The family party great I was having drinks with mum in the kitchen. We looked over and saw Dad stumbling all over and Mum Sighed. Lately they have not been getting on and the past week dad as been sleeping on the couch. He would often try to sneak in her bed but often ended in shouting. Me and Mum had the same build and we was the same size, like mother and daughter.
“He’s not that man he use to be,” she poured another drink and her phone buzzed. She was reading a text on her phone with a smirk. She then looked at me, “Listen Kelly. Will you be ok I may just nip out, I will be back in the morning.”
Few hours later I was getting drunk myself. I went up stairs to my room and to find Uncle Tom and Aunt Linda in my bed asleep. Great, knowing dad sleeps on the couch and Mum was probably out shagging some guy I went to her room.
I got into her room, I struggled to undress as I stumbled. I left my bra off and kept my knickers on and put on one of Mums T shirts. I got in bed and then turned the lamp off. I laid down on my side with my back facing the door.
Moments later I was half asleep and heard someone in the room. It sounded like my drunk dad and sounded like he was getting undressed as I heard the coins fall out of his pockets. He then got into bed behind me and then I felt his hairy legs against mine and his hand draped over my waist.
He mumbled something. It sounded like “Joanne.” That was Mum’s name. A shudder ran through me. He moved closer. His chest was against my back. I could feel his breath on my neck. I froze and didn’t say anything. His hand went to my breasts and squeezed them through the shirt, “You have always had good tits Joanne, god I missed them.”
I was shocked, but in away I felt sorry for him as Mum as not showed him anything for sometime now. I should speak up but he’s only touching. He thinks I am Mum and I don’t want to hurt him.
“I know… know you… want a divorce. Please I love you. At least can I have your pussy one last time,” he slurred his words.
My heart hammered. It felt like a drum against my ribs. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. My mind screamed. This was wrong. So wrong. But my body was frozen.
His hand slid down my stomach. It was rough. Hairy. It brushed against the elastic of my knickers. A wave of nausea hit me. I closed my eyes tightly. I wished I could disappear. Just vanish from the bed. From the room.
“Joanne, please,” he whimpered. His fingers hooked under the edge of my knickers. They started to tug.
Panic surged. This wasn’t just touching anymore. This was going too far. I had to do something. But what? If I screamed, everyone would wake up. Uncle Tom and Aunt Linda were in my bed. The house was full of family. The shame. The horror. What would happen?
His fingers slipped further. He was trying to pull them down. I felt the cold air on my skin as the fabric moved. My body tensed. Every muscle was rigid. My jaw was clenched so tight it ached. He pulled them down past my ass cheeks and he scouted over more as I felt his cock slide under my ass and touched my pussy. He inched forward and it slid inside of me.
“Joanne,” he mumbled again, his voice thick with drink and something else. “Oh, Joanne, I missed this. God, I missed you. Ahh fuck you feel tighter than normal.”
I put my hand over my mouth as he continued fucking me. I know I shouldn’t but I was actually enjoying it, he had a big cock. My mind was screaming one thing, but my body was caught in another. It was wrong. So wrong. But the feeling was intense. He pressed himself deeper.
His rhythm was slow at first. Then it picked up. He grunted. Little noises escaped him. He kept mumbling Joanne’s name. It was like a sick mantra. Each thrust was a reminder. A cold, hard fact. I was not Joanne. I was Kelly. His daughter.
My eyes were wide open in the dark. Staring at nothing. My breath hitched. I focused on the sounds outside the room. The faint murmur of music from downstairs. The occasional burst of laughter. So far away. A different world.
My body felt disconnected. Like it wasn’t mine. It was just a vessel. A thing being used. I felt a strange mix of emotions. Shame. Disgust. But also that confusing physical response. It twisted my stomach. Made me feel sick to my core.
He sped up. His breathing got heavy. His hand stayed on my breast. Squeezing. He was completely lost in his delusion. Thinking I was Mum. Thinking he was reconciling. It made it worse. The pity. The horror.
Then he groaned. A long, drawn-out sound. He shuddered against my back. He pulled out. I felt the warm wetness on my inner thigh. He rolled off me slightly. Still close. But not inside.
He sighed a deep, contented sigh. “Joanne,” he whispered again. His voice was thick with sleep. And whatever dark satisfaction he thought he’d found. He shifted. His arm flopped over me again. His breathing evened out. He was asleep. Just like that.
I lay rigid. Frozen. Not daring to move. The adrenaline was still pumping. My heart was still hammering. I could feel the wetness between my legs. It was disgusting. Tainting.
How long did I stay like that? Minutes felt like hours. The room was silent now. Only the soft, heavy breathing of my dad beside me. The weight of his arm. The smell of him. Alcohol and something else. Something I didn’t want to define.
Slowly, carefully, I began to move. Inch by inch. First, his arm. I lifted it gently. It was heavy. Lifeless. I eased myself away. Sliding towards the edge of the bed. My muscles ached. Every part of me felt stiff.
I slipped out from under the covers. The cold air hit my skin. A shiver ran through me. I stood beside the bed. My knickers were around my ankles. I stepped out of them. They felt soiled. Like they burned my skin. I left them on the floor. A silent testament.
I didn’t turn on the lamp. The moonlight streamed through the window. Enough to see. Enough to navigate. I stumbled slightly. My head was still fuzzy from the alcohol. Mixed with the shock.
I needed to clean myself. Desperately. I crept out of the bedroom. The hallway was dark. Eerily quiet. Everyone else was asleep. Or gone. Uncle Tom and Aunt Linda were still in my bed, no doubt. Mum was God knows where.
I tiptoed to the bathroom. The door creaked slightly as I opened it. I winced. Listening. No sound. Good. I slipped inside. Locked the door.
