[Trigger Warning: Character dealing with sexual abuse and trying to cope. Reader discretion is heavily advised.]

"Are you alright, Orion?" my therapist said gently.

I had stopped the story. I was shaking pretty badly.

Was I alright? I just relived my father molesting me, what a stupid question! But I knew what he meant. So I sucked in a deep, shaking breath.

"Y-yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"I got the worst of it out, s-so."

"Alright, if you're sure."

I nod my head in determination. "I'm sure."

"What did you do then?"

~

I watched in disbelief as my father turned his back to me. Not saying another word, he sat down in his recliner, picked up the TV remote, and started watching TV.

I was still trembling. He was completely ignoring me now. It was like I was invisible. Oh, how I wished to be invisible.

I don't know how long I stood there, brain trying to muddle through what had just occurred. I couldn't believe he had felt me up. I couldn't believe he had touched me until I had a—completely unwanted—physical response. But then it suddenly hit me when he chuckled along with the laugh track of the TV show he was watching. He had just molested me, and he was pretending I wasn't still standing in the same room as him, laughing?

I was going to be sick. I clamped my hands over my mouth and propelled myself towards our small bathroom. Even so I barely made it, vomit leaking out of my hands.

I got sick until I was dry heaving, and I dry heaved until my stomach was a horrible knot that felt like my entire stomach had turned itself inside out. It was shortly after that I heard my mother come home.

I listened, cheek pressed against the toilet seat, staring blankly at the shut door. I couldn't tell why I was crying still. Was it my pounding head? Was it my puking? Was it what my adopted father did to me? Was it still the fright of losing my guitar?

Was it all that? Was it my life?

"Where's Orion?" I hear my mom ask, accompanied by the sounds of crumpled paper bags and groceries being put away.

"He's sick," my dad says plainly. "He's in the bathroom. Stomach bug or something."

I wish was all I could think.

A second later, a soft knock on the door.

"Orion? Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

"N-no. I'm going to take a s-shower s-soon."

A pause, and then, "Alright."

I had made a mess of our small bathroom. Still crying, I cleaned up the mess. When that's done, my skin begins to prickle and crawl. I turn on the shower, making it on the cold side, and step in.

I hadn't even bothered to take off my clothes. Time lost all meaning to me, but when I got tired of standing I sat down. Pulling my knees up to my chest and burying my face into them, I thought about what I should do.

The creepy crawly feeling was getting worse, and I knew it was because I felt trapped. I had to get out of the trailer, stay away from my dad for a while. But how?

Eventually the hot water shut completely off because I had used it all up. My dad shouted at me how we weren't millionaires, and I was wasting a lot of water with my unusually long shower.

"O-okay," I called, not even knowing if I said it loud enough to be heard.

As I stripped I still didn't know what to do. If I could have, I would have stayed in that bathroom forever. But instead I washed myself with the cheap, drying, harsh soap. I washed and scrubbed at myself until my skin was raw and pink.

Throughout it all, I was still crying. I didn't know if I would ever stop crying. It didn't feel like I would.

When I was done I shut off the water. I called for my mom to toss a towel in. I cowered behind the door so she couldn't see me, hand clamped over my mouth to keep myself quiet. As soon as the door popped open I said "thank you", and was happy when her arm quickly shot in, put the towel on the sink, and then shut the door again.

Normally I wrapped my towel around my hips. Not tonight. Now I wrapped it around my chest and wore it like a dress. Even covered, I literally ran to my room, making sure not to look at where my dad was sitting.

I was still crying, jagged and sharp. I locked the door and jiggled it violently, making sure that I was locked in. As I let my towel fall to the floor and I began to frantically get dressed, an idea started to slowly form in my head. I liked the plan. So as soon as my shoes were on, I propelled myself to the door and hurried through the small trailer.

"I'm going to Jake's for awhile," I stated, looking at the ground. "I'll be safe there so don't bother to call."

Before either parental unit could say anything, I was outside. And the second I was outside I threw myself off the small three steps and took off running as fast as I could. I heard my mom calling after me, but fuck that.

