DEATH OF A MAYFLY - Chapter 5

Click the above voiceover to hear this chapter read by Walter Rhein of I’d Rather Be Writing.

Trigger Warning: this chapter contains a short scene that includes physical abuse

November 1

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I sat on the edge of the bed wrapping the bandage around my middle as tight as I could manage, pinning and tucking it carefully into the elastic waistband. In the mirror I looked for lumps, any noticeable signs under my loose clothing that might garner questions. Mom and Daddy didn’t suspect anything, and were completely unaware that I spent all my time thinking about posture, tilting my shoulders forward and sucking in my stomach until it ached. At night I hid in my room, letting my body rest and just be, massaging the burning tendons that encircled my pelvis. I didn’t like to look at myself in the mirror or accept that it was me staring back. I’d changed so much so quickly—the darkening freckles and weight in my face, hips growing more pear-like by the day. No longer the kid in the drugstore bathroom, I’d aged a decade in just a few months, something I’d always wanted, and now I couldn’t remember why.

I turned sideways, lifting my pajamas and letting out a long breath. The bitter truth stared back at me, bare, pale, and protruding as I rested my hands gently over my swollen belly button. I’d tried to do the math and knew I had months to go, but could feel the soft little wings fluttering against my insides, very much alive and with me all the time, reminding me that my life would never be the same.

I kept my secret, praying for time to slow down until I could figure out what the hell I was going to do. This wasn’t going away. There were options for other girls who lived in Great Falls, but nothing here. No doctor in their right mind would hang that sign in their window. Not in Fort Benton. Maybe if I got sick or bent the wrong way just a little bit; or what if I slept on my stomach every night? I sat on the toilet searching for blood, negotiating with God as I pressed and wiped, looking for a sign, anything. I’m not ready for this. Please, I’ll never let anyone touch me ever again. But God didn’t answer—too busy healing and saving, suffering the little children to come unto Him. But not this one apparently; this one couldn’t be returned.

Mom noticed first, watching my awkwardness and changing shape out of the corners of her eyes. I’d fooled myself into thinking that if I leaned forward a little, maybe swung my arms more when I walked, that no one would be the wiser. I thought I looked relaxed. But Mom wasn’t stupid. She had only four senses to her name, and the 5th was a healthy dose of suspicion.

She pulled me into the kitchen just before dinner one night while Daddy was away, and put her hands on my shoulders, looking me dead in the eye as if to say, “Now we talk.” I shook my head; there was nothing. With a dishpan hand she cupped my chin, gently at first, but I felt her squeeze ever so slightly, reminding me that she was still my mother. She loved me like a sister and a friend, but I would do what she said. I didn’t say yes, but the change in my breath on her wrist gave her permission, and she slid her hands down and rested them on my abdomen.

My mother had been a mute for my whole life, but not until this moment had I ever heard such silence, and I watched as the discovery, and hurt, and fear rose slowly from somewhere in the center of her being and met me at the surface. One small breath took all the air from the room and she stared at me, her eyes a thousand question marks, hands still frozen on my middle. I took a step back, reaching up under my shirt and carefully unwrapped the bandage, once, twice, three times, letting it drop to the floor. She saw everything—my mottled skin pockmarked by the tight wrap, and the tiny lines that burned and itched above my hips. She touched me again, her face a map of every emotion a mother could feel. How could I have let this happen? Didn’t I know how hard it had been for her, a child bride, a mother before her 17th birthday? Didn’t I see or appreciate how much harder her life was than mine? Why would I want that for myself?

Her face twisted from that of a loving mother, to anger, to fear, to defeat, and I just stood there waiting for her to sort it all out. Fear won: Daddy would be home soon. She picked up the bandage and began wrapping it around me tighter than I ever had, tucking it deep into my pants, adjusting my shirt, and walking out of the kitchen without so much as a glance upward. She knew what he’d do to us, not just me. Daddy was an angry guy in general, but this was unforgiveable. I’d never considered what it might mean for my mother.

We’d never fought, always on the same side of every argument or silent catastrophe that went on in our home. And the idea of being on a team by myself was too much. I needed my mom. Even now, especially now, I needed her. I found her at the foot of the stairs, bent over in silence, gripping at the carpet with her bare feet. Without looking up she reached for my legs, pulling me down nearly on top of her, and we rocked back and forth on the green shag steps that led up to my bedroom.

“Why?” came Mom’s voice, long and distorted, but clear.

“Mom, I didn’t. I didn’t do this, I promise.”

“Slow down,” she mouthed, “don’t understand.”

“I did not want this.” I pointed at my belly. “No.” But I knew she didn’t believe me. Who would? She was my mom and she could fix anything; but no one could fix this. This changed everything for both of us, and anything we ever dreamed would lift us out of the hellhole of small-town life and the church. This would be it.

