The Apple Falls Near

"We've both known her all our lives, but you were a part of her in a way that I wasn't. I figured it was only natural for you to take longer to heal, Dad. It's okay." That was all she'd said on the matter and, just like that, it was dropped, never to be discussed again.

Life did change for us with Mother gone, though. I slept in later, read more, and learned about the world more than I had when I was younger. Our home was still an anchor for me, but I was becoming interested in what was going on out there and how it might affect us. I wouldn't say that Mother had sheltered me from the outside world in any direct sense, but when she was alive, I never felt the desire to know about it; SHE was my world. But now that she was gone, I slowly came to the realization that it was there, waiting for me and Amity. We learned about the world together, from the safety of our own home. Amity, though- and as usual- was light-years ahead of me. Not only did she know that The World was out there, she had become adept at interacting with it, even if it was from the seclusion of our private homestead.

When I woke up from my grief, I'd learned that Amity had completely and totally revamped The System on her own, without any input from me. I guess I'd been sort of dimly aware of it, but I didn't realize the extent to which she'd changed things. The first clue had been in how things arrived at our house. While I was growing up and for all the years after, parcels would be shipped to us piecemeal. When we discovered a need for something, we simply ordered it. Now, though, Amity had decided that using a weekly list and having it all shipped at once worked better and was more efficient. Instead of several small packages showing up, a big container, known in the military as a "tough box," arrived by truck. Inside the box was everything we'd need that wasn't a consumable grocery item (those came in a separate delivery from our local grocery store). Who packed these boxes for us, I still don't know, but Amity assures me that it's a completely anonymous process and very discreet. According to her, we could order explosives and no one would notice, least of all whoever packed the boxes for us. Sometimes the box was heavy, sometimes extremely light. Amity was a small, slight young woman and couldn't lift too terribly much, so she often called upon me to bring the box into the house and then shoo me away so that she could empty it by herself. The emptied box would go back outside the night before our next delivery would arrive, much in the same way you'd set out the trash or milk bottles in earlier times- the empty container would be collected and a full one would be left in its place. This was something that Amity had arranged, so I left it to her to maintain it as she saw fit. I never inquired too deeply and she never filled me in on the details.

On the morning of her eighteenth birthday there was a soft tap at my bedroom door. I woke up with a start, having overslept once again. "Dad?" came Amity's soft, lilting voice from outside the door.

I rubbed my eyes and blinked at the clock. 10:32. Yes, I had definitely overslept. I'd intended to wake up two hours earlier and make breakfast for my daughter, something I hadn't done in years. It was a part of her formative years, part of our family tradition that I would wake up early on weekend mornings and make breakfast for my family. Pancakes and sausage and eggs and toast- a full, hearty breakfast that any family would be able to enjoy some time around the table with. Lots of laughter had been had during our morning family breakfasts, back when Amity was younger and Mother Rose was alive. I'd decided to resurrect the tradition as a way to kick off her special day. When I realized how badly I'd overslept, I felt like a heel. Amity tapped on my door and repeated my name again. More aware of myself now, I answered her. "Sorry, sweetheart! Dad's getting up! Sorry!"

"No worries," she said pleasantly through the door as I scrambled to put on some pants and a t-shirt. "The box just arrived a few minutes ago. It's too heavy this time and I was wondering if you would mind bringing it in for me?"

"Absolutely!" I called back as I glanced around for a pair of shoes. "I'll be right out!"

Minutes later I was outside, lugging the big tough box into the house by way of our garage, which had a direct entrance to the kitchen and pantry. Amity waited in the doorway and stepped aside while I struggled to drag it into the kitchen proper. "Be careful, Dad," she admonished. "You're not the young buck you used to be."

"I'm plenty young," I retorted. "I just need to get back to the weights and into shape again." With a final surge of strength, I left the box in place and regarded it with scorn. "I'm almost tempted to make dragging THIS thing in the only birthday present you get this year. Happy birthday, by the way, sweetie. I'm sorry for oversleeping. I was gonna make breakfast for you and everything."

"It's okay, Dad," she said happily. "It's the thought that counts. Maybe I'll hold you to that breakfast tomorrow."

Then I kicked the side of the box. "Okay. So what the hell is in there, anyway? That's got to be the heaviest one yet!"

"Oh, nothing much," she answered breezily as she grabbed a small pair of bolt cutters with which she could snap the seal-ties on the box, "just some bricks and a few bags of concrete."

