The Runaway

I was a good daughter. My brother got in enough trouble for the both of us (and then some), so I kept my nose clean and stayed out of trouble. I was a very modest girl who never intentionally wore revealing or racy clothing. I say 'intentionally' because I have always been chunky, and it was difficult to find age appropriate clothes that didn't fit me like a glove. Out of necessity, most of my clothes had to be bought in the Ladies Department. The proportions were always off, and the styles were nothing like what the other kids my age were wearing. It only served to make me even more self conscious than I already was.

Dad began making inappropriate comments about my appearance as I got older. He was crass, crude, and intimidating, letting me know just how he felt in very disturbing ways. Dad didn't like any shirt that alluded to the fact that I was becoming a young woman. I began to hear "I hate that fucking shirt, it's too tight" no matter which one I wore, and "I can see your crotch" no matter what pants I wore. He never came right out and asked me to change. He escalated his intimidation and crude remarks until he was shouting them for the entire house to hear.

In the summertime, Dad took my brother and I miniature golfing at a small, family run place that was never very busy. I was wearing modest, poly knit shorts that came to just above my knees in length. There was absolutely nothing inappropriate about the style or the fit of these shorts whatsoever. Two boys that were about my brother's age were playing the course behind us. It became clear that my dad was getting very agitated about something. Each time he looked back at those boys he was even angrier than before. "They won't stop checking you out" he snapped. "They're looking you up, and they're looking you down."

I was mortified. I had done absolutely nothing to encourage them. In fact, I hadn't even noticed they were there until Dad called my attention to them by behaving like an idiot. He became increasingly insulting and accusatory, insinuating that I was purposely enticing them like some wanton little tart. As usual, he managed to completely sabotage what could have been a very pleasant outing by concocting imaginary indiscretions and blowing everything way out of proportion. I really hated him for that.

I used to have a favorite shirt that I loved to wear. It was an ultra-soft jersey knit short-sleeve tee in navy blue that had bright red stitching, making it appear inside out. There was a beautiful rainbow patch sewn right in the middle of it. There was nothing inappropriate about this shirt whatsoever, but for some strange reason, my dad hated it with a passion. He refused to tell me why he hated it so much. One day, he walked into my bedroom unexpectedly and saw me wearing the shirt again. He went absolutely ballistic and demanded that I take it off.

I wasn't wearing a bra. I wrapped my arms around myself and shook my head, horrified by the look in his eyes. He seized me and violently attempted to wrench the shirt off of me. I fought hard to protect my modesty, but to no avail. The shirt got stuck around my head with my arms straight up in the air, my bare breasts bouncing wildly as he fought to tear the shirt from me. He yanked so hard I thought my neck would break before he finally managed to pull it free. I watched helplessly as he stretched my beloved shirt over one of the bedposts and ripped a hole in it. Then he used his hands to rip the shirt apart until it was beyond repair.I stood there burning with shame, still making lame attempts to shield my breasts from his eyes. He turned to me with smug satisfaction. "There!" he spat in triumph. "Try to wear it now!" He whipped what was left of the shirt into my face as he walked by and stalked out of my room.

Enough was enough. I got dressed, picked up my bible and ran away from home in the middle of the night. I walked all the way across town to a friend's house, but she wasn't at home. I called another friend in a neighboring town and they came and picked me up. I waited until the next day to call home and let my mom know that I was alright. I was gone for two whole weeks before I finally relented and told her where I was.

I was not happy to learn that Dad was coming to pick me up. As I headed down the sidewalk, I noticed a brand new stereo sitting on the back seat. I didn't want a fucking stereo...I wanted an apology. Not once did he ever apologize to me for any of the things he'd done. It was so like him to think that buying me off would make everything alright. I was far from alright. It made me sick to look at him. I did not want to go back to that house with him. No daughter should ever have to be afraid of their dad the way that I was afraid of mine...