I lay in my bed, the mattress thin, uncomfortable, and white. I imagine there to be a few small stains dotting the sheets, droplets of dried blood and waste. My skin against the bed is numb, and my oxygen smells stale. I’m unsure what color the walls are. Probably white.

Inorganic fluids move through my veins, flowing in from the needles left in my skin from a long time ago. There are many of them. They’re in my hands, my wrists, my legs, my neck. Everywhere. I was once uneasy about them, as would anyone with sharp objects punctured into their skin. But now, they’re like any other part of my body. I don’t mind them—they keep me alive. Breathing in through my tube, the machine hisses in and out. My eyes are closed, and I’m terribly tired.

I try creating a song in my head to the beeping of the monitor, but the sound of my breath is off sync and ruins the beat. Realizing that I don’t know what music sounds like anymore, I give up. My mind wanders, trying not to think about what was eventually going to happen to me. Every second feels like hours, every hour feels like days, and days become weeks. I do nothing but imagine the ceiling above me, because I can’t even open my eyes to see it for myself. I try remembering what my life was like before, but my mind is blank. Even the sun is unimaginable now. Except for the fluorescent lights burning through my eyelids, it’s just dark. I used to try guessing what time of day it was, but I stopped when I realized I will never know. All I can do is lay there, rotting.

Until the door opens.

Leather footsteps enter the room without a word. I don’t know who it is. Nobody has entered my room for a long time. My hearing isn’t what it used to be, so everything sounds muffled and distant.

The movements are odd. I hear shifting, then it stops. Their steps come closer, rustle, then stop again. This person inches towards me, not saying a word. I lay there, unafraid, because the presence feels familiar. If anything, I’m glad to have company.

I’m expecting a voice. I want to know who it is. Instead, I feel my sheets rustle, and there’s a moment of silence.

I can’t tell if my bed is being adjusted or if weight is being put on it, but I finally feel a presence beside me. I breathe a little harder.

The weight from my mattress lifts, and there’s another pause before a strange sensation against my skin makes me almost shiver. The tubes and wires connected to my body shift, one by one. It’s a gentle movement, like caressing a lock of hair, playing with it between your fingers. I can feel each touch, as if the wires were an extension of my skin. A finger traces the tubes connected to my jugular vein.

It travels upwards, entranced. It teases, almost tugging it. Then again, harder, as if testing its integrity. The monitor beeps faster.

The person leans down. I can smell them. It’s a fresh but earthy scent, something from childhood. Like a father’s aftershave. It’s warm and inviting, a summer night filled with memories of fireworks and laughter and love.

Then I hear him speak. It’s muffled, but I recognize the voice immediately. I don’t process his words, because all I can think, over and over, is finally.

Finally, you’re here. How I’ve missed you. I missed you so much. I wish I could tell him those words, but I’m grateful that the monitor sings for me. My dad’s breathing is low and steady, and my face flushes.

Then there’s a flash.

The back of my hand stings, cold.

Warmth pools. It’s wet.

The oxygen shudders. My thoughts can’t catch up.

More ripping pain all throughout my body.

One by one, my tubes are ripped from my body, leaving holes where the needles once punctured.

Dad, what are you doing?

I feel thick warmth leaking from my skin, dripping onto my sheets. My eyes sting, and I realize I’m crying.

I want him to stop, not because it hurts, but because I thought he loved me.

Because I love him.

My mind is like a fire, and my weak limbs can’t do anything but dangle off the edge of my bed as he rips every needle from my body. I feel him grab the final tube at my neck, and I wish I could scream.

But then he stops moving.

A hand cups my chin, moving my head for his viewing pleasure. I feel eyes trace down the trail of tears on my face. It was then I realized that he’s been straddling me from above.

He presses his lips against mine.

My heart cries.

The cracked skin of our lips becomes warm and wet with his tongue. He pinches my cheeks together with his hand, forcing my jaw open. This is the closest we’ve ever been since I was a child.

He whispers to me between our kisses. He tells me I’m a burden, that I’m dead weight and always will be. He tells me he wants me gone. His tongue presses against mine, and he says that he hopes this hurts. That everything hurts.

And it does hurt, in every way possible. It’s a kind of hurt that lights a fire, but also the kind that reminds you that this is all that you deserve. Daddy’s kisses always coming with a price. How sad. This is my punishment for being born, but I can’t help the beating in my chest.

I take it. I feel it. Every touch enters me, and I allow my mind to crumble. I take it because this is all I ever wanted. My dirty little secret. Never more have I wanted to move my body, to wrap my arms around his neck, to be small and held in his arms. Never more have I wanted to be ripped apart by them.

He spits in my mouth. I thank him in my mind. He lets go of my face, and his fluids sit at the back of my throat like a present, and I curse my body for being unable to swallow.

So, this is what love feels like, I thought.

His fluids drip into my lungs, and I want to cry.

As he lets me go, there’s nothing but fog in my mind, though the sound of him unzipping his pants catches my attention. He then lowers and presses his body against mine. He’s larger than me—heavier too. Breathing is difficult, but it feels like a hug.

Or maybe I just wanted to pretend that’s what it was.

Something hard presses against me. My body provides the friction necessary for its throbbing, while my blood is the lubricant. I want to smile, but I can’t. My face remains blank. How can I tell him that I’m happy?

His breath warms the cartilage of my ear, and there’s a lonely fire in my groin.

There’s little to hold on to, so he places a hand on my head to steady my body. It’s so he can press himself harder against it.

He must love me, I lie to myself.

He grinds against my body until he’s satisfied. There’s a grunt before he stops, panting. His weight crushes me, but I could not be happier.

He lifts himself up, and the blood and wetness on my torso leaves behind a chill.

I hear him cursing to himself, wiping his body and adjusting his clothes. I lay in bed as my body becomes colder, surrounded in a pool of my own blood. My limbs lay motionless, sprawling, and my hair is a mess. Body empty.

He walks back to the side of my bed. He pauses, listening to the pulse on the monitor waver. The space between the hills of my beating heart stretches longer and longer. Time slows down, and the world has never felt colder. My dad hovers over me.

I’ve always hated you.

He rips out the last needle.