His Hands, My Womb

I stared at the two pink lines like they were bleeding.

Not on my skin. Not this time.

On that stupid little stick, lying in the trash can between crumpled pad wrapper and yesterday’s secrets.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t move

My legs had gone numb on the toilet, my hands frozen in mid-air. I thought if I sat still enough, the truth would back away. Like it wasn’t real. Like it could un-happen.

But it had happened. In the dark. In the silence. With my eyes wide open.

I was pregnant.

My father’s baby.

I heard the door creak and held my breath. Someone came in, peed, flushed, and left. I counted the seconds each one heavier than the last.

The bell rang. Second period.

I was still locked inside the stall, still trying to figure out if I was more afraid of dying… or surviving.

Because now it wasn’t just his hands on me. It was his life inside me.

And I didn’t know if I could bear it.

But I knew I would have to.

I sat there until the hallway was quiet again, until even the janitor’s mop sounded distant.

I didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to flush. Didn’t want to exist.

When I finally stood, my knees wobbled like they didn’t trust me anymore. I splashed cold water on my face and stared at the girl in the mirror. Her eyes were swollen. Her lip had a split from last week. She looked older than fourteen. Older than forever. I blamed my early blossoming body with the squishy big fat plump buttocks that made man turn. I blamed my mother’s beautiful genes, something I should have embraced as a blessing but instead had become a curse.

I looked at the healed-up scars on my wrists and decided it was about due time I opened them up.

Tonight, I decided.

I bit myself hard to keep from letting out any sound and cursed the girl staring back at the mirror.

But she was still me.

And I was still pregnant.

I walked out of the bathroom like I hadn’t just died in there. Like I wasn’t carrying something that felt like shame pressed between my ribs.

Ms. Nhova stopped me in the hallway. “Tinotenda? Are you okay?”

I nodded too quickly. That’s how I always answered.

Smile. Nod. Walk.

Never give them a reason to ask twice.

Back in English class, I slid into my seat just as she handed out the quiz. I stared at the paper but couldn’t read a single word. The letters blurred into squiggles. I wrote my name at the top and nothing else.

I was already full of answers I couldn’t give.

At home, I passed my father in the kitchen. He looked at me like he always did — like I was something he owned. Like my silence was his birthright.

His hand brushed my back, casual and quick. I flinched anyway.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

“Stop”, he commanded claiming authority over me at once because that was who he was, my commander.

“Lift up your shirt”, he whispered whilst unzipping his pants and I did not need to be told twice.

“Rub them like I taught you…. Mm mm yes today you’re being a very good girl”, he spoke whilst moving his hand up and down his shaft. A few minutes later I had his little soldiers, as he liked to call them, on my face whilst he panted out loud smiling to himself clearly happy.

I then collected my food and went to my room.

That night, I locked my bedroom door even though I knew it wouldn’t matter.

That night, I slept in layers — leggings, sweatshirt, hoodie, socks. As if cotton could protect skin. As if hiding my body made it disappear.

I put my headphones in without music. Just to feel like I had a choice.

The door clicked at 2:07 a.m.

It always clicked.

I didn’t move. I never moved.

The floor creaked once. Then again.

My body tensed before his hands touched me. They always came gently at first, like he was tucking me in. Like love.

But I’d learned long ago: love doesn’t come in the dark with a locked door and quiet breathing.

He whispered my name like it belonged to him. “Oh, sweet beautiful Tino, you used the lotion I bought, didn’t you?”, he moaned whilst removing all the layers of clothing I had used as a shield until not a single one was left. His caresses did nothing and when he finally grew impatient, I felt him enter me and gradually start humping.

I counted the cracks in the ceiling. One. Two. Three.

I left my body again. I was good at that now.

My mind floated to the smell of soap in my late grandmother’s house. The yellow curtains. The sound of gospel humming from her kitchen.

Safe things.

Clean things.

Real things.

Because this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

When he was done, he pulled the blanket over me like a goodbye.

Like a father.

The door clicked again.

And I stayed frozen.

Not because I was scared of him.

Because I was scared of what I would become if I ever let myself scream.

And finally sleep engulfed me, my only solace that I had come to embrace.