She has an innocence I lost the moment I could speak my first words. I don't think she's older than six, and regret presses against my chest because I don't understand why she's here. Surrounded by people like Mom, who are capable of sinking their teeth into any ray of sunlight.
Because that's what she is. A ray of sunlight in a corner of shadows. I check the direction I came from, then take the candy from her.
"You should smile more. Maybe tell some jokes," she says seriously, studying me.
"Why?" I ask as I let the sugar from the candy release endorphins in my body.
"I like it when you smile. When I grow up, I'm gonna marry someone who smiles a lot. And who makes other people smile. Mom says that's the secret to a happy marriage, making each other smile."
I lean my head against the wall and listen to her. I think she's competing with herself to see how many words she can say per second, but somehow I don't want her to stop.
Because if she stops, I'll hear the voices from the other room again, where Mom's selling her body for some piece of information.
At twelve years old, I'm no stranger to how Mom chooses to consolidate our power. I don't know how Dad can be okay with his wife grinding in other men's laps, but I don't think he cares anymore.
These days, he's more of a shadow of the man he once was.
I turn my gaze back to the ray of sunshine beside me, who's still talking.
"What happened to your hand?"
I look down at my hand and the bandage covering a cut Mom made. She cut a little too deep to show me what happens when I'm not paying attention. Because I wasn't paying attention when she was talking to me. Sometimes I think my brain intentionally blocks her out so I don't vomit up all the rage I keep locked inside. Because I can't let it out. Berna needs me lucid.
Before I can answer, she positions herself in front of me, takes my bandaged hand, and brings it close to her lips. In one second, her lips make contact with that piece of fabric.
My eyes widen at her gesture, but I'm too shocked to pull my hand from her palms.
"There, I gave it a kiss, and now it'll heal. You'll see, it won't hurt anymore."
I stare at her like she's an alien because even though that's not how anatomy works, the throbbing pain in my hand seems to ease.
"Do you want to be my husband?" she asks.
"Why would you want me to be your husband?" I ask, my eyes still wide from what she just did.
No one's ever cared if something hurt me. Everyone in the house where we stay in Poland knows to look the other way, not to say a word if they see something wrong. And they've seen plenty of wrong things. Countless times I've had to walk around with broken ribs, cuts on my skin, or bruises on my face from her punishments. And no one did anything. Not even a sympathetic glance, not even a touch to assure me it would pass.
"I like when you smile. I like your hair, and you're so tall next to me that you can protect me from anyone and anything. So you have everything you need to be a good husband."
I can't respond because I'm still frozen, staring at her.
Staring at her smile. That fever inside me doesn't burn as hot since I sat down next to her on this bench.
"I don't think I'd be a good husband for anyone," I mumble, though I've never actually considered the idea.
The only marriage I've analyzed is my parents', and I'd rather die than have something like that with anyone.
I watch her face scrunch up slightly, and I don't know why, but it bothers me. She's a kid who, unlike me, probably has a normal family. Who hasn't seen a drop of blood. Who doesn't know what pain is.
And somehow, that thought consoles me. Because I can't imagine her without that sparkle in her eyes.
"I don't think I'd be a good wife either," she says, and I don't think she realizes she's pushed her lips forward into a pout, making her somehow even more adorable than before.
Who the hell is this little girl? And what is she doing here?
"Why?" I ask because I like her voice.
I watch her study me, weighing whether or not to trust me with this great secret.
