molly.com
Friday 26 November 2004
what enemy, this daughter?
She stands between them on an uncarpeted landing, sticky 70s linoleum tile beneath bare feet. The mother, at the top of the stairs, yells at the father, who stands at the bottom in a slovenly gray polo and black chinos. He’s gotten fat. He fumes and grunts his fury, a triangular bull with gray hair. The mother is threatening to leave him, and take the children with. There’s a beautiful baby son, and the daughter standing now between them, four years old with bright green eyes and strawberry hair.
Mother at the top, father at the bottom. Make a choice, daughter. Choose.
She stands between the hostile, rage-infected mother and the malicious, cruel and devious father. The girl is paralyzed. She does not move toward either as their argument grows louder and louder. The girl thinks the roar in her ears is blood and that her heart will surely shrivel with sad.
Make a choice, daughter. Which one?
In later years, most will suggest the girl’s moment of paralysis is easily explained. It is an enormous task to make a four year-old child choose between her parents.
But the daughter has made a choice, you see. She has chosen neither.
The mother is astonished that the little girl didn’t run to her arms for protection. This single act of the daughter plants a seed of resentment in the mother. Here is her girl child born of a healthy womb, born on the anniversary of the union. Here is a girl child, thankfully intelligent but a sweet, strange fruit. How can this child deny her mother?
Seeds are always fueled by some dark clotted earth. There is a thick marine layer burning off and on between mother and daughter for decades to come.
The daughter is always clothed, fed, and sheltered. Glimpses of love, it is most certainly true. But so much of the sweetness the mother might possess is now reserved for the sons and her own survival, so the sweetness in the daughter turns distant.
The father is astonished that such a small girl can stand her ground in defiance. This cannot be the act of a child! He instantly changes the daughter into the mother in his deranged brain. From that day forward, he will take his violent inadequacies out on the daughter. He begins with the cruelest of words, then delivers brutal spankings under the pretense of discipline, with the wrong end of the belt. At age 7 he slaps her on her pretty face. At age 9, she has an arm burnt to the third degree with boiling water.
At puberty when her breasts begin to rise, the father enters her room. The girl is sleeping on a mattress on the floor, because her room has just been painted pretty pink and green. The father kicks this daughter – in the head, in the breasts, in the stomach, her thighs.
Through the sparking white like stars or fireworks but not, the daughter prays that the father would just fuck her or kill her. Anything, god (if you hear) to release her from this hell into which they all have stumbled. To the great credit of the mother, she protects the child – pushing her maternal body over her 12 year old daughter’s youthful one. The father stops the kicks, for he has ceased to recognize the mother as real.
So choose already.
One night at a shopping mall the father buys a hot dog. It is dripping with grease and steaming from the broiler. He comes to the daughter and grabs her thick curled hair at the nape of the neck. He pushes her with uncontrolled lust toward that phallic, stupid pink meat. When it is done, she is left with a burn across her lips and right cheek. She is choking on the vile indignity of this public rape. So she runs from them all, into the pouring rain of central New Jersey. Runs to the trees, hides beneath them, leans against their sturdy wet comfort. Security finds her and brings her back to her parents.
The father looks at her with war-torn eyes and says: “I am going to kill you.”
Choose, daughter, choose.
They put her in the car next to him. He repeats over and over “this is my right. This is my child. This is my right.” It is decided he is out of the house and this time it really is forever. He lives thirteen more years but never sees nor speaks to his children or wife again.
What enemy, this daughter, who simply made the choice of neither?
Filed under: faith(less), poetry & fiction
Posted by: Molly | 6:23 pm |
November 27th, 2004 at 3:33 am
Extraordinarily powerful. Thank you for sharing it.
You’ve filed this under fiction but there’s something about its vivid nature that gives pause. You certainly have a gift for writing affecting prose. I’m afraid I use ten words when one will do.
November 27th, 2004 at 1:47 pm
Extraordinary piece of writing Molly, it will stay in my mind for some time I think.
November 27th, 2004 at 5:34 pm
Powerful. Wonderful. Breathtaking.
Thanks for sharing.
November 27th, 2004 at 5:41 pm
This is so deep and touching, it almost depresses me to read it. It seems to come straight from the heart, not from the mind. Beautiful.
November 27th, 2004 at 9:18 pm
Truly beautiful. Very powerful. I’ll be thinking about that as I fall asleep tonight.
You do have amazing talent. Any inspiration for this peice? Ok, sorry, I cannot spell at all today. I’m tired.
November 27th, 2004 at 9:55 pm
Powerful, YES. Wonderful(?) not quite the word I would use–more disturbing than inspiring. It is a great piece, from a literary perspective. It rings with a realistic power that I seldom see.
November 28th, 2004 at 8:44 am
Wow.
November 29th, 2004 at 12:07 pm
A very strong piece. As others above have already stated, this will stay on my mind for a bit…
December 1st, 2004 at 6:23 am
Whoaaaa. That was a bit intense. The opening bit kinda reminded me of when my mum left. My parents made my little sister (Aged around 7 at the time) make that decision. Luckily my dad never did any of the things in your writing but it was heartbreaking to have to watch my little sister make such a tough choice.
December 1st, 2004 at 12:15 pm
Ohhh… Beautiful… Wonderful…
December 7th, 2004 at 8:51 am
Fabulous.
December 7th, 2004 at 12:29 pm
It reminds me of a book I read in Young Adult Lit in college. For the life of me I cannot remember the name. But I know I couldn’t put it down. I remember I wrote in a paper that is was an assault on the senses. It was about a young girl that was pregnant with her father’s baby. She triumphed in the end. Like that book this piece is captivating.
December 7th, 2004 at 9:23 pm
Great writing. Hope to read more from you.
December 10th, 2004 at 10:00 pm
You are a great writer, Molly. This was gripping, visual and just wonderful.
December 14th, 2004 at 12:28 pm
You make the right choice when you choose the door that is opened for you. We seek our freedom despite the consequences and live in grace another day.
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I felt pain when I read this. It sounds more truth than fiction, a cry for help for all those in a similar position. Very moving.
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