Proof of Existence

Story by fallacies

This is a quick little dabble that I can't promise I'll continue, inspired somewhat by the recent Victoria Sullivan story.

It was Miss Tabitha's return from New York City that kicked off all of the changes around the house, but I think it would be a little hard to understand if I started explaining everything from there. I'll provide a little background instead -- lay out the relevant facts and events that set the stage for what I went through.

My name is Samantha Miller, and I'm fourteen years old. My father is a businessman, and, until recently, my mother was a normal housewife.

When I say normal, I mean '1950's normal' -- like you see in old movies and stuff. My dad's very Catholic, and partly to go along with his extremely old-fashioned thinking, my mom ended up becoming something like a living stereotype. It wasn't entirely a bad thing, in my mind. I mean, it got on my nerves sometimes that she was so strict about rules and properness and keeping the house perfectly clean -- but at least she wasn't white trash like some of the girls I went to school with.

Miss Tabitha was a friend that my mom had gone to high school with ages ago -- a pretty, petite lady who had long hair and nerdy-looking glasses. She worked as my private piano teacher for the first three years of elementary school. I loved her to bits because she was nice and patient and willing to put up with how utterly useless I was ... right up until she told me to my face that she was quitting because I simply didn't have any talent in music.

I think I might have cried for a week. My mother eventually explained that it wasn't my fault at all -- Miss Tabitha had had some horrible argument with her fiance, and decided to move to New York City. Still, the whole thing traumatized me enough I haven't touched the piano in our living room since.

In Sixth Grade, my father became the Vice President of something or another at his company, and his new responsibilities involved overseeing factories around the country and overseas in Asia. As a result, he would be home maybe one in every three or four weeks, and even when he wasn't away, he was barely ever at the house. I don't know if it was hard on my mom or not, but she seemed to take it in stride, going about her regular housekeeping things like clockwork.

I seriously didn't like the fact that dad seemed to just abandon us for his job -- even though he claimed for ages that he put family values before everything else. He deserves as much of the blame for what happened as Miss Tabitha, I think. If he'd just spent a little more time with us, things could've turned out differently ...

//

It was a cold afternoon in November that she came over to visit for the first time. I remember, because I was the one who answered the door.

"Lookin' good, there, Sammy," said a mannish woman in a deep voice, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke. Seeing my confused expression, she asked, "What? Don't remember me no more? It's Miss Lee. Tabitha Lee."

And I didn't recognize her -- not at all. The Miss Tabitha I remembered was a tiny, pale lady, half a foot shorter than my mother, with B-cup breasts. By contrast, the dark-skinned woman before me was a towering mass of muscle, maybe six and a half feet high. Despite the cold weather, her neck-halter exposed her thick, heavily-tattooed shoulders and biceps, and the well-chiseled six-pack of her midriff. There was pubic hair all over her lower belly, and thick tufts of black hair sticking out of her underarms. The wire-rim glasses and the long, pretty hair I'd envied was nowhere to be seen. Instead, she had a very short crew cut, and if it weren't for her giant H-cups (her nipples were sticking up through the cloth of her halter-top) and the fact that her face was somewhat beautiful, I might've mistaken her for a male bodybuilder.

"T- Tabitha?" asked my mother, who had arrived in the front hall.

Miss Tabitha shot my mother a predatory smile.

"Been a long time, girlfriend," she said, throwing the cigarette to the ground and stubbing it with her jackboot. "What do you say we do some catching up?"

//

That day, my mother told me to stay within my room until Miss Tabitha left. I remember the look in her eyes: Fear and panic.

For the first few months, she told me to do the same thing every time Miss Tabitha came over -- and whenever my father was off in Asia, it became an almost daily occurrence. The "sessions" weren't all the same length, and sometimes they would go late into the evening. After I went without dinner the first time, mom started having me eat early just in case, or leave a meal for me to eat in my room. When the "sessions" concluded, mom's clothes always ended up disheveled, somewhat in disarray; and more often than not, her eyes were red from crying.

I didn't know what was going on, exactly, but I knew that Miss Tabitha was hurting her somehow. Even if I'd put the mess with the pi

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