***Content warning. This may trigger bad memories in some people***

This is a work of fiction, a short story in 700 words.

Daddy always called me his little mouse. I liked that. There was a drawing of a mouse in my favourite picture book. She had a little bed under the floor, with an acorn for a pillow, and a lace cap to wear for sleeping. I imagined myself in that bed, though as I got older I realised the acorn wouldn’t be comfortable at all.

Daddy loved me. He loved me better than my sister, he told me so. But she was older, and rarely left her room, except to go to school. He would read me the story of Mrs Mouse, and tell me I was his little mouse, as he stroked my hair and cuddled me close. I loved story-time, and if I was good, very good, I always got a second story. Sometimes, Mum would stop me having that second story. She would knock on the door, and shout. “Come on now, it’s late. Lights out, and no more reading!”

I liked Daddy best. Much better than I liked Mum.

If it wasn’t raining, Daddy would take me to the park. He would push me on the swings, and watch as I walked up the steps to the very top of the big slide, then clap his hands as I slid down. If I had been good, very good, he would let us walk across the park to the cafe, and buy me an ice cream. Then when we got home, he would give me my bath, and tuck me up in bed for a story. I got to choose, but always chose the same one. Mrs Mouse.

Mum never came to the park. My sister never came to the park. I didn’t care about that, as that meant I had Daddy all to myself. And he would take my photo, on his phone. He said I looked so good in photos, he took hundreds and hundreds as I played. And he bought me lovely dolls, and took my photo as I played with them. He asked me what doll I wanted most, and I told him a Mrs Mouse doll. He said I could have one, but only if I was good, very good. So I was very good, and I got my doll.

One day, Daddy took me on the train. I liked going on the train. He said we were going to meet Uncle William, and that he was a very nice man. Uncle William was nice, and he had bought me sweets. He let me sit on his lap, and Daddy took some photos. Then I sat on Daddy’s lap, and Uncle William took more photos. They said I could have more sweets if I was good, very good. And I was. They were tasty sweets.

When I was a bit older, Daddy stopped calling me Little Mouse. He said I was old enough to just be Mouse, from now on. But he still read me my bedtime story, and still loved me the best. One day, he took me to see Uncle Robin. He was funny, and he had bought me a necklace, which he put round my neck. I wasn’t tired, but Daddy said they would read me a story anyway, and Uncle Robin watched as Daddy read Mrs Mouse to me, and took photos of us too. He told me I didn’t need to smile for the photos, just listen to the story. And if I was good, very good, I would get the bracelet that matched the necklace.

I got the bracelet.

Some people came to the house last Saturday. I was woken up by the noise. Mum and my sister were smiling, and Daddy looked ill. A man and woman took his computer away, and his phone too. They put them into big plastic bags. Then Daddy had to go with them in their car. Mum was still smiling. She told me to go to my room and stay there. But I was worried about Daddy, and wanted him to come home.

I hope he comes home soon. Mouse misses Daddy.

51 thoughts on “Mouse

    1. I could write a short book about one weekend spent in the company of that girl and her Mum, Kim.
      It taught me more about the subject than I ever wanted to know, or experience. And in many ways, it led me to some understanding about why it might happen, at least in the case of the people I knew.
      I put off writing about this for some time, but eventually found a way to approach it as a short story.
      Best wishes, Pete.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. This is brilliant, Pete. And disturbing. I appreciate you shining a light on this appalling and ancient malignancy. Even when I was a child, the very mention of incest and child abuse was taboo. Thank God, victims now, at least, have a voice that is listened to.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks, Pam. When I had first-hand contact with this, concerning people I knew, I was shocked at how easy it was for the (mainly) men who did this. These days, they run greater risk of discovery, and that’s a good thing.
      Best wishes, Pete.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Truly chilling tale, Pete, but very effectively written in a subtle manner. Well done. As someone else has said, it is seriously worrying how some adults are able to abuse children so easily

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I knew some people quite well, as the woman was a close friend of my second wife. Her husband was arrested for not only abusing his daughter, but allowing others to do so. The girl seemed totally unconcerned about it, and constantly asked when he was coming home. When we visited them after he was imprisoned, she tried to tell me the whole story, as if relating the plot of a film. Her Mum had to stop her talking when it became embarrassingly graphic.
      No doubt it had some effect on her later. She would be almost 33 now.
      Best wishes, Pete. x


        1. She always claimed not to know. But we didn’t believe her, I’m afraid. The child was too open and vocal about it for that to be true.
          That was one of the reasons we stopped being friends with her, but there were some others. It was a very weird set-up.
          I could go into a lot more more details about both Mum and daughter, but I won’t.

          Liked by 1 person

  3. My Daddy loved me more than anybody else too — he beat on me more than he beat on anybody else — I got a necklace as a child too — it was a lot of bulbs of garlic strung on a string and hung around my neck — I had to wear it because I wanted to bite somebody and suck the blood from their body — But the school made me quit wearing it and now I have false teeth and am not biting nobody.

    Liked by 1 person

        1. It was a strange and uncomfortable time for me, with both her and her Mum. I could write a lot more about it, factually. But the girl is almost 33 now, and I wouldn’t want her to recognise her own past if she stumbled across the blog.
          Best wishes, Pete.

          Liked by 1 person

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