4 years. It had been 4 years to the day since my wife passed and time had a way of slipping through your fingers in the face of tragedy; it chugged along at the same unrelenting pace, whether you were ready or not, and left no room for lagging or irresponsibility. Plus, I had a little girl to look after.
"Goodnight, Dad!" Amy from called down the hall, her usually cheery voice fighting to drown out the sound of automatic gunfire that blared from her computer's speakers. She'd picked up that game again recently. We used to spend a lot of time together but I supposed she was growing up. Didn't need dear old dad, but today of all days, I didn't need to interrupt her from having a good time. If something as innocent as playing with her friends online took her mind off the grim occasion then who was I to interject?
"Night, hon, love ya." My voice drifted back into the kitchen like the tide returning to shore. The television was muted but still on in the living room; a placeholder to total emptiness. When she heard me say "Love ya," there was always this brief pause where I could tell she waited to hear if I meant it, before either shrugging it away or accepting it graciously. Not tonight though. Tonight she just ignored me. A quick wave and a happy smile followed by silence told me she went right back to whatever it was she was doing.
So I sat there, alone, and stared blankly at the soundless drama playing out on the TV. Melancholy fell upon my shoulders like a heavy blanket, the air hung heavy with a staticky silence. Work kept me occupied. Fathering kept me occupied, but my little Amy was growing up. We did everything, especially after her mother passed; she was my little angel.
I cleared my throat quietly, trying not to be too obvious about checking on her in case she thought it weird, even though it probably was. I didn't want to be the nosy father; Amy was too mature for that, too trusting. Still, it was human, and on days like this it felt nice to still be needed, to be present in a home that was all too often disconnected; checking in couldn't hurt, could it?
As Amy clicked and clacked away, I stirred up a fresh cup of hot chocolate in the kitchen. A peace offering to buy my way into her room and earn some 'Cool Dad' points. It wasn't imaginative, but at least I could make her happy. At least I could be useful.
The house was even quieter than usual the booming sound of simulated gunfire had come to a ceasefire, it had been replaced by soft clicking and scratching. She was typing again, working on a report or something. I pushed open the door and offered out the mug, "Are ya winnin', hon?" I tried a joke out, hoping she'd crack a smile just as easily as she always had. Not this time.
Legs splayed, one hand holding onto her keyboard, she looked back over her shoulder while her other gripped tightly around what looked like a undulating cylinder of silicone. Amy quivered and heaved, suffocating a gasp before it could escape her lips, her body trembling like it wanted to shiver from head to toe. Her eyes were closed; no doubt to focus on the intense pleasure building inside her. My daughter's jaw clenched so tight that she began to turn blue in the cheeks. Then came that quiet whimper in the midst of the high pitched squeak. She held it for only a moment, a small, sad expression crossing her face before she gave herself over to the orgasmic tremors.
I stood there with my clattering mug and watched as my baby girl writhed through an ecstasy that was more powerful than any I'd ever felt myself. I wasn't naive enough to miss that she was doing this on camera, to the tune of an unknown number of men sending messages and donations. Time ceased to exist. I wanted nothing more to escape this moment, to run away, but also understood that our shared world would never be the same, might never recover. So I spoke up, "I said, are ya winnin', hon?"
Calmness returned to her shaking body, a cool collectedness that belied the shameful nature of being outed by her father, "Um…uh huh," she replied. In fact, Amy's unapologetic tone sent chills to the base of my spine. She smirked, "Can you help me? I'd get hella subs!"
Damn my urges. Damn the loneliness and lack of touch that had pervaded the years since my wife's death. I should've been disgusted, watching Amy's dexterous fingers massage, rub and stir the depths of her budding womanhood. The way she looked at me, like a whore in heat, should've inspired shame in the both of us. Should've inspired action on my part to regain control of an evidently rotten household. Instead, I could feel the rush of blood beating like a drum within my skull; this was my daughter! Judgement bowed to temptation and a terrible revelation was realized: the longing I felt was stronger than any time I'd been with my wife, Amy's mother.