"Father, Stop"

 

Remorseful Look

Rose always flinched when the shouting began. It hadn’t always been like this. She could still remember the happy days — laughter in the kitchen, her father’s warm voice calling her “princess,” the way her mother used to sing while cooking. But now, something had snapped inside him, and Rose couldn’t say when or how her father had started treating the family like trash.

Tonight, she was fourteen, curled up in her room with a book, trying to escape the storm brewing downstairs. Most people mistook her for eighteen. Her body had betrayed her early — full breasts, rounded hips, lips that drew stares and whistles on the street. She hated it. She had begged her mother to make it stop.

“It’s normal, Rose,” her mother had said, weary but kind. “You’re growing up. Just be careful. Never let your guard down.”

So Rose let it go. She had no choice.

She was lost in thought when the first shout sliced through the wall.

“How dare you leave me standing at my own door for hours?” her father roared.

“I’m sorry! I was in the kitchen — it wasn’t even an hour, just a few minutes!”

“Are you questioning me?”

“No, my love, never.” Her mother’s voice trembled.

Rose smelled the alcohol through the floorboards. This wasn’t the usual beer. This was something darker — his words slurred, heavy, dangerous. She pressed her knees to her chest and cried silently. He used to be good. Still good, when sober. But drunk, he became someone else — hateful, cruel, unreachable.

A sharp crack echoed — the sound of a hand striking flesh. Rose knew her mother would stay silent, swallowing her pain so Rose wouldn’t hear her cry.

Then — footsteps on the stairs.

Rose dove under the covers, heart hammering. Did I lock the door? She couldn’t remember. She held her breath, facing the wall, pretending to sleep.

The handle rattled.

The door creaked open.

Staggering steps. A shadow loomed. The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge of her bed.

She froze.

A rough hand cupped her hip through the blanket. Then slid upward, over her nightgown, to her chest.

“Nice combination,” he muttered, voice thick. “Someone’s been enjoying my daughter more than me. That ends tonight.”

His hand slipped under the fabric. Rose stiffened, grabbing his wrist. “Father! Stop!”

“Shut up,” he snarled, smacking her hand away. “Are you questioning me while spreading your legs for cheap boys? Your mates are married, having babies — and you? Wasted.”

“No one has ever touched me!” she cried.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He yanked at her underwear. She sobbed, thrashing, but he was too heavy, too far gone.

Then — the door flew open.

“ROWLAND!” Her mother stood in the doorway, eyes wide with terror and fury. “That’s enough. She’s your daughter.”

He froze, finger inches from violation. Slowly, he turned, eyes black with rage. Her mother backed away — but not in fear. In strategy.

She began unbuttoning her blouse as she walked backward toward their bedroom. By the time she reached the bed, she was naked. She lay back, legs apart, and waited.

He followed, violence in his step — but stopped short at the sight of her. The near-act with Rose had stirred him. He lunged like an animal, grunting, slapping, biting her shoulder as he climaxed with a guttural roar. Then collapsed, panting, on top of her.

They stayed like that until morning.

When he woke, sunlight stabbed his eyes. He saw the bruises on his wife’s body — bite marks, red welts — and the night crashed back.

“Oh God,” he whispered, tears spilling. “I’m so sorry, honey. Please… forgive me.”

“It’s okay,” she lied, voice hollow. “It was the drink.”

“No. Drink doesn’t make a man do this. It’s in me.” He clutched his head. “What did I do?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, turning away. “Just… stop drinking. Please.”

“Wait — did I… go into Rose’s room?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Tell me I didn’t touch her.”

“You almost did,” she whispered. “I stopped you. This—” she gestured to her battered body, “—this was the price.”

He broke. Sobbing, he stumbled to Rose’s door and knocked.

“Rose? Baby, please… open the door.”

Silence.

“I’m so sorry. I’m begging you. Forgive me.”

“Go away,” came her muffled scream. “You’re not my father.”

“I am! Don’t say that—”

“My father would never do what you did!”

He sank to the floor, forehead against the door. “You’re right,” he choked. “I’m not him anymore. But I will be again. I swear it.”

“Then prove it,” she said, voice cracking but firm. “Stop drinking. Completely. And maybe — maybe — one day, I’ll forgive you.”

He nodded, though she couldn’t see. “Fair. I’ll earn it.”

And he did.

He poured every bottle down the drain. Turned down every friend, every late-night invite, every drink offered “just to be social.” He went to meetings. He cried in the kitchen when Rose walked past without looking at him. He left notes on her door: I’m trying. I love you.

Months passed. The house grew quiet — not with fear, but with fragile hope.

One morning, Rose found a small wooden bird on her breakfast plate. Hand-carved. Just like the ones he used to make when she was little.

She didn’t smile.

But she didn’t throw it away.

The bird

The End...