In the end my father would win, as he always did, and they left me exhausted and angry, drugged and calm and dreaming terrible things."You let him do ...t," I whispered as my mother bent over my bed, smoothing my comforter."For the best," she replied. "Go to sleep." Did you murder him?" I asked my father over breakfast several days later.He ignored me, turning a page of the London Times, the newspaper he preferred with his coffee. A copy of the morning paper, the Voelkischer Beobachter, lay. Last night he stayed up watching sports news and this morning he was in a rush to go to work. Jessie hated that there seemed to be only one way to meet her needs, but she wandered back to the bedroom, threw her robe on the bed and slipped under the sheet. She thought of her hands as her "second husband" and always met "him" like that, hidden under the sheet. Jessies hands glided over her nightie, gently brushing her nipples through the smooth silky fabric. They were already responding as she. More

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