A detailed account of misfortune in Raised by a monster.(1)

I started 3rd grade fully trained.
Once my mother left, my living situation changed dramatically.
My first real change was losing my door knob. I know it’s weird, but my old wooden door was so stiff that without it I wasn’t able to open my door, it was a poor-mans way of locking me in, it was doubly effective because it could be kicked in without loads of damage to the frame, which was already in poor condition.
I was locked in on nights I was allowed to sleep in the house.
I was often not allowed to sleep inside of the house.
If I had so much as a sour look about me I would be ordered to strip and hand over my clothes, only pleasant obedient little girls got to be treated like people, I was to be treated like an animal. The area in front of the front door was made up of a narrow set of cement steps followed by a narrow path of cement stepping stones that got you safely through what was basically a mud pit in front of our house. If I was so brave as to be disobedient under his roof, I would be pushed from the front door into the mud.
I remember the first few times, I would run for any kind of cover and cry until I fell asleep. As the mud would dry I would try to brush the dirt from myself, but more often than not I would find it in the most uncomfortable places and be unable to remove it until I had earned a shower.
I would be allowed back inside when I displayed signs of obedience.
It took me a long time to get down what disobedience was in my fathers head.
I eventually concluded that speaking out of turn, unwarranted eye contact, any ton of voice other than soft and steady, running or quickened movement within the house, attempting to open my door, resisting sexual advances, talking about any male students I attended grade school with, sitting on any of the furniture uninvited, showering with the door closed, showing any negative emotion, showing too much positive emotion, saying the word ‘no’, or not getting permission for absolutely everything I did…
were all things that would have me naked and in the yard within seconds. That’s just the list off the top of my head, I’m sure I knew it a little better some…17 years ago or so.
I did sneak a stash of clothes outside, but I was quickly caught and had clothing privileges taken away. I had to ask my father for the clothes I wanted every time I wanted them.
It wouldn’t be long until I welcomed being thrown out of the house naked though, because other punishments and means of abusing me would arise.
A few months passed before my father started taking to beating and belittling me before rape.
The first time it happened I was walking inside from school and he grabbed the back of my neck and squeezed hard. I froze instantly and felt my eyes bulge. I dropped everything I was holding and did my best to resist panic and the urge to remove his hand from my neck, but I was getting light headed. I started making horse whimpering sounds. That must have pissed him off because he forced me down to all fours then threw me across the hard wood floor like a bowling ball. I looked up at him as he walked over to stand over me, I was still dizzy, it was just dawning on my I’d gone flying across the living room. He watched me go through the motions of confusion before he pulled me up to my feet and told me to stand still in front of the couch. I nodded and waited, not daring to let a tear come to my eye. He handed me a couch cushion and positioned it in front of me. I had a feeling I knew what he may have been planning, but I couldn’t do anything, if I ran it would no doubt be worse. He wound up and punched me. He punched me so hard I was swept clean off of my feet, over the couch, and into the hallway outside of my bedroom. I started gasping for air, all bets were off, I couldn’t stop myself from reacting, and panic was quickly setting in as my lungs refused to pull in air. It was so painful I didn’t even feel the pain as he pulled me into my bedroom by my hair. I was still curled up and gasping when he grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled, he pulled until the shirt was torn off of me, this closed my windpipe for several seconds and my last memory is of the weaker fabric giving away, but the neckline holding firm. I lost consciousness. When I woke up he was sitting on my bed, drinking a martini -I knew them as olive drinks back then- I had been stripped completely in my sleep and my voice was horse. I pulled myself up and tried to speak before holding my throat.
In the early days it would take some time before I would switch, I would usually have to wait until there was about to be penetration to be swept away by dissociation, this time I switched about the time I touched my throat. The part of me that would protect me from experiencing rape emerged and fell silent as she always did around my father.

Alex-
I emerged early as it became clear that this was becoming too damaging a blow to be dealt to our front. I wasn’t sure what he wanted, but I was prepared to give it to him, after all, it was a large part of my job back then. I waited for any indication that I was to do something, until then, I remained as still as possible.
I watched him carefully as he finished his drink. He looked at the glass for a brief moment before letting it fall to the ground in front of a floor length mirror that stood beside the bed. Then, with a sudden burst of speed, he grabbed a chunk of my hair and pulled me close to him, dragging my knees through the broken glass, he then forced my face against the mirror and grabs my hips, forcing me further into the glass. Without my head being supported by his holding my hair, I was forced to land palm first in the glass. After he positioned himself behind me I closed my eyes and prepared for the worst. “No no no, you’re going to watch this.”
He sounded livid, like the alcohol was nothing more than liquid rage. He took and handful of hair and pulled my head back with such force I heard my neck crack. I was met with my own face, white as a ghost, and filled with fear. “Keep those pretty brown eyes open or you’ll regret it.”
I looked into the mirror in a kind of panic. He was going to make me watch this. He pushed himself inside of me and I felt my hands and knees grind against the glass. I clenched my jaw but made no sound. He seemed displeased with me, he glared for a second before pulling back and penetrating me with such force I slammed my face into the mirror. I let out a pained groan, the pain radiated from my cervix up into my entire abdomen, and as I recoiled from the force of the mirror, I caught sight of the little pool of blood forming around my hands. I was not equipped to handle this level of violent rape, I could close my eyes and endure it…but he was forcing me to experience it in full.
He beat himself against my cervix until I let tears slip silently from my eyes. I showed little to no pain, but he seemed to take satisfaction in knowing he had brought me to tears. He eased up a little, but if I closed my eyes or tried to drop my head, he would slam into me again.
It felt like it went on for hours, each second dragged by and I couldn’t escape soon enough. When he was finally finished he pulled out and pushed me over onto the rest of the glass. I didn’t dare move until he left the room. He flipped my light off, and would have seen light through the hole where my door knob used to be had I turned the light on, so I set to removing as much glass from my person as possible in the quickly fading sunlight. I cleaned up as much blood as I could before crawling into bed and allowing our front out once more, knowing that from now on, my job was significantly harder.

Front- (AKA me, AKA the person that primarily writes–I go by Alia occasionally)
I woke up the next morning extremely sore. Moving my legs seemed to bother a bruise that felt like it was in the bottom of my stomach. my hands and knees were all cut up, and I had several small gashes up my sides, but there was wet blood between my legs, I didn’t really know what a period was in the beginning of third grade, and seeing that specifically would set me up for an extremely bad experience when I did finally menstruate years down the line. I cried over the blood between my legs, I remember fearing whatever unknown injury that was causing it. I cleaned up what I could; my father didn’t wash my sheets for sometimes over a year, so the blood stains remained for a long time, and build up substantially.
My father called the school and informed them that I was sick. This was the first of many times he would inform the school of some made up illness to cover a serious injury he had inflicted. I could hardly move that day, so he took pleasure in ordering me around then asking if my vagina hurt. I wasn’t comfortable with the word “Vagina” so he used it with emphasis while asking, the answer was yes, but I knew he didn’t really want an answer, he just wanted to watch me squirm under the pressure of the question, and squirm I did. I was clearly thrown off by the events that had taken place, and he had discovered just how much he liked getting under my skin, both literally and figuratively.

Thank you to anyone who is reading, you’re an important part of my showing the world who I am, and I appreciate that you made it to the bottom for me.
I did my best to go into all the detail I could bring myself to, and I am exhausted, far to exhausted to read it back to myself or check for errors.
I hope if you find an error, you understand the weight of the post and know that I would have fixed it had I been strong enough to read it.
I hope to post again tomorrow, but I don’t hold myself to it after this.
I might just bake a nice cake.