"What?"

My daughter giggled. "Not really, Dad. Sheesh, you're so gullible sometimes. It's just some books that I've been wanting to read. Out-of-print stuff that I couldn't find online. Sort of a birthday present to myself."

"Must be some really old stuff," I mused.

Amity shrugged. "Old enough for the Internet to not get around to digitizing it yet." She applied the business end of the bolt cutters and, with two solid snips, kicked the box's lid open. Inside was a wide assortment of items, but I could plainly see some thick-looking books at the bottom. My eyes, however, were drawn to a couple boxes of tampons. Amity followed my gaze and blushed. "And now you know why I prefer to unpack these things alone..."

I breathed in through my nose and let it out slowly. "It's okay, sweetheart. I'm not a total idiot. I'm just... sorry that I wasn't involved with educating you. I take it Mother filled you in on everything you need to know?"

Amity snorted with a small laugh. "That and so much more, Dad. Most things in this family aren't very private, but some things... are."

I nodded. "I understand. And I want you to understand that if there's anything you want to know that Mother didn't teach you, I'll always do my best to help."

"There is one thing..." I glanced at her questioningly. She looked me right in the eye and asked with absolute earnestness, "Where do babies come from? Because I think I might wanna have one some day."

The question hit me so completely out of the blue, so unexpectedly, that I at first didn't know HOW to respond. I just gaped at her. Surely the subject of procreation had been taught to her! I KNEW it had, as I had participated in that conversation with her mother back when she was only 4 years old. "What?! I-"

Amity broke out into laughter. "See? You ARE too gullible!" Then her face hardened. "But, seriously, I DO want to have one some day."

I just blinked at her stupidly. "I... I have no ready response for that," I replied.

"None needed," she said off-handedly. "Just a statement of fact. Now, if you please, go do something else for a little bit while I unload."

I left to go take a shower. A cold one.

I've described Amity's beauty insofar as her mind and personality are concerned, but I have yet to describe her physically. That was intentional, as her physical beauty was something I never really noticed until it was just the two of us alone together. And I didn't notice it for a long time after Rose was killed. In retrospect, I fully understand WHY it took me so long to notice my daughter's beauty: she may have been the only female around, but I was still grieving for my mother, who amounted to no less than my wife.

But that didn't mean noticing her beauty had any tint of lust behind it- at first. My awareness of her beauty was more clinical and objective, much in the same way you'd walk past a painting in a museum and say, "Oh, that's an exceptionally beautiful painting!" without having any interest in taking it home with you. Having lived with and loved my own mother as I did, whose beauty was as constant as the North Star, as far as I was concerned, acknowledging Amity's beauty was almost a no-brainer. To my mind, OF COURSE Amity would be just as gorgeous as her mother was. How could she not?

Amity was short. Much, much shorter than me, perhaps just a shade shorter than Mother, who was five feet tall. So call it four-foot-ten, at an educated guess. Now, on that short and diminutive frame was a woman whose attributes reflected her mother's, but more so. Mother's breasts, when I first made love to her, were 36-C. They were firm, high and as close to flawless as any man could imagine and stayed that way well after giving birth to Amity and swelling in the process, as a woman's breasts are wont to do after childbirth. Amity's breasts were every bit as perfect and, on her shorter frame, seemed even larger. Her legs were strong and well toned, worked hard from helping Mother in our garden and walking on our land. Her hands were small, but held a deceptive amount of power, mostly gotten from hours upon hours of coding and working on the computer as well as physical labor in the garden, which also helped to keep her waist trim. Her hips held the slender grace of youth, but a critical eye could see that they would soon develop subtly to show off a young woman practically made for both sex and bearing children. On the backside of those wondrous hips was what can only be described as a derriere designed solely to grab a man's attention. How I'd missed it all these years was a true mystery, but once I'd become aware of her beauty it was impossible to ignore. Her butt cheeks were high and tight and had the most subtle curve, looking both soft and taut at the same time. And all of this gorgeousness was wrapped up in the most exquisite, soft, sun-toned skin any woman would kill to have. All the fresh country air and good, natural living had done her complexion wonders that would stump even the best of dermatologists. Amity's incredible body notwithstanding, her most beguiling feature was easily her face. Soft, gentle cheekbones, small elfin ears, and a short nose that was small but not at all upturned and sat above full, pouty lips. Her hair was a golden brown in certain types of light and burnt blonde in others. That beautiful mane of luxurious hair was thick and long, hanging down past her shoulders and perfectly framing her bosoms with soft ringlets. Her eyes, however, could steal your soul with a glance. They were a perfect steel blue with just the faintest hint of gray that sparkled with intelligence and mischief and strength, whether she was laughing or crying.