But despite what she thought I’d done, I knew she would come back and love me, and likely be the only one. She knew me better than I knew myself. And maybe it was my fault, ignoring all the warning signs and paying no heed to her stories. Never saying no. Maybe I was too flirtatious, hard for him to resist. Maybe I’d imagined him stifling my cries. I couldn’t remember everything now, just little flashes of things that I’d seen in the church, smells or sounds that sent me into a panic. Maybe I was the whore that I assumed everyone thought I was. But I knew Mom would love me even so, if not today then eventually. I could wait.

We sat at the table and “talked” for a long time, Mom stolidly skipping around the details, wanting only to know if I was okay. Of course I wasn’t okay. “Yeah, I’m okay.” She didn’t ask how it happened and I didn’t offer, knowing Daddy would pry every detail out of me later. She said she could get me some bigger clothes from the Salvation Army, but I refused—people would ask too many questions. And more than for myself I wanted them to leave her alone. She didn’t deserve the extra attention, the whispers and stares I’d maneuvered through on my own for the last how many weeks.

Outside the dining-room window the watercolors drifted down through the cottonwoods and behind the bluffs, turning red into purple, into gray. Almost suppertime. Daddy had been down at the VFW all afternoon playing stud, enjoying himself a little too much for a man of the cloth, and I didn’t know if I hoped he’d be sloshed or not when he got home. It might make things easier if he didn’t have all his faculties in order and headed straight for the TV.

He poured through the door just after 6 o’clock. I could hear Mom in the kitchen pulling a roast from the oven and the house smelled spicy and warm. We ate in total silence, just like we always did, Daddy shoving large forkfuls of pork chops into his mouth, the oil running down his chin and into his lap. Across the table Mom and I had a conversation with only our eyes, a skill we’d learned long ago to save us when Daddy was home. Her little worry lines said everything and her eyes twitched as the seconds ticked painfully by.

“Eat,” Daddy said gruffly, “it’s going to get cold.” I spooned two heaping bites of potatoes and pork into my mouth, chewing awkwardly and trying to swallow a fatty piece of gristle that wouldn’t go away. He looked disgusted.

“You’re getting kind of fat, aren’t you, kid?” He only called me “kid” when he was a couple of tumblers in. “Maybe you shouldn’t eat so much.” I didn’t look at Mom and took another bite. Daddy reached over and smacked the fork out of my hand and onto the carpet. “Did you not hear what I said?” Oh. I stared at my lap then carefully wrapped the rest of my silverware in the napkin.

“Excuse me,” I said, picking up my plate and pushing in my chair. Mom focused on her food, protected by her deafness though I knew she understood. Daddy followed me into the kitchen and began scooping another helping of potatoes and pork from the roasting pan before setting his plate down on the counter. My back was turned but I could hear him pause, standing there and breathing the way large men do.

“What’s up with you lately? Something different.” I didn’t say anything. He grabbed my shoulder and wheeled me around, pressing his thumb painfully into my chest. “You are, you’re getting fat. I can see it in your face.”

“I guess so,” I mumbled, still looking at my hands. I tried to walk away but he gripped both shoulders now, pushing me back from the door.

“Don’t mumble,” he spat. “Look at me.” I took too long and he shoved me hard back into the counter. “I said look at me.” I looked. He couldn’t hide his disgust, somewhere beneath a layer of pork grease and four days of stubble. “You’re getting grown now, a woman”—he emphasized the word like it pleased him: “WOO-man.” One side of his mouth twitched and I couldn’t tell if he meant to smile or something else. “Men are going to start looking at you,” he said in a hushed voice, sliding his hands up to my neck and around my face, still frozen and waiting. “But they’re not going to want you, sweetheart, if you’re too fat.” He definitely smiled that time, like he’d imparted a morsel of priceless wisdom. He picked up his plate and started to leave the kitchen but paused in the doorway. I still didn’t move. He turned slowly back around, squinting the way he did when he thought Mom and I were talking behind his back, and set his plate down on the counter. Then he was there again, breathing hot pork and gin into my eyes.

“Unless they’ve already been looking at you,” he said, his voice low. He slid his hands up under my armpits and slowly down to my hips, resting with his thumbs on my middle, stroking me back and forth as he breathed into my hair. I shivered. I hated the idea of any man touching me, it didn’t matter that he was my father. I wanted to rip his hands off my body and shove him back. But he paused, resting his fingers uncomfortably close to everything I wanted left alone, a peculiar and lingering smile. But it faded and his pupils seemed to shrink. I waited, sweating.

And then he solved it.

