PART TWO - PICKLES & PUKE

I didn't want to, but I picked the glass up and took a sip.It was horrible and I told my father there was no way I could get this terrible tasting stuff down. 
  
"Oh you'll drink it", said my father. "The question is, are you going to drink it yourself, or am I gonna have to help you? The choice is yours". 
  
"If it was my choice, I wouldn't drink it at all", I yelled at him. But we were playing by my fathers rules. 
  
I picked up the glass, plugged my nose and took a few sips. My father yelled at me to "drink faster, faster Shaunda, drink it down". 
  
I did so with tears streaming down my face, dropping into the wine along with the snot from my nose. My father made me drink the entire glass of wine without stopping. My stomach heaved but I kept it down. 
  
"Good girl, cream puff", said my father. "Now, I want you to eat one of your mothers pickles". 
  
"I don't want a pickle, I whined. "It will make me sick". I was already feeling pretty sick. 
  
"That's good. I don't want you to enjoy this lesson and the pickle will make sure of that" he said in his 'I mean business' tone of voice. 
  
I ate a whole pickle, still begging him not to make me drink anymore. I felt dizzy and sick, and didn't like it one bit. 
  
My father filled my glass full and told me to drink it now or he would pour it down my throat. The more I drank, the more I begged him not to make me drink anymore. He informed me that I was going to have to drink the whole fifth down by myself. 
  
Not even half way thru the bottle I felt my vision going in and out and I started screaming at him that I was done and if he wanted me to drink the rest, he would have to physically force me. 
  
"Nada" I screamed at him. I clamped my Jaws closed and decided there would be no more wine for me. 
  
My father grabbed me by the neck, took the half full bottle of wine and started smashing me in the mouth with the glass spout until my lower lip burst open. I kept my jaws clamped as if he was trying to pour liquid poison down my throat while he kept smashing me in the mouth with that bottle. 
  
He was screaming at me, saying he was sorry he had to do this, but it was gonna hurt him more than it would me. 
  
Don't you just hate it when your parents say that to you? 
  
My father kept smashing me with the bottle until I fell on the floor. he proceeded to poor the rest of the bottle down my throat, into my face, hair and into my eyes. I couldn't swallow fast enough and I started puking. 
  
Thank god I only have little bits and pieces of memory of everything that happened to me for the next two days. 
  
Here is what I do remember of this particular rape.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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