And the day that I consciously realized, for the first time, just how stunningly beautiful my daughter was, I felt like a fool. Not a single thing about her had changed and yet everything about her was suddenly different. I had seen it all along and never noticed. And noticing her beauty wasn't a sudden event, but a culmination of years spent watching her grow and appreciating, in a detached sense, all of her finest attributes in bits and pieces. But a thing of beauty is the sum of all its parts and there was no part of her that wasn't absolutely beautiful. It was with trepidation and excitement that I quickly realized that there was no number of cold showers I could take which would hide or assuage the lust that was slowly, menacingly growing for my own daughter. Dear God, I remember thinking to myself as I stood under that first cold shower, what have I wrought?

I did what any father in my position would do: I immediately withdrew. My withdrawal wasn't, in any way, like what I had gone through during my depression, but it was definitive. I never spoke harshly or distractedly with Amity when she engaged me in conversation, and I didn't exactly hide from her, either, but I likewise didn't make any special effort to seek out her companionship. When she came to me for something, I didn't turn her away, but when whatever she wanted was done with, I'd quietly go back to my office or another part of the house, anywhere I could go that would keep my eyes off her increasingly distracting beauty.

About a month of that and Amity had finally had enough. She called me into the kitchen for breakfast one sunny morning and, when I arrived fully dressed and subdued, she slammed a frying pan into the kitchen sink. "What the hell, Dad?" she cried out of the blue.

I just stared at my daughter stupidly and then looked down at myself, to make sure that I hadn't somehow forgotten my pants or something. When I looked back up at her I was perplexed. "What?"

Amity glared at me hotly. "You KNOW what, Dad. A year ago you would come to breakfast in boxers and a t-shirt, smiling bright as the sun and happy to see Mom and me. Now... now you just mumble good morning at me like you're in a soup kitchen! What the hell is going ON with you?"

I blinked at Amity uncertainly. Had I been that obvious about it? But no, I thought to myself. I hadn't been rude or cruel. I just... distanced myself from her. For her sake. I couldn't refute the fact, to myself, that I was beginning to lust after her, but I wasn't about to put pressure on her or invite her to help solve a problem that wasn't hers to begin with. "I..." I had no idea where to begin, so I decided to just go with a half-truth. "I've been... struggling with some things, that's all." I placed my hands on the back of a chair and leaned forward a little bit. "I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable or anything. I'm just... going through things right now that I need to work out on my own."

"Bullshit," she replied flatly. I arched a cautious eyebrow at her in a non-vocal but obvious attempt to remind her that I AM still her father. She brushed it off with a wave. "Oh, don't give me that look, Dad. I know you. Hell, I probably know you better than you know yourself, sometimes. You've been hiding from me. I think I know why, but I want to hear you say it. Say it out loud, so we can get it out in the open. Because that's how Mom did things and just because she's gone, that doesn't mean we should change something like that. So out with it, Dad. What's eating you?"

Thoughts raced through my mind at light speed. I was wrapped up in a mix of emotions, none of them easily defined. When had my little girl grown up into such a self-assured young woman? When had she grown so articulate and precise? With a brush of my hand through my hair, I took a deep sigh. "You really want to know?" I asked her.

Amity didn't miss a beat. "Like I said: I think I ALREADY know. I just want to hear you say it."

