Hillary_Flesh and Blood (2 page)

She probably would have spent the entire morning there on the floor of the bathroom had her sister not knocked on the door, startling her out of her mournful daze.

“
What are you doing in there?
”
she demanded angrily,
“
I
’
ve been waiting a half an hour for you!
”

Without responding, Hillary slowly stood up, wiped the sticky mess off her stomach, flushed the toilet, washed her hands and fled the bathroom quickly. She couldn
’
t look at her sister. She was too ashamed. She hurried to her room, pulled the sheets off her bed and stuffed them into her garbage can. She was shaking. She could hardly concentrate on what had to be done. She had to hide the evidence, get rid of it altogether. She examined her blanket for any trace of blood or slime. It looked clean so she left it on the bed along with her pillow.

Moments later there was a knock at her door. Without waiting for a response, the knocker opened her door. It was her mother. Hillary stood by her bedside, trembling, unable to meet her mother
’
s gaze.

“
Caleigh said you
—”
Mrs. Greyson stopped
speaking
when she noticed how visibly upset her daughter was. She looked hurt and frightened all at once.

“
My God, what happened to you?
”
she asked nervously, stepping closer toward Hillary.

Hillary took a step back, not wanting her mother to touch her or look closely at her.

“
N-nothing,
”
she stammered.

“
What happened to your sheets?
”
Mrs. Greyson eyed the stripped mattress. She frowned, wondering if perhaps her daughter had wet the bed
—
something she hadn
’
t done since she was five. It seemed highly unlikely.

“
I...I stained them....
”
Hillary
replied
, her eyes still downcast.

“
Stained them? How on earth
—
oh, it
’
s that time of the month, huh?
”

Mrs. Greyson smiled. It all made sense. It was
that
kind of accident. Hillary was just embarrassed about it. She had only just begun menstruating a few months ago.

“
Uh-huh,
”
Hillary agreed quietly, hoping her mother wou
l
d just leave
her
room.

“
Oh, it
’
s nothing to be embarrassed about. These things happen.
”

Mrs. Greyson reached out to hug Hillary. Hillary
flinched
at her touch and pulled away.

“
Really, Hilly Bee, it
’
s no big deal. Where are your sheets? I
’
ll wash them for
—”

“
No!
”
Hillary shouted.

This time Mrs. Greyson jumped. Hillary was acting incredibly weird. She never yelled. Why was she so upset? She didn
’
t even freak out like this at the onset of her menstrual cycle.

“
I just
—”

“
No
,
”
she interrup
t
ed her mother again sharply, still without looking her in the eyes. She began whimpering.

“
I don
’
t want those sheets. I
’
m too old for Hello Kitty,
”
she sobbed.

“
Oh. I guess. Okay, don
’
t cry. I
’
ll bring you another set.
”

Wow, those hormones are really out of whack
, Mrs. Greyson thought as she turned and left Hillary
’
s room.

Hillary stood there trembling, her arms tightly
folded
across her chest embracing herself. Did her mother know? Did she suspect? Hillary felt guilty and ashamed. What would her mother think of her?

A few minutes later her mother emerged once more, entering her room without bothering to knock. Hillary could not meet her gaze but felt her mother
’
s stare.

“
You
’
re trembling,
”
Mrs. Greyson said softly, dropping the clean flannel sheet set onto Hillary
’
s bed and placing the back of her hand to Hillary
’
s forehead. Hillary didn
’
t move. She stared down at her pink rug.

“
You don
’
t have a fever,
”
her mother continued, knowing that something more than soiled sheets was upsetting
H
illary.

“
Do you wanna talk about it?
”

Hillary shook her head slowly.

Please just go
, she begged her mother in her head but said nothing out loud. She didn
’
t want to hurt her mother
’
s feelings. She just wanted to be left alone.

“
Okay,
”
Mrs. Greyson replied, grabbing a hold of Hillary
’
s hand and squeezing it gently,
“
I
’
m all ears if you change your mind.
”

She smiled down at her distressed child. She looked so small and frail. She wasn
’
t quite a little girl anymore, but still a long way from being a woman.

It has to be boy troubles
, Mrs. Greyson reasoned, recalling her long-gone days of teen angst.

“
Come on down for breakfast, I made your favorite...apple pancakes.
”

Hillary shook her head, her eyes still downcast, staring catatonically at the rug that was becoming blurred by her
newly
surfacing tears.

“
You
’
ll feel better when you eat,
”
her mother said sternly.