My best friend Jake's house was clear across town. I ran until I couldn't anymore. As I walked, I could barely see where I was going on account of the never ceasing tears. It was night; I hated it when cars drove towards me. I kept my head bowed, the cars being too bright for my pounding head. I'm sure I must've looked weird; a boy dressed all in black, crying.

But no one stopped to see if I was alright. Why would they, right?

I hadn't dried my hair, and I was starting to get cold from it dripping in rivulets down my neck. My shirt was pretty wet around the collar. I turned a corner, off the main road, and a brief reprieve of relief washed over me. I had made it to Jake's house.

I rang the doorbell and felt guilty as I waited for someone to answer. I knew it was late, but I didn't know how late. More relief washed over me when Jake himself answered the door.

"Hey Or--"

But I didn't let him say anything. Instead I just shoved past him, nearly tripped, but kept going. His mom hollered when I slammed Jake's bedroom door. Seconds later Jake appeared and closed the door quietly. He asked repeatedly if I was okay, what was going on, and when he touched me I couldn't stand it. The last person who touched me was my dad, and I still felt gross, and I just didn't want anyone to touch me ever again.

So I screamed. Jake apologized to his mom and turned on the TV. Clearly freaked, Jake slowly approached me. He tried to get me to tell him what was going on. When he got close to the subject, it made me outright become hysterical. I didn't want his mom getting involved, because I was scared and I felt like I had done something wrong. I felt like it was all my fault somehow. So I flipped myself over face down to muffle the sound.

I felt like such an inconvenience to Jake, and I hated myself for it. I hated myself for being stupid with my dad. I should have just done the dishes and kept my fucking mouth shut. I was such a damn idiot for getting into an argument with him. I hated existing. But I didn't know what to do, so I just cried pathetically into Jake's bed, trying to be as quiet as possible.

I stayed there for a few days. I didn't know if my parents called into school for my absence, nor did I really care. Jake was kind enough to leave me food, but I didn't really eat it. I did, once, and I waited until I heard his mom leave for work before I sneaked downstairs, washed the plate, and slipped it back where it belonged.

Finally I was done moping. I knew I had to go back. The thought of telling his mom, or maybe even calling the police, had crossed my mind several times. But what if it didn't work? What if they didn't believe me? If that happened, well...I was genuinely afraid of my dad's reaction. He would probably literally kill me.

It was the day that I went back home that I made a promise to myself. When I died, it was either going to be naturally or by my own hand. I wasn't going to give that bastard the satisfaction of taking that from me.

I wrote Jake a quick note, thanking him and assuring him I was fine. I knew that I had caused him a ridiculous amount of stress the past few days, with my crying on and off and not muttering a single word. I wanted to tell him that I would call him when I was back home, safe and sound...

But it wasn't home anymore. The second my dad slipped his hand down my pants, I no longer had a home. So I thought of how to phrase it.

I'll call you when I make it to where I live.

There. It was grammatically clunky and weird, but it got the point across, so I left it and signed it ~O like I signed everything that didn't need my full name.

I kept to my word. When I got to the trailer, I said hi to my mom, ignored her questions, and definitely ignored my dad who sat in front of his shrine, the TV. I went to my bedroom and locked the door. I called Jake, but hung up on him before he could say anything.

I spent the rest of that weekend in my room, coming out only to use the bathroom and to grab food and bring it back to my bedroom. Normally I would have gotten in trouble for not eating at the table. However, I knew my dad wasn't going to say anything, and my mom was a spineless coward, so I was left to my own devices.

Come Monday, it was business as usual. I acted like nothing happened. I could tell Jake was worried, but he didn't bring it up. I was thankful for that.

So I buried what happened deep within myself from that Monday forward. It was just a little unspoken secret between my dad and I. And if I'm being truthful, I was fine with it being like that. However, I wouldn't learn until years later how badly that royally fucked up my psyche.

Knowing that now, as I sat here in a rehab facility for the second time, made me wish death on my father. But, sadly, my wishes went unanswered. Welcome to my life.

Figures.