him too. I just left
his grave side. I have never been able to understand why I keep
visiting his grave, despite the distance, despite all. And each time, I
always leave with an exhausting longing, a fiery desire, and an intense
craving.
I would do anything; anything, just to have se x with my father again.
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