Play Again, Chapter One

Michelle Culver was twenty four going on fifty. She had gone from an attractive, slim girl full of hope at the age of thirteen to an overweight mother without any true expectations in life. Or for that matter, any hope. A strand or two of gray hair speckled her long brown locks and try as she might, Michelle couldn't pull them all out. She was out of shape and always tired. To her, sleep was the best thing about living. It was then that she could dream of a life worth living.

Tetris. The game where blocks stack up higher and higher, and the goal is to fit in the pieces so as to knock them down. Michelle could never seem to fit the pieces in right, and before she knew it the game was over and a message, with a yes and no button, was flashing across the screen.

Would you like to play again?
Michelle clicked the little gray button.



Michelle was eleven years old and developing into a beautiful young woman. She excelled in school without even trying and everyone loved her. Her body was years ahead of her time and she had no problem attracting the attention of all the boys. Her Mom, long divorced from Michelle's father, was dating Lawrence Forus, a forty something attorney who smelled like paper and ink toner. He was an attractive middle aged man, with sandy blonde hair and forest green eyes, but the years had softened his once hard body and he had a slight paunch in the middle. Michelle didn't really trust him, or like him, he seemed "fishy" as her two sisters liked to describe him, but Mom was happy and that was important. A year later, they married and the family moved across the country to San Diego, California, away from Michelle's childhood memories and friends. The beautiful four seasons of Vermont were now replaced by the boring, always sunny weather of southern California.

It only took a month before Lawrence, or Dad as he insisted on being called, would start to beat Michelle. It wasn't the smack upside the head -- owww, that hurts -- kind of beating. It was more along the lines of the "motherfucker, you do that again and I'll kill you in your sleep" kind. Michelle never did though. Her two little sisters would scream for "Dad" to stop as he sat on top of Michelle and pounded her with his fists. Michelle's hands would desperately try to cover her face and ears, as she prayed to someone - anyone - that he'd stop in time. On the really bad days he would open her small mouth with his gray, letterhead worn, grimy fingers, and spit into it and force it shut. "Taste me you bitch," he would laugh, letting drool drip from his mouth all over her chin and neck. Later that night, Michelle would vomit, hoping any remnants of that man would leave her body.

Michelle's Mom would just watch. Michelle was not sure what her Mom was more afraid of, Lawrence or her. She would sit on the couch, a vacant stare occupying her empty face, watching some invisible fly on the wall, listening to some song implanted in her head from the glory days of her youth. Michelle would crawl to her, and she would back away at first, until she knew that he -- that he -- was gone. Her arms would open and she would pet Michelle like their cat, Babe. Only Michelle didn't purr.

It wasn't always that bad. "Dad" would go away for weeks at a time, and sometimes if Michelle was lucky, months. Those were the good days. Sharon and Beth, her sisters, and Michelle laughed then. They had to. There was no laughter when he was there. When he was gone, their Mom -- the one they loved, the one who loved them -- returned. Michelle always wanted to ask her why they stayed, but she knew the answer. "He'd find us. And kill us," or "He provides a good life for us." "Good life my ass," Michelle thought in response to the unasked question. Michelle wanted to tell her that she'd rather be dead then spend another day with him. Her mouth, though, like a child being forced to eat spinach, stayed shut. Then he would come back. Had to be home by six for dinner when he was there. Dinner time always came much too soon.

Things never got better, only worse. First, he started with Sharon. Sharon was the youngest, eight at the time. "Dad" liked them young. He didn't even bother to hide it, raping Sharon right there on the
living room floor, in front of their mother who acted as if she were a deaf mute, and Michelle playing with her Tinker Toys building a big impermeable fortress. "Dad" got tired of Sharon after a year or so
and turned to Beth, who was eleven at the time. Michelle, now thirteen, had tired of Tinker Toys and now built great monuments of protection with Lincoln Logs. Higher and higher the walls would go.
He would tear them down. He had a way of doing that.

Beth was thirteen when he got tired of her. "Damn slut," he would call her. "Who have you been fucking? You've been fucking someone else, haven't you?" He would yell this at Beth as he beat Michelle with his fists. He'd never hit the other two, only Michelle. He saved that just for her. He'd yell at them and take his anger out on her. She was his punching bag. Michelle didn't run though, she'd rather he hit her than them. Besides, she was used to it.

Then, he started with Michelle. He came into her room one night, a couple of hours after beating her senseless for being eight seconds late for dinner, and sat on her bed. The smell of his Marlboro still
lingered over him.

"Take off your pants, " he demanded.

"Bu.. Bu.. But why? I di.. did.. didn't do anything,"

"I didn't ask. I told. Take off your god-damned pants."

Not knowing what was coming next, or at least not wanting to believe it, Michelle did. He turned her over and forced himself upon her, his paunch pressing firmly into her back while his knees forced her
legs apart. Michelle bled for hours afterwards and when it stopped, he did it again. She was a month shy of her fifteenth birthday.

The day Michelle turned fifteen, she kissed her mother on her cheek as she slept on the sofa. She left a note for Beth and Sharon under their pillows. And a note for "Dad" on his. It was short and sweet -
- two words -- Fuck you. She walked out the door, knowing she would never come back. Happy Birthday, she thought. Happy Fucking Birthday.

Would you like to play again?
Michelle clicked the little gray button.