Dominic
“Wash your body faster, piece of shit. We don’t have the whole day for this,” Alec spat, throwing the bar of soap at my back, and it hit me painfully. The sting came from the big gash Alfred’s belt left right between my shoulder blades. This was a routine with him. He’d leave cuts and bruises. They would fester, then half-ass heal, and he’d put them right there again. Not to mention the blood mingled with semen in my ass, where the flesh was torn due to them never using lube on me.
Pretty twin, they said.Too pretty to wait. Too pretty to resist the temptation.
Everything in me screamed to punch the wall ‘til my knuckles bled from the rage building up inside me anytime their voices spoke in my mind. But my skinny, barely-holding-on-to-life body couldn't take any beating from Alec, who was a muscled motherfucker.
Grabbing it from the dirty, slippery floor, I soaped my body, welcoming the sweet smell that overpowered the entire rusty room, and for a second, I smelled something different from someone else’s cologne or semen. The bruises, the dry blood on my wrists from the metal cuffs, blisters around my ankles from chains, and marks on my neck from the belt he liked to choke me with stung like fucking hell, but hey, clean was better.
Once the task was done, I turned on the faucet and cold water poured on me from the top, chilling every bone in my body, but I almost didn't feel it.
Was there any hot water anymore in the world anyway? The only hot anything we got here was tea during Thanksgiving or Christmas sometimes. Maybe the world didn't have hot water anymore. My lips probably turned blue and my teeth chattered by the time I finished my shower, and Alec once again threw me a black towel, which smelled like shit and had several stains on it as though someone washed it in coffee from the table. With my luck, they probably did.
Again, not once wincing, I dried myself and put on silky black pants, which were an inch too short for me. Alec smirked. “Too big, huh? Days are counted here.” Again, ignoring his remark, I was led barefoot toward some new room, but this time the blindfold was already pushed over my eyes. After what Damian pulled, they didn't take any chances.
I rubbed the knife wound right beneath my heart, and for a hundredth time wished it had killed me. Some doctor John brought kept me alive. Truly, why the fuck did I deserve this shit? Unlike Damian, I didn't need revenge or anything else. My life literally had no purpose. For all I knew, my twin considered it a weakness, but I was so damn tired of fighting everyone.
Or was my purpose to provide pleasure for sick men who got off on hurting children? I heard once about the word destiny. John kept telling me that some people have a specific destiny in life, what they were meant to do.
Who the fuck needed their life, if the meaning of their existence in this world was for some dirty old men to use and abuse them?
And just like that, I came to an important conclusion. I decided to finally end this fucking shit, and for once, not accept what John and the company had in store for me.
The only way to be free of this destiny was to end my miserable, good-for-nothing life.
Rosa
Blinking few times in confusion, I still had no clue why Dominic had come in the first place or why he would leave so suddenly, by a window no less. I sat down on my bed and exhaled a calming breath.
What the hell was going on tonight? Surprises kept popping up left and right, none of them pleasant. Just when I thought everything was going well with my relationships and school, karma had to step in and throw some shit in my face.
Grabbing a tissue box from the nightstand, I blew my nose into one as my eyes roamed around my room, seeing things I hadn't seen before.
Walls covered in pink paper with unicorns on them, dollhouses, and toys scattered in the corners, princess-like cupboards, and nightstands with various princesses stuck to them.
White fluffy carpet still held stains from cherry juice I spilled on it years ago, and the purple washed-out curtains that shrank with each wash. The only difference in the room consisted of my queen-sized bed, which took up most of the place, and the wardrobe, which had built-in drawers with several mirrors. But besides that? Everything, down to small details, such as drawings on the wall, stayed the same as it was all those years ago when Mom was alive.
To preserve her memory, he never let go of her, and with that, he couldn't accept the fact I grew up. My eyes landed on the framed picture where Mama held me in her arms laughing and tilting her head back, while I smeared cake all over my dad’s chin during my one-year birthday. Holding it in my hands, I ran my fingers softly over the glossy photo. And with clarity, I saw that to my dad I still stayed his little girl who needed protection all the time. That way he didn't have to acknowledge his greatest pain, losing my mother. At some point, he entwined our images so tight inside his head he couldn't see the difference between us. My disappearance only fueled his desperation.
Sighing, I finished packing and changed into comfortable flats, jeans, and a white T-shirt. Sending a text to Lorenzo to wait for me downstairs, I picked up my biology book, grabbed the wheeled-luggage, and almost bumped chests with my dad at the stairway. He scanned my appearance, and his expression turned grim.
“Let’s talk about this.”
Shaking my head, I tried to bypass him, but he wouldn't budge from his fierce stance. “Dad, please, I’m not in the mood for an argument right now.” All my exhausted body wanted to do was fall on the bed in my apartment and sleep twelve uninterrupted hours.
His lips flattened, as he replied angrily, “Too bad. All this shit Allegro said… it was just a possibility a long time ago and—” My dad just couldn't listen or measure when it was enough.
Why did he even think he had the right to decide what was best for me?
“And you are hell-bent on keeping old promises, aren't you?”
His eyebrows came together, creating a deep line between them. “Nothing wrong in preserving traditions,” he replied.
“Traditions? Or creating a museum of my life and yours in this house?” My voice turned distant and cold, while he narrowed his eyes and raised his chin.
“Rosa—” But I didn't let him finish.
“Dad, look around.” Waving my hand around at the portraits, cracked marble floor, and washed-out walls. “Mom has been gone for fifteen years, and you still refuse to change anything in here, down to pigeons in the garden.”
