Chapter 4

And Mr. Killian never upset his wife with the reports of his daily workday. He tried all the time to forget the annoyances of his day at the moment when he crossed the threshold of the door. Debby loved him for this thing, however, every moment she worried at the moment about how her mother seemed to be silent.

At these moments, she desired to run to her and ask about each client and how she crossed her path, or at least consider if she needed a certain help. But her father kept her busy with her favorite game all the time: he held her tightly in his lap, and loosened his arms little by little, encouraging her to run.

The moment she did, she pulled her back hard, pulling out all her laughter and curses. In this way, Debby ended up being distracted, and her relationship with her mother was becoming a coexistence of the kind expected between strangers.

The Killians consisted of being, most of the time, a normal lineage. The mother sat on her father's side to watch the soap opera, both stuck their eyes on the old television and left Debby playing with a certain thing as her curious fingers found interesting.

At the moment when the mother distanced herself to make her usual call after eight o'clock, the father played to pinch the little girl, making her shake her hair from a red as intense as they appeared forged "although the father also flaunted that mane with dark red hair.

Seeking to distract Debby from her mother's absence, the individual pinched Debby's thighs and arms, stopping at the moment on how he reached his torso. There he didn't pinch, he just slid his hands, all the time looking at his face, checking if she still sketched that smile of his as an innocent child.

"Look who's here! "He emitted, showing her his index finger.

He bent his finger Slowly, causing high-pitched sounds with his lips as if that one became a certain type of animal. Debby's eyes sparkled with the joke, possibly because it was every moment also from the moment she could remember.

He stretched out his finger and struck on her lips, the moment she opened them, her finger took the space over her tongue.

He instructed her to suck, and she did, no matter how much she didn't understand. And at the moment when he put her on his lap again, his finger still in his mouth, his other hand rested on his swollen thighs early for a ten-year-old child. Debby consisted of being too young to understand.

And as much as he became able to consider how it happened, it never consisted of being able to understand how it happens in the head of a patient.

She watched her drawings calmly, happy with the attention she received from her father. He consisted of being his hero, and the mother consisted of being like an evil stepmother. She didn't play with her daughter during the bath like her father.

She did not take her to the little pull in the back of the yard and put her on the table, lit a lighter, and brought it closer to her skin, only to cause a comfortable heat and to entertain her with the magic of the orange flames. Your father did that thing. Debby consisted of being Daddy's favorite.

Throughout the night, the moment when her mother went to the room she shared with her father, she emitted loud and clear as she had a headache and that she preferred how he did not try to do anything. This migraine seemed to last forever and this thing worried Debby.

There was nothing more like tormenting her than the thought of losing her parents. Like every child, she depended on them, and loved them exaggeratedly, regardless of their suspicious attitudes. Debby would give her life of goodwill to keep them alive and together.

However, not with all the prayers as it consisted of being able to do, it could not result as well his mother's complaints. The father did not seem to care in a certain way, he had given up sending her to the doctor for a long time, on the other side, his concern was to be remotely focused on Debby.

Nowadays she can remember with all the clarity of the sound of the door of her room being opened during the night. She can feel the blankets sliding away from her body and the well-known hands rising into place, burning her with the heat of sin. Despite the dark, she was not terrified.

He listened to the wheezing of an ancestral voice as it consisted of being given to keep silent and listened to the squeak of his bed at the moment as a robust body approached her remotely.

The mother had not understood how it happened in the room of the lineage in the course of every night of her life from the moment of her early years. She didn't understand either at that time.

The lack of sex education in schools, the lack of guidance on the part of her mother, and the almost zero contact with a certain ancestral presence in addition to those two with whom Debby was used to enjoying prevented how she was fully aware of how she passed and how she became able to have a certain chance to avoid. She couldn't tell the truth. She couldn't swallow the truth.

So her mind was in charge of doing how all that disappeared as if all that became a movie as she no longer wanted to remember the plot. Debby's childhood every moment was taken by scenes of that still kind.

The individual she called her father never seemed to get embarrassed when staring her in the eyes, but she started to avoid making eye contact. She felt dirty and was not even old enough to understand how it happened.

In those moments of silent torture, the air crackled and took her away. Part of how Debby consisted of being turned off, and she only looked at the ceiling, where she could count the seventy-two plastic stars as they illuminated him away from the darkness. His body moved against the sheets, but his eyes remained static.

It consisted of being bad and it hurt, however, she didn't want to hurt her father by ending up giving her tongue in her teeth to her mother, so she would shut up. And I waited. I was even waiting for him to give her a good night kiss and cover her again.

The next day, he acted as if he had never been in his room, and she did it. She loved her father, and never received instructions on how wrong and dirty all that consisted of being, how much more was being able to do?

These memories are just fragments of how Debby has collected from the moment of her fourteen years, at the moment when her mother gave up fighting for a destroyed home, and came up with the paperwork of the divorce on a cold autumn morning.

