real or not real?

You came into her bedroom, eyes ripe with desire, unbeknownst to her. Creeping up, you cover her mouth and whisper giddily; “Shhh. Don’t speak. We would’t want to wake up your daddy, would we?” You climb up, careful to keep your hand pressed against her mouth. You pull her clothes down, quickly stripping and throwing off her pants and underwear. You pull yours down, not caring to see the fear growing in her eyes.

Her eyes. Not only do they show fear, but the resigned pain of one who knows what is to come. She does’t bother to struggle.

Pain explodes in her mind for a moment. She struggles to remember the daisies she loves to pick, so clean and pure. She wishes she could be so clean and pure and bright. Music hums through her brain, blocking out the thumps and groans.

Flowers. She remembers picking a flower and giving it to her mom, who promptly called it a weed. It didn’t look like a weed. Tiny lavender petals spotted with violet and a bright yellow center. They looked beautiful enough to put on display.

“You’re a dirty little girl, aren’t you?”

The music grows louder, her hearts beats quickly. She struggles to breath, his hand clamped too tightly on her face. Eyes dilate and a tear slips down her cheek. The pressure leaves, she crashes down to reality.

Pulling clothes back on quickly, he surveys her with cold disdain.

“If you tell someone, they won’t believe you. You are a dirty little girl. You deserve this. You are worthless without me.”

The words play on repeat, echoing in her brain as she grows. She is older now, old enough to make herself forget. She swigs back her drink, stumbling across the street.

A tiny purple flower falls onto the street, its delicate petals crushed and broken, scattered by the wind.