In italics is the sentence starter. What follows is what I came up with about 10 minutes thereafter.
My mother had warned me. It took me 17 years to realize that she was right. I had been in absolute denial all this time.
“Okay.” I finally said. He looked up at me and smiled, acting as if he was dropping pounds of stress after hearing my response.
“I’m glad you’re so understanding. You know, you’re mom said you wouldn’t get it, but I knew you were more mature than that.” He grinned and patted me on my back, believing my lie. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to scream in his face. I wanted to cry on his shoulder so he could see and feel my pain. I wanted to do something, anything, to cause him the same kind of intense, heart trembling, fist clenching pain that I felt. Just something to equate a mere quarter of the pain he had caused me all these years I danced in naivety. I was sick of him saying he had to go. Sick of Mom always telling me he was a ‘piece of shit’, and sick of me, for lying to me, fooling me into thinking that he was so much more than that. I thought back to countless arguments between my mom and myself where I fought for this idea of his character. It was as if I had finally been woken from this spell, and finally saw it all for what it really was. An idea. I wanted, with every bit of my mind, body and soul, to do evil things that, as a good little girl, I had never even fathomed, let alone done before. Worst yet, I wanted to do them to the man that was supposed to be my protector, my role model, my first male example of love, my own father. And all I could say was, “Okay”.