Another Sleepless Night

It's been going on for a long time.

It seems people look at our family and say, "They may be poor, but they're just so nice. They're a wonderful family." But we're not.

I guess I can't speak for Bill and Charlie (they don't live with us anymore), or Percy (he's away at work all of the time), or even Fred and George (it seems the two of them can put a happy face on anything). I can speak for Ron, because he's got this sad look in his eyes some mornings, like he's not sure where he is or what he's doing here. I feel the same way.

Even though I am the youngest, and I am a girl. That's always separated me from the others. When all else fails, they have their masculinity. I have a few shattered dreams and a secret I can never tell. It hurts so much, too, that no one knows. It makes me doubt myself--am I crazy? Am I GOING crazy?

He comes into my room late at night.

I hide beneath the covers like a child...I am a child...I hide and hope he'll go away but I know he won't.

It seems the most simple things remind me of...him. Any comment on my appearance has me bristling; the music my mother plays when she's tidying up the kitchen (he turns up the radio really loud so no one can hear my screams); even sitting for too long in the living room all by my self (it happens whenever mom's gone out somewhere--shopping, usually).

I close my eyes as he pulls back the sheets and explains that with mom gone he feels so lonely. So very, very lonely. He knows I'll love him. I will, won't I? I want to make my daddy happy, don't I?

...

Of course I do.

So he admires me and whispers sweet things that mean nothing to me because I'm concentrating on being anywhere but here, ANYWHERE. My mind drifts as his large, blunt fingers pull at the hem of my nightgown insistently.

Fred and George. They have their own little world. What do they do in the evening, when the sun is just beginning to go down, and the music is blaring from my bedroom ("Love me, love me, it's like magic, you in my arms...")? Do they do this, too? Lips tracing my collarbone gently, but it burns worse than any fire.

I can't leave this moment and time. Thoughts of Fred and George drift out the window. He smells clean like soap and aftershave; he's always smelled like that, ever since I can remember. He's my beloved dad. He doesn't mean to hurt me (my legs spread so far I think I'll split), he loves me so much.

But it can't be right. That one thought keeps bothering me, and it won't leave me be. It just can't be right.

When he finally comes to me I cry out. I don't tell him to stop, but I don't tell him to go on, either. It's not as if either can help me. He worships my girlish breasts and pale skin and praises me as his good little girl. I'm such a good little girl. I'm his goddess.

My eyes water in pain; his actions are rougher. His breath is against my neck. His skin is unbelievably hot, pressing against my own. I moan and am ashamed. I really shouldn't be enjoying this, even physically. I should be a good little girl and stay still until daddy finishes.

But really, what do they DO? I can't settle for some naive idea that they actually sleep. It's barely 7:00. Does Fred runs his hands all up and down George's spine like my father does to me? Do they kiss and hold each other and feel a certain wrongness they can't banish? Or do they fit together perfectly, no sense of guilt? I feel so guilty, letting dad do this. Mum would hate me if I ever told her. She might not even believe me; I wouldn't believe me.

But it's been going on for such a very long time. It's a part of my routine. Get up in the mornings, get dressed, help mum with the housework, endure the teasing of my older brothers, take a shower, come to bed, and let dad have his way. Not every night. But many nights.

I wonder what we'll be having for breakfast tomorrow morning?

My dad would give me the moon and the stars if I asked. That's why I love him so. He tries his hardest to do right by me, by all of us. I don't understand the love, but I'm sure...I'm sure I will, someday.

He's making low grunts and I know it's almost over. I arch beneath his experienced touch, scream because it's not enough, it's just not enough for me. Shy and quiet as I am around strangers, when I'm here in the shadow of his embrace, I'm not myself. I'm not talkative, I'm not shy, I'm just someone who's melting from the inside out.

His tension turns into his release. He's going to get up now, kiss my forehead, tell me to keep this to myself. Please, keep it to myself. He loves me, and he wants it to be our secret. He's going to clean himself and put on his clothes and leave me here in my lonely bedroom. Alone with my nightmare-filled head.

And he does.

Goodnight, daddy. Sleep tight.

My skin is clammy now that he's done with me. I cross the room, the bare floor like ice beneath my toes, and close the window with a resounding click. While I'm at it, I flick off the radio. Silence. I love this time we have together. I hate it, too.

I have to go take another shower.

When I'm finished (as clean as someone like me can be), there is nothing to occupy me.

Another sleepless night for the youngest Weasley, I guess...

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