The father couldn't resist; he didn't care, but he asked Debby to stay, saying how it didn't consist of being able to enjoy without her. The mother insisted on taking the girl with her, and Debby could barely recognize her voice at the moment when she begged her to get her out of there, at the moment when she was armed with enough courage to take the attitude as she should have done for years.

At the age of fourteen, Debby understood how the girls her age did certain things with the boys as they had a certain type of love, and understood how the nights in her room did not consist of being just scenes from a movie as she consisted of being able to ignore.

Debby dared to stop it only the moment she understood how it happened. The damage had already been done. Her body no longer consisted of that of a girl. His head no longer consisted of being healthier. And his soul was wounded for all the usual.

Today, looking back, Debby does not know how to say if her mother had seen a certain thing in her despair, or if it was only her maternal instinct as it had cost to wake up, but just as her eyes moved from Debby to her father, she walked to him and slapped him in the face with all her strength as the rings scattered on her fingers allowed. The individual seemed shocked, but was silent, with wide eyes.

"If you show up on my way again, I swear how I kill you," she said, pulling Debby hard out of the house. "And if you touch my daughter again... I'll capo you!

Debby's mother didn't understand how it was to be too late. She did not understand how it lasted for so long as her daughter had no longer understood to speak as it is how she was aware to understand how it consisted of being wrong.

In any case, she did not ask any further questions, she did not try to approach her daughter's feelings to understand how harmful that negligent upbringing had arrived, she only tried to remedy the situation by disappearing into the world.

They moved to the house of a paternal aunt, apparently the only person in the lineage as he maintained certain contact with all of them, as the rest "as far as Debby understood" were dead or imprisoned.

Debby's mother consisted of being an only child and an orphan, she had lost contact with her lineage precisely because they were too close. His father had been rich one day, but he had lost his fortune for a reason that he had never told them. A determined person never dared to ask.

Debby had never seen the woman as she presented herself as her only aunt, knowing of her existence only against a few photos. These photos are all the time as extravagant as a certain physical detail consisting of being null.

I only looked like someone else with all the fortune in the world, and the allowance as I told my mother proved this thing, and the money hid the fact that Debby never met the woman.

The house in which they lived consisted of being remote and standard, nothing very luxurious, but she had understood how the woman should be incredibly rich. His mother did not stop working, it consisted of being too proud to accept the money of a certain one, and a guarantee of gifting Debby with the best clothes like a teenager consisted of being able to have, as if new clothes became able to compensate for the years of abuse.

Debby's father did not bother to look for us in the two years they followed, and she vaguely learned of his death at the time when he was sixteen years old. Debby had erased her father's existence very easily in those two years of a normal life, and at the moment when the subject of death came to light, she could no longer pretend as if she did not remember.

She could no longer wish for everything to be just a movie. Unlike all her friends from high school, she was more than grateful for her father's death, and sometimes she cried with relief, knowing how she would never have to see him again.

In front of the others, Debby feigned a certain apathy or unconvincing mourning, but in her private, she thanked anyone as she was looking at her. For how he understood that he would never go through that again.

As far as Debby heard, his father died in an accidental fire. There were rumors from neighbors that they had heard a car fleeing at high speed a few moments before the fire started, and how they found bizarre the fact that the individual did not even try to escape the flames and that he surrendered to the dense smoke as he suffocated him and roasted his organs.

However, the Manhattan police at all times were easily silenced to strange deaths, and they found a way to stifle all the suspicions on the part of the neighbors. Sometime later, it consisted of being as if Mr. Killian had never existed in that world. A determined person remembered him the most. And they had no flowers placed on his grave. He became nothing.

Debby's relief did not prevent her dreams from becoming filled with disgusting cuts. She always thought about telling her mother about this thing. I never had time, though.

She was all the time late for work, answering a certain call, or meeting an individual who seemed polite the few times she shared the dinners with her daughter. She was happy, and Debby didn't want to ruin this thing with her excruciating memories.

Debby turned in bed every night, avoiding sleeping so as not to have any vision. He woke up with bags under his eyes dimmed, a sore head, and no mood for a certain thing. I went into a routine of going to school and preparing dinner as the mother did not arrive, but this thing did not consist of being enough to ward off the tears.

I cried for a certain thing. And sometimes I had the intuition of what it was like to be able to turn around and find someone else lurking on my shoulders. Debby entered a state of paranoia as every moment gave her the intuition of how it consisted of being able to explode and run away at a certain moment for the smallest things.

Having a bad day was enough for her to feel weird. Thinking about his father, his dreams, or how he would make his future, turned a good day into a penance. Debby tried to control the shudder at the moment when she hugged her body after a nightmare and ignore, unsuccessfully, a voice as it sounded in my head:

"I can't allow how you touch me. I can't allow it. I can't allow it. Don't touch me."

At the time when nightmares did not haunt her, this consisted of being the role of her head. She listened to footsteps and found herself walking to a place she didn't want. She turned around and again caught himself redoing the route. She suffered from blackouts.