He looked down, paused for just a second, then grabbed my shirt in his fist and with a twist tore it all the way up to my chest. There were the bandages that I hoped would give me a little more time. He reached over to the knife block and pulled out a bread knife, slicing through all the layers until I sagged, naked and obvious. I wanted to crawl under the desk in the little back room; he could see everything now. I held onto the strips of my shirt for dear life, pulling them tight across my body, but he dropped the knife and twisted harder, shoving me backward into the cupboards again.

“Maybe,” he said, shoving me again for emphasis, “maybe they like fat girls around here. You like it when they touch you, hmm?” his sickly-sweet voice a whisper now. His fat breath shook.

“Daddy, I...” He slapped me hard and I turned my head, hitting it on the corner of the cupboard.

“Don’t,” he growled, one massive finger pushing on the end of my nose. “Don’t tell me my daughter is a slut,” he spat the word, “a whore, a goddamn hussy playing hymns in my church every Sunday.” I looked at him and he slapped me again. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You want to ruin me?”

“I didn’t...” Another slap, the other cheek this time. Tears burned in my eyes as he grabbed my waistband and ripped the pants down below my knees. I stood there in my underpants, my breasts hanging out of the torn bra, bloated and pale. He held onto the sides of my shirt, pulling them away from my chest and staring at me, sliding his hands again uncomfortably close to my breasts and then slowly over my belly. And for just a second I thought he’d slipped, the look on his face almost tender and confused. But then his moved his hands where they shouldn’t be, once, twice, and his breathing slowed. Then he swallowed, closing the shirt over my nakedness and backing away.

“That had better be a fucking miracle in there or God help me,” he whispered. Then he lunged forward and shoved a finger into my belly button so hard I gasped, wincing in pain. “That hurt? Good. It’s going to hurt a hell of a lot more than that; you’d better get used to it.” He spat on my feet and grabbed his plate, shoving a big chunk of potato into his mouth. “I’m going to find him. You’re going to tell me who he is.” I still didn’t move. “You’d better fucking tell me who he is,” louder now, spewing chunks of potato onto the floor.

“I don’t know.” What was I supposed to say? Of course I knew; he knew I knew. I got raped, Daddy, in the church. It’s the guy from the back row. God no. He’d never believe someone who carried a Bible broke in and threw me down on the floor. These are Christians after all. Christians don’t do that kind of thing. And there aren’t those kind of people in Fort Benton anyway; it’s a good town. But more than that I didn’t want to stand between two dangerous men, both of whom didn’t care about me one way or the other, and likely end up getting hurt again.

“Oh really?” His eyes bulged and I thought he might pick up the knife again and use it somewhere else. “You don’t know how got you pregnant?” I flinched, hearing him say the word out loud. “Did you miss health class or something? You fucking slut.” He wound back and launched his plate at the cupboard, just missing my head as it shattered, splattering scalding hot broth across my chest and into my hair. I yelped, trying to wipe away the boiling grease with my shirtsleeve.

“Yeah, that probably hurts.” He smiled, watching me dance as tiny blisters began to form under my ears. “Come here, kid.” I froze, still gripping the counter. He reached over and grabbed a fistful of my hair, pulling me down until I could see the stitching in his jeans. “I said come here.” I leaned into his fist and followed him upstairs to the bathroom, stumbling as I tried to climb the steps with my pants still around my knees. “Get your clothes off,” he said, turning on the faucet. I did as he said, ashamed to be naked in front of him. He didn’t look ashamed, staring longer than he needed to before grabbing me by the elbow and sitting me down hard in the tub. I gasped as I hit the ice-cold water. “That’s right, and you can sit there with your fat self and think about what you’ve done to me.” My teeth chattered and I couldn’t say anything, not that I wanted to. “Good,” he sneered, pausing to stare at me again, missing my eyes. “Don’t move until I get back.”

But he never came back. I could hear him screaming at Mom, spitting in her face and throwing more dishes against the wall. And I knew she’d be stoic and strong, unafraid. She’d never deny knowing about me, or for how long, but would stand there and take it until he’d finished. Then she’d pour him his drink, four fingers today, and march off to powder the marks one more time.

I waited, listening for every step, ice spinning in the tumbler, and finally quick footsteps on the stairs that meant he’d fallen asleep. She pulled me from the water, wrapping me in a towel like a baby and rocking me back and forth in her arms. Loving me sooner than I’d expected. But even then I couldn’t cry, overwhelmed by the shivering that sent cramps into the arches of my feet and staring over her shoulder at nothing.

“I’m - I’m so sorry Mom,” I chattered, knowing she couldn’t hear me. But she knew, just like she always did, kissing my forehead and mumbling wordlessly into my wet ears. I’d ruined everything; we’d never run away to Fiji or anywhere else. I couldn’t protect her or give her the life she deserved, and now we were stuck here forever in this mess. From somewhere deep inside the butterfly wings fluttered harder. I didn’t like how they felt.

