The Truth that Lies Behind Celestia

10:45 pm, Friday.

Her heart thumping hard, her palms glistening wet, warm tears streaking her cheeks, 13-year-old Callie drew her knees to her chest as she heard her most dreaded footsteps approach nearer.

"Oh, Callie..." His grave, hoarse voice called out for her in a sing-songy tone, a mischievous sneer plastered across his face. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" Deliberately, he pushed open the door to her room, its creaking sound sending waves of panic down her spine.

He poked his head inside, the stench of the alcohol from his breath and body oozing off him and filling the room. "Don't be a little brat now, come out, let's play." He slurred, as he staggered into the room, the floorboards squeaking softly under his bare, filthy feet.

His bloodshot eyes roamed her bed. She wasn't on it, but as he traced the warmth on the bed with his palm, he knew she had just gotten off it. Calista's heart raced wildly in her hiding spot, her head throbbing with headache. 'Not again, not again. Please, God.' She prayed in her thoughts, her eyes shut tight in terror.

Her arms wrapped tightly around her knees as she swallowed hard. He was just feet away from her now. So close it made her stifle a whimper.

"You're not going to keep Daddy waiting, will you?" She heard him ask, her mind reeling with the implications. She didn't want to offend him more than she already did by hiding from him. Again. But he always found her. And each time he did, her punishment was worse than the previous.

So all she could do was sit still in utter fear and pray her father didn't find her, even though a part of her knew her prayers wouldn't be heard.

Just then, the closet door violently swung open and Callie felt her heart drown. "No!" She cried in utter dismay, her face twisting in a mixture of terror, despair, and disgust. Daddy gazed down at her, his yellow, rotting teeth bared in a dirty grin, his eyes filled with lust.

Suddenly, he outstretched his hand and with an aggressive yank, he grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her out of the closet, her wails following behind and echoing off the bedroom walls.

Callie kicked and flailed her hands in the air, struggling to break free from his vice-like grip. The more she struggled to break free, the more she aggravated him. Angrily, he turned to her and yelled in her face, "Quit struggling!" But Callie didn't listen. She couldn't let him have his way. Not tonight. Not anymore.

With sheer rage, desperation, and extreme frustration, she kicked with both legs. One leg crashed onto his left knee, the other crashing against his groin, in between his legs. "Arghhhh; Fuckin Bitch!" Daddy groaned and yelled in pain. Callie's eyes widened in horror as she saw him swiftly regain his composure, his high pain tolerance evident.

The look on his face was pure, unadulterated anger, sending icy shivers down her spine. She knew, in that instant, he was capable of killing her.

"I'm going to kill you!" he bellowed, his words echoing the terrifying thought already racing through her mind. As she struggled to scramble to her feet and flee for her life, he lunged at her, his fingers closing around the collar of her nightdress like a vice. With a savage jerk, he slammed her back into the wall mirror, the glass shattering into a thousand shards as her head and body crashed against it.

He released his grip, and she crumpled to the floor, rivulets of blood dripping from the back of her head, as dizziness and disorientation washed over her.

In that vulnerable moment, Callie couldn't make out the muffled insults and abusive bellows that rained from her father's lips. Not until he climbed on top of her body which was sprawled barely unconsciously on the floor.

Her adrenaline pulsating high, her hatred for him simmering, her despair and frustration for freedom all charging to fight back, she voiced. "No!!!" Raising her hand against him in protest.

"I said, quit struggling!" Daddy roared, his face purpling with rage, as Callie blocked his aggressive touches with one and frantically stretched and scrabbled for a weapon with the other.

Finally, Callie's hand closed around a jagged shard of the mirror by her side. And with a swift, deadly motion, she swung at him and struck it deep into his throat, blood gushing out immediately.

But she didn't stop there. She got up, yanked it out of the gruesome wound, and thrust it in deep, again, again and again, bathing herself in his own blood. Memories of the pain and abuse she went through in his hands flooded her mind, encouraging her to thrust more, harder, and faster. Until she could no longer see him through her blood-soaked lashes, her vision blurry with tears and blood.

Then she stepped away from him as his body instantly thudded lifelessly onto the ground, her chest heaving.

Callie stood over him, an unknowing feeling of satisfaction washing through her.