Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Entertaining my father’s colleagues while wearing my skimpy outfits, hoping they won’t notice that my belly is slightly curvier, my boobs slightly bigger.
I make it through my first trimester and breathe a sigh of relief.
The nausea subsides, thank God.
Hiding it was the act of a lifetime.
Until my father calls me into his office one morning.
I’m wearing a hoodie and sweats.
Some people say my father is good-looking, and I guess objectively he is. He’s tall, broad, well-built. Strong facial features, raven-black hair with silver threaded through it. And eyes as dark as my own.
But to me he’s ugly.
Monstrous.
If my mother were here, would she allow him to use me the way he does?
He never touches me himself, of course. In his eyes, that would be crossing the line.
In his warped mind, though, letting his friends and associates use me is perfectly acceptable.
“Yes, Papa?” I say.
He doesn’t even look up from whatever paperwork he’s scrawling on. “Why haven’t you bled yet this month?”
“I just finished my period last week,” I say. “You know that. You keep track of my calendar.”
He does, except when he has a particular friend or associate who enjoys the blood.
Luckily for me, they haven’t been around the last three months.
“The maids have been checking your garbage cans.”
“Then they should see that I’ve used tampons and pads.”
He finally looks up, his eyes even darker than usual, and a scowl twisting his face. “You think you’re quite clever, don’t you Daniela?”
My nerves shatter under my skin. I’ve been leaving bloodied pads and tampons in my trash. First I was cutting myself on my inner thigh to do it, but more recently, I’ve been asking the local butcher for animal blood.
“Take off your hoodie,” my father says.
No problem. I’m not really showing yet.
I pull the black hoodie over my head, fold it neatly, and lay it on one of the chairs in front of my father’s desk.
“And now your T-shirt,” he says.
He’s seriously going to make me strip in front of him? My father has never sexually abused me, though he’s beat me on occasion.
“Now, Daniela,” he says, his voice stern.
I pull the shirt over my head.
I stand in front of him wearing only my bra and my sweatpants.
“The bra, please.”
“Papa…”
“You heard me.”
Then he presses the buzzer on his desk. “Send Dr. Sanchez in now, please.”
I widen my eyes. Dr. Sanchez? He’s not my doctor. My doctor is Dr. Manuel.
“The rest of your clothes, please, Daniela.”
“Papa, why are you doing this?”
“You know why.”
My heart thumping widely, I completely undress in front of my father.
My nipples harden against the chill in his office.
I cover them with my arms.
Then a knock on the door.
“Come in, Dr. Sanchez,” my father says, his voice low and rumbly.
The door opens, and to my relief, Dr. Sanchez is a woman.
Perhaps she’ll feel sorry for me, not do what my father is inevitably going to ask of her.
I mean, she can’t abort a baby right in this office, can she?
“Señor Agudelo,” Dr. Sanchez says, her voice cold.
“This is my daughter, Daniela,” my father says. “I suspect she’s pregnant.”
Dr. Sanchez eyes me. “Her breasts do seem a little bit swollen,” she says. “But I won’t know for sure until she takes a pregnancy test, though I can examine her manually. If her cervix is soft and high in the vagina, pregnancy is indicated. But it only takes a moment to have her urinate on the pregnancy test.”
“Yes, we will do that afterward. But first I’d like you to examine her manually.” He returns his glare to me. “Lie down, Daniela.”
I look at the Turkish rug on my father’s floor. “Here? On the floor?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have an exam table in here, my dear. So unfortunately, Dr. Sanchez will have to kneel to do her examination.”
“That’s not a problem,” Dr. Sanchez says coldly.
I look at her. Her cold dark demeanor. I plead with my eyes. Don’t do this. You’re a doctor. You’re supposed to do no harm.
“Daniela, my patience is wearing thin,” my father says.
I lie down.
“Spread your legs, please,” Dr. Sanchez says, her voice like an icicle.
I do as I’m told, and I close my eyes.
It helps to close your eyes. It helps to block out what’s happening to you.
I do it a lot when my father’s associates are having their way with me.
Except for when they explicitly demand that I leave my eyes open.
If I don’t, sometimes they strike me. And not always with the back of their hand.
Cold hands slide inside me. Doctors usually use lube, but Dr. Sanchez does not. I have an awful feeling that she was told to make this as unpleasant for me as possible.
As if lying naked on the floor of my father’s office isn’t awful enough.
I hold back my scream at the pain, at the invasion.
How can a woman do this to another woman? Especially a woman who’s a doctor?