December 3

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Daddy locked me in my bedroom for four weeks, opening the door only for a plate of cold food and something to drink once or twice a day. I washed myself with a rag and an old paint bucket he’d fill with the garden hose, and if I needed to use the bathroom I had to ask permission, or use an old coffee can if no one heard me. I felt dirty and disgusting, and I could smell myself between the four lifeless bedroom walls and the window he made me keep locked. Daddy found the magazines and burned them, but he never found our postcards and I clung to them as my only reason to hope, but for what I didn’t know. He wouldn’t let me go to school anymore, and I couldn’t dream of going far away for college. And my body just kept growing.

If Daddy passed out or went downtown for a game of euchre, Mom could spend a few unsupervised hours on the side of my bed, sharing cinnamon toast and sneaking library books behind my pillows. We played this game of cat-and-mouse so carefully, hiding everything we could from Daddy, who was inches away from slaughtering me in my sleep. He’d taken nearly everything else—my clothes (that didn’t fit anyway), my books, pulled the drawers from my desk and thrown out all the contraband I’d hidden so well for so long. All I had was my bed, the coffee can, and the small amount of late-autumn sunlight streaming in through my blinds.

But Mom loved me more than she was afraid of him, spending all her free time brushing my hair and rubbing warm olive oil into the itchy stretch marks that zigzagged across my stomach and hips. And as often as she could she’d buy more postcards of beautiful places, warm sunny beaches and lush green rainforests, and we’d lie on the bed and imagine what it would be like to run away and never come back. I think she understood this even better than I did, and I’m sure if it hadn’t been for me she would have run away a long time ago. Instead she spent all her time finding new ways to make me happy while a prisoner in my little room.

Except in my dreams. In my dreams I could escape and be free. Sort of. I didn’t know anything outside of the gates of this small town, and nothing past the railroad, so at night I danced in the warm summer rain along Front Street, eating the decadent foods I smelled coming out of the Grand Union Hotel. All around me the mayflies flicked up and down in the yellowing streetlamps, and someone held my hand in the dark. And even though it was always dark—which is a funny thing for a dream to be—I was never afraid. But just as the mayflies fell, I was back in my bed, the putrid smell of the bucket fermenting in the corner. Night after night.

I was of course banned from going to church, and I wondered how they were getting along without the piano to accompany all those terrible hymns. I imagined them trying to stay in tune through four verses and a chorus, half the elderly congregation nearly deaf themselves. I’m sure they all knew why I’d stopped coming, and now that Mom and Daddy knew, too, those conversations would get a little quieter. But I wondered if he knew. I hoped so—that would freeze the cocky smile on his stupid face. I lay back on my pillows, momentarily satisfied. Downstairs the football game droned on the TV and I could hear Mom tossing silverware into the sink, an otherwise mundane evening had I not been pregnant and imprisoned by my own father. But underneath the blankets something poked and prodded me, asking its own little questions. “Shh,” I whispered, giving my belly a tap.

I couldn’t tell you times of day, days of the week or month, or how long I spent staring out my window watching the world go on without me. Yellow cottonwood leaves blew past the glass, swirling through the alley and up against the garage, and I smelled burning brush piles as the neighbors readied their yards for the winter. All down the street the lights flicked on and I stood up to pull my blinds closed, hoping to get a few minutes with Mom’s books before I fell asleep. But something made me stop, a hint of movement just below the window. There, under the light—someone was standing in the alley holding very still. I leaned with my back against the wall, peering carefully around the glass so whoever it was couldn’t see. Sure enough, there was someone down there looking up at my window and smoking a cigarette, the embers glowing red against his chin. I smelled the tobacco even through the glass, grimacing at the memory.

I could see him down there, but I don’t think he saw me. And it was him, him-him, the sometimes-mustached perv that looked at me like meat. Why wouldn’t he just leave me alone? I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. He didn’t make my skin crawl the way he used to; I only hated him now and wanted him to suffer.

I reached for the chain on my bedside lamp and pulled, bathing the alley in soft light. He didn’t move, but took a long drag on his cigarette, squinting up at me in the window. I knew he was there to see if it was true—the preacher’s daughter had gone and gotten herself pregnant. I stared back at him, one hand rubbing my ever-growing stomach as if to say, “See?” and smiled, giving him a fingery little wave. But he didn’t react, surprised or otherwise. He just kept watching me, letting the cigarette burn low in his fingers. And then after a minute or two he waved back, even smiling a little. Not the same cocky smile, just a smile.

He took a final puff and tossed the cigarette, crushing it with the toe of his boot. I turned off the light and pulled the blinds closed, peeking through to watch him walk away for the last time.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

Copyright© 2025 Eleanor Leonard All Rights Reserved

Ellie is an author, editor, and owner of Red Pencil Transcripts, and works with filmmakers, podcasts, and journalists all over the world. She lives with her family just outside of New York City.