I shake my head slowly. Silently wishing my mother was here or Olga.
“Okay, good. Now, c’mon, we need to get dressed soon.”
I pull my pants down, and he swallows hard.
“Your pussy is beautiful like your mother's.” He says barely above a whisper.
I flinched at his words. What the fuck? I know he loves my mom, but did he really have to say that?
“Okay,” he says as he unwraps the tampon, “now all you have to do is glide this up inside you and make sure the string is hanging down still. So don’t shove it up too far, besides that may hurt because you're very tight.”
His gaze doesn’t waver away from my privates and I am beginning to feel uncomfortable.
God, why couldn’t Olga be here? Please. My mother is always gone but seriously, the day I got my period Olga had to be sick.
“Okay, I think I can manage from here.”
“I love you, sweetie. I want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. So just put it in so I can help you.”
I take the tampon out of his hands, and it’s when he finally meets my gaze, but I quickly tear mine from his.
“Okay, now put it inside.”
I don’t look up and just focus on the task at hand but I feel his gaze burning through me and I hate every second of it.
Once I'm done, I quickly pull my panties up around my waist.
“There. All done.”
“Good job sweetie, now you know what it feels like to be a woman.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, cutting through the thick, suffocating tension like a jagged blade.
“Melanie, you okay? Did you hear a word I said?”
Another buzz. Then another. Each ping feels like a warning shot straight to my chest.
“Give me a minute, Mom.” My voice comes out tighter than I want, brittle around the edges. I don’t wait for her response—I just need out. Air. Space. Anything.
I bolt down the stairs, each step heavier than the last. My fingers fumble in my pocket until I finally pull my phone free, afraid and already bracing for the worst.
I’m headed into the restaurant. Don’t worry about coming in tonight.
Spend some time with your mom. It’s probably best we’re not around each other right now.
Since I’m trash, I guess you think it’s okay to lie to me.
The words hit me like a punch straight to the gut. My stomach lurches. The air is sucked from my lungs as if I’ve been knocked underwater without warning. I grip the banister, suddenly unsteady, like the whole house has tilted sideways.
Heat rushes to my face, then drains just as fast, leaving me cold. So cold.
Not just physically, but bone-deep. The kind of cold that comes from shame and guilt and the sickening realization that maybe I just broke the only real thing I had.
Trash. Lie.
I feel hollowed out. Like everything inside me just emptied through the floor.
Alone. So fucking alone.