Feeling the challenge behind her words, I hardened myself and scowled. Suddenly the dam within me broke and the floodgates between mind and mouth flew open. "Do you? Fine. Okay. Here it goes: yes, I've been hiding from you. More to the point, I've been avoiding you like the plague. Because, since your birthday, every time I see you, the only thing that comes to mind is the fact that, daughter or not, all I want to do is have you the same way I had our mother. Every time I see you, literally see you with my eyes, I'm mentally undressing you and wishing that I could feel your body sweating under mine as I take you either as a gift or by force. When you're in the same room as me and I catch your scent, my cock is immediately hard and my pulse quickens and I have to make a near physical effort to pay attention to what you're saying because my imagination is doing its best to drown you out. When Mother was alive, I'd be able to get out my sexual frustrations with her, any time I wanted to and any time SHE wanted to, and I wouldn't think twice about the fact that our daughter was the physical embodiment of lust personified. But now she isn't here and every single thing about you makes me want to forget that I'm your father and instead revel in the fact that I'm a man and you're a woman and I haven't had a woman in a very long time and I miss our mother and every time I feel like just throwing you across that counter top, the very one you were conceived on, and fucking you until I put a child in YOUR belly, every time I think about that I feel like shit because it feels like I'm being unfaithful to the one woman who brought BOTH of us into this world. And I hate that feeling, I hate feeling betrayed by my own lusts and I can't... I can't... I..." I yanked the chair away from the table suddenly and sat down heavily in it. "Fuck." Then I ashamedly dipped my head down in defeat and cradled it in my hands, elbows acting like tripods on the kitchen table. I didn't cry, no more strength was left in me to do that. So I just sat there in abject shame, hiding my eyes from my daughter who watched me in my tirade with a stony expression.

I didn't even hear her move, but a moment later I felt her body next to mine and, more surprising than anything, she pulled me to her midriff and held me there in a gentle embrace.

All I could manage to say was, "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so, so sorry."

She breathed a few times in silence before answering. "I'm not."

As though struck by a cattle prod, I jerked back, away from her hug and looked up at her in shock. "Amity! I-" and there I paused. What was I going to say? My eyes locked with hers and all I could see behind her gaze was complete openness. "I shouldn't have said any of that."

She cocked a skeptical eyebrow at me, looking so much like her mother then. "So you didn't mean it?"

I thought furiously back to what I'd said. It had all come out in a rush, but there was no filter on it, on me. I'd meant every word of it and that was my hell to endure. "No... no, I did. All of it. It's true. And I hate myself for it. And I shouldn't have said any of it to you. It's not fair to. This is my problem, not yours, and it's something I'm going to have to work out on my own."

Again, she said, "Bullshit." Then she tilted her head back for a soft laugh, making herself look even more achingly beautiful without even meaning to. "Look at you, Dad! I mean, seriously. Look at you. Look at us!" She paused a moment and then grew serious. "Look: cards on the table. I noticed you looking at me differently. And, honestly? It made me feel wonderful. It made me feel like a woman, like Mom. And you know what? I didn't care that it was you looking at me that way. I mean, why should I? Look at our family, Dad! Look at where I came from, where YOU came from! Where MOM came from! At this point, Dad, if you weren't having lustful thoughts about me, incestuous though they may be, I'd think there was something wrong with you. With me. Dad, let's face it: incest is as much a part of our way of life as it is part of our heritage."

I shook my head in defiance. "But you should be able to make that choice on your own, not with pressure from me!"

And then her steely blue eyes got a hard look about them. "What makes you think I'm not, Dad?" she asked sternly. "What makes you think I'd want it any other way?"

Well. That was a stumper.

"...what?"

My daughter huffed in exasperation and rolled her beautiful eyes at me. "Dad, you think I don't have urges, too? The full extent of my sex life consists of what I learned from Mom, the Internet and a hairbrush handle two years ago. But it doesn't mean I'm content with that, Dad. Far from it. I know how beautiful I am, and that's not a conceit. Mom didn't mince words with either of us and she made it very clear to me that, eventually, I'll come of age and want to have sex. And who do I have to turn to? You. And don't go thinking that you shortchanged me somehow, that you locked me away from other boys and stunted my growth. I don't want, NEVER wanted any of those outside boys. I've interacted with enough of them online to know that 99% of them are idiots and fools and as transparent as glass. I wanted YOU. Just like you wanted Mom. And she wanted her father. It's in our genes. Might as well own up to it and accept it. And she knew it, too. You know what she told me? I'm sure you can guess. But just in case you need to be hit over the head with it, Dad, she told me that, when I was ready and if you were willing, I was welcome to continue the family tradition. With you." Before I could interject, she silenced me by rushing forward. "So here's the deal, Dad. You won't pressure ME? That's a laugh. No. I won't pressure YOU. Much. But you're the man I want to be my first, my last and my only. So I'll seduce you. We can make a game out of it if you like, hold out as long as you can, but I prophesy that you will lose that game. I've known you wanted me for a long while now, probably before you even realized it yourself, so I know how this is going to end."