The blanket was always left in a big heap after she was done. My father liked that about her. I guess I should have warned her, when she first came to work for us. I saw, in her face, that it would never work out, because she was perfect for him. She was exactly the kind he liked, all innocent and smart, something to give him the illusion he was moving up in the world, while still having his whip on her, maintaining position.
My father just loved that about Callie, that she worked for him, although he was clearly inferior to her. He had less of everything, less taste, less poise, less intelligence, to be honest. While Callie drew eyes everywhere she went, he was no big thing. But I guess that whole smart, beautiful girl doing the honest thing is a lie, you know?
They push it down your throat that you should be kind and honest and not use your looks to get ahead in life, 'cause then, of course, you're a whore.

Oh, this isn't me. It's Callie. She used to come in my room, you know, afterwards, and complain. She used to cry about how she could've had anything, how she'd been offered a role in a Broadway play when she was on a weekend trip to London. But she was only kidding herself.

She was pretty, sure, and she may have even gotten that offer, what do I know? But she would've had to do the same things to get to the top. You have to swim, otherwise you drown. It's all fairly simple.
I used to hear them, you know. Whenever Callie finished cleaning the ground floor, I would more or less run up to my room and lock the door. Because that meant she would be going into his room, and he always loved catching her there. He'd sneak up on her and push her against the wall. My room was right next to his and sometimes, the wall would shake.
She'd cry, at first, and I really felt sorry for her, then. After a while, though, she stopped. She knew there was no use to it all and I started feeling a bit better then.
Hey, I know, but at least that meant he wasn't coming for me.

He was planning a pet movie contest. My father used to take care of the neighborhood kids. You know, sort of like a soccer coach, although they didn't play any soccer, they just hung around and kicked the ball, stuff like that. He always liked that, you know, he loved playing the good guy and everyone in the neighborhood loved him for organizing these kid nights, because it meant they got an hour away from their children every week and that was great.
For them. For us, not so much. By us, of course, I mean me and Callie. I always felt there was an unspoken kinship between us, although I wasn't the best of friends. She at least felt she could confide in me, and I must admit I didn't have much going for me around that time. I was three years younger than her and she felt guilty, I guess.
She pitied me for having to live with my father, although she didn't have any reason to. The funny thing was that I pitied her back. He never did those things to me. At least, not anymore. And anyway, it wasn't like that. I mean, he never was that way with me. Never was aggressive.
After he was done, he told Callie to tidy up the house and made me help her. It was the night the kiddies would come, to show off their pet dogs or frogs or whatever, and he wanted it all to sparkle. He knew the other parents always peered in, judging his house. Although he was a very nice man (that was the general opinion), he was still a widower, and no one can think very highly of those. Not where I'm from, at least.
Poor man...
So, we got everything ship-shape clean and went to my room to get ready. I'd arranged to go to the movies with Callie, that night, since my father always wanted to take full credit for taking care of the children.
No, don't think that. It was never like that. Never.
My father would never do that.
We never made it to the movies, though, because Callie started feeling ill, right there in the middle of the street.

He continued in this way until he discovered he could not doubt one thing. My father was blabbering, incoherent. I had never seen him like this and I was very scared, I didn't know what had happened, just that Callie had started bleeding heavily, halfway to the movie.
He was shouting at me on the phone, with the kiddies in the other room, probably careful so that they would not hear a thing. Until there was no more shouting. He understood what was happening before I did. I wish I could say I was just a child, myself, and maybe I was, in a way. I'd never thought it to be possible. That this would happen to Callie was unthinkable. I knew that would be really bad for her and for my father and I didn't want that.
I never wanted anything bad to happen to Callie, I just didn't want it to happen to me, either, you know?
I remember thinking she was having a baby and I kept wondering if, despite all the bleeding, the baby would be fine.
But there was no baby, not by that point, anyway. Maybe there was one. Once. I like to think there wasn't though.
You know, this could've had a much happier ending. I can't shake the feeling, now, that if it had been me, it would've been much better. My father was never like that with me, never brutal. But he seemed to like it, with her. I think he enjoyed the terrified look in her eyes, her pleading.
I don't know what my father did on that afternoon, but he sure seemed to. He told me to leave, to get away and if anyone asked, to say Callie had canceled.
He knew exactly what was going to happen. I try to tell myself I did not. But I think I did, deep down, I think I knew the inevitable as well as he.
Still, I did what he said, because I was no one to argue. I ran and never looked back, because if I saw Callie's eyes, I knew I wouldn't be able to run no more.

Often, I wonder why Callie agreed to all of this. Then, it all seemed a given. It seemed only natural that Callie came to clean the house and that he did...what he did to her. It all had a sort of routine, but I realize now that she could've left at any time. She could've stopped coming and it would've been so simple to run, to get away from him.
But you know, I think a part of her liked it. I think a part of her always wanted to be slammed against the wall, maybe she liked it. Maybe there was a very sick corner in her mind that enjoyed whatever my father did to her.

After that, my father somehow managed to keep his reputation as an honorable man throughout the neighborhood. He never touched me again, either, I think he was afraid. That maybe I knew too much, maybe I'd ruin his good name.
Poor man...

This was written for @mariannewest's Weekend Freewrite Challenge, offering not one, but three prompts to spark your creativity. Check out her blog, as she is really awesome

Thank you for reading,

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