WARNING: this episode contains depictions of incest. Please do NOT read this if you are sensitive to these matters. The mature filter is there for a reason. Thank you.

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A sudden shudder made me tremble from head to toes. I looked at the date: january 14th. Shit. I shouldn’t have invited them over today.

It was 10.30 in the morning, we were supposed to be filming our beggar’s speech and have that crowdfunding going before the end of the day. The flat was as clean as it would ever be, the fridge half full of edibles and even a bottle of milk. In my cleaning frenzy I had even made a cake to welcome my new friends with.

But now… Now I found myself curled up in a shaking ball on my sofa, rolled up in a blanket. I had no memories of leaving the kitchen. I did, however, have another memory. A long gone one, one that I thought I had forgotten.

I was 4 years old

No! No, I was 26, a grown-up already!

I was 4 years old and the room was dark, lit by a ceiling light-bulb.

But it’s barely 11 in the morning, the sky is blue and sunlight is caressing my face through the window.

I untangled myself from the blanket, went back to the kitchen and set the coffee machine to work. A nice big cup of coffee and a smoke would certainly help dissipate the ghost of memory that still haunted me. Except…

The smell of cigarette and coffee in his breath, my father looked at me with such a weird, distant gaze…

I was back on the couch as if I had teleported there. My mind wouldn’t deal with the remembrance in anything but a blanket and a sofa it would seem. Fine, message received, brain! I’ll stay here and endure. But you better set me free after this, I have work to do…

“Baby!” That’s me. I’m his baby. His 4 years old baby, who looks so much like his ex-wife… “I’m going to take a shower, come on, let’s get you clean too.” I followed him to the bathroom. I was perfectly able to remove my clothes by myself, but he didn’t let me. He removed my favorite t-shirt, my pants, my underwear... Why was it so slow?

Wait what? I didn’t remember this before… Traumatic amnesia, I suppose? But I remembered the rest, what the hell is going on in my brain? Oh well, let’s get this over with before the guys arrive.

I was cold, standing stark naked like this while he took his own clothes off, much faster. The sound of running water made me raise my head. He had started the shower, was grabbing me under the arms and setting me under the warm stream. He turned around to adjust the temperature.

Please no, please no, please no… Make it stop…

When he faced me again, I was looking straight in front of me. My eyes were on height with his loins… It took a moment for my brain to register what I was seeing. My dad. The man I loved like a hero, that I admired, that I trusted… My dad was standing in front of me with an erection.

What is… Is that a tear on my cheek or the memory of his finger caressing my face?

“It’s all right baby, turn around, let me wash you”

A tear. Definitely a tear. I was crying. In the safety of my apartment, sitting upright, hidden in my blanket like a miserable burrito, 26 years old me was crying the tears that didn’t fall from my 4 years old eyes.

He had washed me, his hands full of soap running over my naked skin, a smile on his face as he spent just a little bit too long on these parts that defined me as a girl. Just a fraction of a second too long, just enough for me to feel dirty and soiled, not enough to say anything. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t shout, all I could do was close my legs as tight as I could and keep my mouth shut, hoping it would be over soon.

When did I fall to my side? No idea. I couldn’t tell how long I had been laying there, crying, shaking like an autumn leaf in the wind. A knock on the door made me jerk, and as I opened my mouth to answer… I couldn’t speak. Not a sound. Shit shit shit get up, move, you’re not that little girl anymore!

But my legs were closed, blocked in that position, as if paralyzed. My voice was gone. I was just an empty shell at the mercy of these horrid memories, helpless, unable to get up, unable to tell my friends that they could come in, unable to do any of the things that I wanted to do.

January 14th was my father’s birthday. He had been dead for years now, but it still was, in my mind, his day. And apparently a day to remember all the horrors he had done in my life…

Well, happy birthday dad. Hope you’re happy now.

The door opened, I never locked it. Abby’s face entered my field of vision, Abby’s arms, and all of a sudden I was not longer a blanket burrito. I was an Abby burrito now. Buried in her arms, my face in the crook of her neck, I let myself cry. She understood. Pierre nodded to her, then went to the kitchen and took out 3 clean mugs, silently, poured us all some coffee, rolled me a smoke and opened the window.

They didn’t need to know. They understood. They would be here, no matter how long it would take. They would protect the child that still lived somewhere inside of me. It wasn’t too late. It is never too late.