01 "Sasha" II

As I watch the man lift his watch to his eyes with a sigh, I climb to my feet. I know what he's about to say -- all I need is a glance to the distant clock of the microwave to confirm it. "Well, I've gotta get going, kiddo," And I was right. All I do is shift to my toes and slide my arms around the man's neck. He needs to iron the shirt, I notice it the second I embrace him... but I won't tell him that. 

I feel safe as he wraps his arms around my ribs and holds me the very way he has since I was a child. The feeling even lingers after I step away from him with a small smile and speak a few of my own final words. It's almost as if he's going off to war, the way my stomach lurches as he offers me a bright smile. It's then that I notice he's even freshly shaven for this woman -- boy must she be lucky. "Have fun on your date, daddy," -and he doesn't even call me out for the teasing use of the choice word. Instead, his smile only grows with a small shake of his head.

"Remember; clean your room-" The man begins with a quirked brow only a second or two before I can sweep in to silence him. It's rude, I know, but I cut him off -- thankfully, he had never been big on manners. If he was, no amount of government benefit could keep me in his house; as many people have come to know, there was nothing 'ladylike' about besides an archive of cosmopolitan sex articles on my laptop and a porn stash on my phone -- externally, there is the tangle of ridiculous hair I've been cursed with and some substance of my chest. By the modern amount of women who swear as much as I do, it should be a norm by now. Perhaps it is, but the world is so heavily governed by old hags we won't notice until they're all dead. With regret, that may take a while. It's the only downside of modern medicine.

I suppress a mocking face as I finish the sentence for him. "Clean your room, feed Milo, do the dishes -- yeah, yeah, I've got it -- now just go, for Christ's sake," I continue to watch him; watch as he shakes his head and turns away without a visual further thought. The only thought I can assume he's having at the moment is just how unlikely it is that I will clean my room. And he's right, I've not convinced myself at all that I will end up going out of my way to clean something that will take him a few days to find out I've actually done. Maybe I will, though. Maybe I will end up trying to please him in every little and stupid way I can. 

He's an adult, though. The things I'd hope to impress are the things he's come to expect. "Use protection!" It's the only further word I can manage to cram before he's tugging the front door shut behind himself. I take my lower lip in between my teeth. 

By luck, I catch his eye right as he's about to seal away the insides of his home. "Shut up, you," And he's rolling his eyes again as he speaks and tugs the door. 

And I'm left in place again, listening for the distant sound of his car as he reverses from the driveway with the same crazy driving that drove me mad when I was learning, myself. I can't seem to draw myself away from all the little details and bits and pieces that make up the man -- and as a result, it makes me want him even more. I know him far better than whatever fat old fück he's dining with tonight does. I'm the bitter admirer I told myself I wouldn't be. 

I'm more of his friend than I am his daughter. And I don't want to be his friend, I just want to be his lover. 

Milo is darting away out of the very corner of my vision — yet not fast enough to where I can take a long step towards him and snatch him from the floor. I'm not even careful I don't hurt him, but I'm sure I don't. He doesn't meow or growl or hiss or allow any sound of discomfort or anger. And so teasingly, I find myself and proclaim myself to be self-convinced it's how Milo shows affection. It's not the case, he sleeps right up against Damon every night... and that's how he shows affection. "Well, Milo, it's just you and I now," My words are soft and mainly to myself as I clutch the cat tighter against me. He's writhing and attempting to escape. Soon enough, however, he will fall still like a thrashing corpse bleeding out after suffering a slit throat... do you call it a morbid curiosity if you're so sure of the connections you draw?

My thoughts are consumed by dark ones as I work my way into the kitchen; my mind has grown curious as my body developed -- curious as to when my father came into the kitchen in the early hours of the morning, sweatpants low on his hips as he tugged a shirt on over his head. Curious as to when sounds escaped his room as I crept around the corner of the hallway deep in the night. Curious as to what it would feel like to be touched by someone else -- someone no mentally rightful person should ever fantasise about being touched by.

Did that make me sick? The one question lingers more often than not. Is there something wrong with me that causes me to think, act, tick this way? Perhaps misplaced affection -- no one has wanted me before in my life. Memories of my parents are memories I want to suppress until I die. If I convince myself I can't remember anything, I won't think about it. Problem solved.

I had once been told by my favourite novel that perhaps the difference between a sane man and a perfectly normal man was a matter of self-control. Maybe that does make me sane. Maybe I'm perfectly rational simply because I'm aware of my impulses and I'm aware there is no possible way I can act on them. Ever. Perhaps the mere fact I'm making excuses for myself is what makes me sick. 

He wanted me, for the first time in my life, someone wanted me -- and that someone was a dangerously sexy man with a tall build, dark hair and deep coloured eyes -- and just like that, I was removed from government care. But he was paid to want me. I know the government pays him to take care of me; to feed me and make sure I grow up in a nice neighbourhood; live in a stable home; receive a stable education. He was paid to want me. Paid to be stable.

The single six words kept the hideous, twisted, sexual fantasies at bay as I busy myself around the kitchen, allowing the cat to wriggle leap from my arms. He scratches me as he goes, it's as if he knows what I'm thinking. It's as if it makes even the cat uncomfortable. I repeat the words. Over and over.