Not Fair Ch. 04

When Amy woke up it was to the sound of her alarm clock blaring away next to her. She glanced at it: 6:30am. The sad and tired teenager groggily hit the snooze button. When it went off again, she took the time to make sure the alarm was off, and fell back asleep. No way she was going to school today, she thought. It wasn't until noon that she finally woke up.

When she did she realized she was naked from the waist down. What had happened? Had her dad carried her to her bed, or had she stumbled there? Probably stumbled there, she thought: Daddy probably left me on the floor after raping me, went downstairs and passed out in the recliner. I probably passed out too, on his floor. Then I stumbled here and was too tired and drunk to remember to grab my pants.

Without looking down, Amy reached her hand to her pussy and felt it. She winced with pain. He had really gone to town on it, she thought. When she shifted on the edge of the bed she winced again: her butt was bruised, she realized.

The 18-year-old remained in a daze during her long, deep shower, even while she dressed; even while she went downstairs, where she realized her dad wasn't home. Good, she thought: he's gone, he went to work, it's spring and he'll be working until late. Good. Good. God!

The shell-shocked teenager grabbed a Mountain Dew from the fridge and then went back up to her room. She sat on her mattress again, gasping at the pain, and didn't know what the hell she should do.

Call the cops? Call Mary? Maybe Mary would let her come and stay with her and her new boyfriend. But no, that was ridiculous, because her step-mom hadn't just left her dad the day before, she'd left her, too. Calling the cops was the only easy thing she could think of, the best thing to do. But there had to be something else she could try. Calling the cops had to be a last resort.

Amy went to her computer and did a google search. At first her fingers remained poised over her keyboard. They were trembling. She took a swig from her soft drink before finally typing in one simple word: "incest". Please help me, the girl thought when she clicked the "search" button. Please!

There were a ton of hits. But rather than scan through them all, Amy clicked on the first link without even thinking. The website that instantly appeared on her monitor was for some group called "The American Sexual Abuse Network".

The 'net savvy girl scanned the page quickly, and nearly froze when she saw the first prominent link on the site. It was titled: "What should I do?"

What should I do? the girl wondered with tears welling up in her eyes. She took another swig from her soda and clicked the link. Tears trickled down her young cheeks as she ingested the caffeine ridden soda.

Please, Google, don't let me down, the dazed girl hoped.

Amy had no idea, she really had no clue, about what she was supposed to do now. The first time her dad had raped her, it had been so easy to chalk it up to his drunkenness. Her own drunkenness, even. He'd thought she was passed out, and if she'd been sober enough to let him know that she wasn't, he'd have left her alone. The days following that assault had been hard for her, but not impossible, because she'd sort of had the upper hand. She'd known what he'd done; he didn't know she knew. And eventually everything had become okay. She'd even blocked away the memory of what had happened. It had been easy.

But last night. Geeze, last night! He'd raped her, and screamed at her, and spanked her and pulled her hair and acted like this big, mean, violent man who wanted to hurt her and rape her and who just so happened to be her dad. It had been painful and humiliating. Humiliating! Trembling, the girl gulped at her Mountain Dew. He had hurt her and humiliated her. She, his own daughter!

God, please, please let me know what I should do now! the barely pubescent girl prayed.

She looked at the screen. At the very top of the page it read, "What should I do if I am sexually assaulted?"

Okay, thought the nervous, traumatized teen. She read on.

"First," the ASAN website suggested, "find a safe environment, anywhere away from the attacker."

Done, Amy thought. Her dad was gone. She was safe, right now. She was alone.

"Second," the web-page continued, "Ask a trusted friend to stay with you for moral support."

The trembling teen arched her eyebrows up in thought. A "trusted friend"? Amy didn't really trust any of her friends. The girl didn't have any friends her age, and she had absolutely none of her gender. She'd always taken pride in how well she got along with older boys, but she'd always known why they liked her: because they figured they'd get to fuck her. Especially during the last couple of years when her breasts had swelled and her outfits had become more provocative. Friendships like that, though, didn't really lend themselves toward "trust".

And she didn't trust any of them, she now realized. Her only "friends" were friends like Shane, friends who wanted to be Shane, so that she'd fuck them. No. There were no friends to call for "moral support".

"Get medical attention. Even with no physical injuries, it is important to determine the risks of STDs and pregnancy."

Again, Amy rolled her eyes. She definitely had physical injuries (the swelling bruises on her ass, for starters), but determining the "risks" of STDs and pregnancy were simple: there were none. Her dad had only ever had sex with her mom, and her step-mom, and both had been virgins at the time. So STDs were out of the question. As for pregnancy, well, she knew for a fact that her dad had undergone a vasectomy after her birth. She could still remember from when she was very young how Mary had asked him to attempt a "reverse vasectomy", because she'd wanted children of her own. The memory of that still stung, actually.

"Remember it wasn't your fault."

Amy flicked off the computer monitor after moments of being stunned at those words. The girl stood up, knocking over her chair. She staggered a moment, and then stormed over to the middle of her pink-hued room. She caught the reflection of herself in her mirror and began to cry.

She cried because that website had been intended for victims. For people who'd been assaulted. It'd even read, right at the top, "What should I do if I am sexually assaulted?"

The girl couldn't help but scream and then crumple to the floor. She went down to her hands and knees and sobbed there, her young round ass raised high and her face pressed into her pink carpet. Her tears couldn't be stopped; nothing could stop them.

Because Amy knew that while she'd been raped by her own dad (twice!) that both times had definitely been her fault.

After all, the naïve girl thought, I came both times.

Both times, I came, and came hard! This all has to be my fault!

She sobbed there for a long time. She cried herself silly. Call the cops? Run away? Call a trusted "friend"? All her options were short roads leading to dead ends. She was trapped. There was absolutely nothing she could do.