"Where are you, you little whore?" came the slurred song from my step-father as he grappled with the stairs. Great, he's drunk. Again. This is the third time in five days that he's been this way & my nerves cannot take it anymore. He would abuse me and my mother when he's sober; he turns to pure animal when he's intoxicated.

I sigh. I should go down & help him, maybe then he will spare me my nightly beating. I'm still nursing a few recurrent cracked ribs, a sprained wrist & too many bruises to count.

"I'm here," I say evenly. His gaze wanders blindly before landing on me distastefully. He then begins to prowl over my body with his conventional look of animalistic desire. I shiver. No matter how used to his inappropriate and unbridled sexual urges I am I still tremble with fearful rage whenever he unleashes that look upon me.

He leans heavily on me yet still manages to stumble en route to his bedroom, dragging me with him. We all know what this means. I breathe a swift, silent prayer that this can be over quickly, even though I don't believe in any gods. Hell, I don't believe in anything or anyone anymore. Not since my father was brutally murdered by some or other Mexican drug cartel. All I know is he was an informant working for the feds, the dealers smelt a rat & then proceeded to execute him. Not just any old shooting or hanging though, he was given a Columbian necktie. It was awful.

After my father's death my mother flew off the rails slightly. It was actually on one of her benders that she met my waste-of-oxygen step-father. The only reason she stays with him is because of his money. The loss left us a tad strapped for cash. My step dad owns a strip club downtown & rumor has it that he runs a shady prostitution business too. Wouldn't surprise me if he woke up one night & forced me to rake in money for him.

I come back to reality as he fumbles with my clothes. I don't want this. I would fight back but he has weapons & is horribly violent. The liquor also makes him unbearably stronger than usual. My mother has no inkling of the sexual anguish I endure under his hand. Or rather, under his podgy, hairy, sweaty, heaving body.

I do what I always do when he wants to have his way with me. I clench my eyes shut & imagine that I'm somewhere else. Anywhere else. Usually hanging out with my real father. Before his demise. If that proves ineffective, I detach my mind & look on eerily from above, as though I am watching the scene unfolding as it is happening to someone else. Someone else that looks precisely like myself, except that girl lying there motionless has dead eyes. And I, Adrienne Fernandes, do not have eyes of decay. Or perhaps I do. All I know is even I pity the defenseless victim on the bed, a shadow of what she could be.