Hillary knew better than to argue with her about breakfast. She had heard her mother ramble on for years about how breakfast was
“
the most important meal of the day.
”
Absent a stomach bug, she would never be permitted to skip breakfast. She nodded slowly, to her mother
’
s satisfaction.

“
Good,
”
Mrs. Greyson said,
“
it
’
ll give you the strength to deal with whatever
’
s bugging you.
”

She planted a kiss on her daughter
’
s moist cheek then began making Hillary
’
s bed with the new sheets. Hillary stood frozen in place, staring blankly at her rug as long tears slid down her face
and dropped to her feet
.

Her pain tugged at her mother
’
s heart but there was nothing Mrs. Greyson could do. She figured Hillary would get over her heartbreak in time or, if it was something really troubling, she
’
d approach her when she was ready to open up about it. For now, she would give Hillary a little space.

“
The pancakes are getting cold,
”
she reminded Hillary just before exiting the room.

Hillary flung herself on the bed and allowed herself to sob. She wasn
’
t ready to go downstairs just yet. It was Saturday. Her dad was likely seated at the table reading the newspaper.

Ten minute
s
later, she heard her mother
’
s annoyed voice calling to her,
“
Hiillllaaaarrry....
”

She knew she couldn
’
t hide in her room forever. She had to pull herself together and walk downstairs to eat her breakfast, though she had no appetite whatsoever. Wiping the lingering tears from the corners of her eyes, Hillary sat up on her bed, took a deep breath, stood up then walked out of her room. She walked down the steps slowly, cautiously listening out for her father. Was he at the table?

Hillary entered the dining room and took her usual seat at the empty table. She was relieved to be alone. She placed a single pancake on her plate and started picking at it, knowing that she would be unable to leave the table without eating. The bits of pancake tasted like rubber in her mouth and she had to force herself to swallow them down.

When she was nearly done eating her pancake, a figure caught her attention. Her father had joined her at the table. She looked at him, sitting beside her in her sister
’
s usual seat. She quickly averted her eyes, stared down at her food and sat as still as her quivering body allowed.

“
Good morning, Hilly,
”
her father said, as if this were just another ordinary morning.

Hillary was caught off guard. Maybe it was all just a mistake...some sort of misunderstanding. She opened her mouth to say
‘
good morning
’
but she couldn
’
t utter a sound. If her father was somehow unaware of what happened, she didn
’
t want to say anything. She just wanted to forget it ever happened.

Michael Greyson could see how tense and uncomfortable his daughter was. It was obvious that she hadn
’
t slept through it after all. He grew concerned for a split second
—
merely a split second. Then he was overcome with anger at her deceit. He would make sure that she understood that he was in charge, that he would get what he wanted. He would make sure she kept her mouth shut. He would make sure that she stayed in line. She was his daughter, after all. What could she possibly do to him?

“
Did you sleep well?
”
he asked, with a threateningly sharp edge to his voice, as if to say,
“
you slept well, period. Don
’
t ever say otherwise. Keep your mouth shut about what happened.
”

Hillary simply nodded. She got the message, loud and clear. She began shaking harder, uncontrollably. Now she knew for sure that he was awake, he was conscious of what he did. He purposefully raped her.

“
Are you feeling okay?
”
he asked, coldly.

Hillary nodded quickly, shutting her eyes tightly to prevent her tears from spilling out.

Mr. Greyson leaned toward her and whispered in her ear,
“
it wasn
’
t so bad, it
’
ll ge
t
better.
”

Hillary could no longer hold back her tears. She sobbed as quietly as possible as Mr. Greyson piled some pancakes onto his plate. She didn
’
t dare to look at him.

“
It
’
s gonna be a good day today...a really good day,
”
he said snidely.

Hillary stood to leave. Mr. Greyson quickly placed his hand over hers causing her to jump.

“
Sit,
”
he said softly, but from his tone it was apparent that this was an order, not a request.

Hillary did as she was told.

“
So how
’
s school going, Princess?
”
he asked cordially.

Hillary didn
’
t reply. She couldn
’
t bring herself to engage in a friendly conversation with the man who had horribly traumatized her just hours before.

“
Hilly? Did you hear me?
”

Hillary nodded. Tears continued to spill from her eyes.

“
Don
’
t you think you
’
re overreacting?
”
he asked in a hushed voice.

Overreacting? Hillary couldn
’
t believe he could ask such a thing. She felt like she was trapped in a bizarre dream. This couldn
’
t be real. This wasn
’
t her life. This wasn
’
t her father. Her father was kind and gentle and sweet and loving. Her father would never hurt her like this.