My Dad Kidnapped Little Girls
I don’t ever remember my dad being normal. He was always a little strange. The man was secretive and closed off, and all his attempts at acting like a father rose the hairs on the back of my neck. It seemed forced. I don’t think I ever got used to that. There was no need, because he didn’t keep that up for long. By the time I was 5, I didn’t have a dad. What I had after that was a boss. Maybe an owner. Definitely not a dad.
He fully opened up as a person around that time. He brought a little girl into our home. She was small, but she was older than myself, too. Maybe 7 or 8. Her face was red and raw with tears. “Sam, this is your new little sister, Maria.” Before I could react, she spoke up between small sobs. “No, mister. I don’t know you. My name is Claire. Please take me home to my mommy, I promise that I won’t tell.” By the time she finished what she was saying, she was barely forming coherent sentences. That’s when I saw my Dad stop being my dad. With one fluid motion, he swung his arm, hitting her in the face and knocking her back on her ass.
I jumped up, too afraid and confused to do much of anything, but still frightened nonetheless. I was young, but I’d seen enough television to know that normal families didn’t do these things. “Sam, you sit your ass down or I’ll put you in the ground, you hear me?” Thus marked the loss of my father. Later, as I listened to the quiet cries of the girl, now locked in the room next to mine, he sat me down and explained that he wasn’t my father. He told me things a 5 year old should never hear. My life changed forever. I was a mistake.
The little girl was with us for a while. My dad left me at home while he went to the mall, buying all kinds of nice things for Maria. Claire. Whatever. He probably blew $500. The weeks afterward were strange, disgusting, and violent all at the same time. At the best, she would play along with his games and he would be happy. At the worst, I would have to listen to her screams as he did unspeakable things to her in the next room. After, when the screaming would stop, he would come to me and give me the same speech.
“This happens because you aren’t right, you understand? You should have been born a girl. We wouldn’t have to do this. She’s going to die someday because you’re trash.” He would walk to the door and finish with “Remember, Sam. No one out in that world will ever love you. If you try to leave, I’ll find you and I’ll kill you.”
Maria died about three months after my dad took her. This day wasn’t her first attempt at escape, but instead it was her last. Truly, I do not know if my father meant to kill her or not. He became consumed in his rage and I fought back tears as he continued to hit her and hit her, over and over again. Her little light went out as she choked on blood, gurgling sounds coming from her throat. She was buried in our back yard, right next to the playset that my father bought a year before. After that, he became nervous to the point where he packed me up and we started off on the road.
We lived like that for years. Sometimes, we’d live somewhere as long as a year, but that was the extent of it. On a good year, he’d take two or three girls without so much as a second look. People didn’t necessarily suspect him, though. He was a psycho, but the man was smart too. He would falsify documents and references, getting himself jobs as close to children as possible. I remember, one time, he was hired on to be an ice cream truck driver. He snatched up a little girl he called Gloria right in front of her house. He somehow managed to finish his route, too. She only lasted two months.