I turned on the tap. Cold water. I splashed it on my face. Over and over. Trying to wash away the feeling. The shame. The disgust. I pulled off Mum’s T-shirt. It felt clammy. Disgusting. I threw it in the corner.
Then I washed myself. Thoroughly. Scrubbing. Trying to erase the memory. The feeling. The warmth. I used hand soap. Shower gel. Anything. I scrubbed until my skin was red and sore. It still didn’t feel clean.
I stared at myself in the mirror. My eyes were wide. Red-rimmed. My hair was a mess. I looked like a ghost. A hollowed-out version of myself. Who was I now? What had just happened?
My mind was a blur of conflicting thoughts. “He didn’t know it was me.” “He was drunk.” “He thought it was Mum.” These excuses felt like weak, crumbling walls against a tidal wave of horror. But then, “I didn’t stop him.” “I froze.” “I felt something.” The last thought made me choke.
I started to cry. Silent tears. Hot tears. They streamed down my face. One after another. I put my hand over my mouth again. To stifle any sound. Any whimper. I leaned against the cold tiles. Sliding down to the floor. Curling into a ball. Hugging my knees.
The room was cold. I was naked. Shivering. Not just from the cold. But from the tremors shaking my whole body. I let the tears fall until I had no more left. My eyes burned. My throat was raw.
I stayed there for a long time. Just curled up on the bathroom floor. The world was spinning. Nothing made sense. My family. My home. It all felt like a lie. A broken illusion.
Eventually, the first hint of dawn began to seep through the small bathroom window. A faint grey light. Morning was coming. The party was over. Real life was about to start. And I had to face it.
I slowly uncurled myself. My limbs were stiff. My head throbbed. I found a clean towel. Dried myself. I couldn’t go back to Mum’s room. I couldn’t go back to my own room. Not with them in it.
I crept out of the bathroom. The house was still quiet. I needed clothes. I went to the laundry room. Found some old, clean sweats and a clean T-shirt. They were too big. Baggy. But they felt safe. Distant.
I went downstairs. The living room was a mess. Empty bottles everywhere. Food crumbs. The couch was empty. Dad wasn’t there. Had he gone back to it? Or was he still in Mum’s bed? The thought made me gag.
I found an old blanket. Curled up on a recliner in the corner of the living room. Hidden. Small. My mind was racing. What now? Do I tell Mum? Do I tell anyone? The shame was overwhelming. The fear.
Hours passed. The sun rose higher. Sounds began to stir in the house. The flush of a toilet. The creak of floorboards. Someone walked into the kitchen. I pretended to be asleep. Pulling the blanket higher.
It was Uncle Tom. He yawned. “Morning, Kelly-belle,” he mumbled, not really looking at me. Just heading for the kettle. He seemed oblivious. Which he was. Everyone was.
A little later, Mum came home. I heard her key in the lock. Her bright, cheerful voice. “Morning, party people!” she called out. Too loud. Too soon. I flinched under the blanket.
She walked into the living room. “Oh, Kelly,” she said, spotting me. “You crashed hard, huh?” She laughed. A light, carefree sound. It grated on my ears. She looked refreshed. Her hair was neat. Her clothes uncreased. She hadn’t been home all night. Just as she said.
She glanced at the couch. “Dad still in bed?” she asked, a hint of disdain in her voice. No, she didn’t know. She would never know.
I just mumbled something. Kept my face hidden. I couldn’t look at her. Or him. Not now. Not ever.
Dad eventually surfaced. Late morning. He stumbled into the kitchen. Head bowed. Groaning. “Never drinking again,” he grumbled. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at Mum. Just sat at the table. Head in his hands.
He seemed to remember nothing. Absolutely nothing. Or maybe, he did. Deep down. And was suppressing it. I didn’t know which was worse.
The silence at breakfast was heavy. My mind replayed the night. Over and over. His breath on my neck. His hand on my breast. His voice saying her name. The feeling of him inside me. That awful, confusing, disgusting feeling.
Mum started talking about her night. Vague details. “Caught up with an old friend,” she said, smiling thinly. Dad just grunted. Didn’t care. Or pretended not to.
I couldn’t eat. My stomach Churned. Every bite felt like ash. I just pushed the food around my plate.
The weight of the secret was immense. It pressed down on me. Suffocated me. It was like a black hole had opened up inside me. Sucking everything in. My innocence. My peace. My sense of safety.
How could I ever look at either of them the same way again? My mum, who was out with another man while her husband was crumbling. My dad, who, in his drunken despair, had violated me. Thinking I was her. But it was not his fault he thought I was mum.
The house felt tainted. Filled with unspoken horrors. The party atmosphere was gone. Replaced by a thick, suffocating dread.
I felt like I was screaming on the inside. But no sound escaped. My voice was trapped. Locked away with the secret. I was just a ghost in my own home. My own skin.
I knew one thing for sure. Nothing would ever be the same. The carefree girl who had been drinking with her mum in the kitchen hours ago was gone. Replaced by someone else. Someone broken. Someone who carried a crushing burden. And I had no idea how I would ever live with it. Or if I even could.
Every time Dad moved, I tensed. Every time he spoke, I flinched. He was oblivious. Or a master of disguise. I couldn’t tell.
Mum continued to act as if their marital problems were just a minor inconvenience. A hurdle. But I knew. It was a gaping wound. A chasm. And I had fallen right into it. Dragged down into their mess.
The world felt darker. Colder. And I was alone in it. With this secret. This horrible, soul-crushing secret. It was just the beginning. The nightmare had just started. And I was trapped. In my own bed. In my own home. In my own mind.