“Better than terrible?” I can’t even tell if my laugh I give is genuine or forced. The mask I’ve been wearing for so long is now such an integral part of me I no longer know what’s me and what’s it.
Hardly a high ground from which to call out others on their atrocious behaviour.
Micah holds his thumb and forefinger a millimetre apart. “Maybe this much better than terrible.”
A larger laugh explodes out of me, like a valve releasing my built-up tension. “Such an improvement.”
I move towards him, resting my forehead against his chest. He raises his hand to the side of my face, blocking out the rest of the room. His heart beats so strongly that its vibration settles into my skin. I synch my breathing to the pulse.
A fairy tale path opens to me. I could just forgive everything, exactly as I’m meant to, and let this moment fall behind me, growing more distant with each tick of the clock. The pain will lessen, the memory will grow softer, less likely to wound each time I think of it.
I’ll never be able to look at myself in the mirror again, but at least this gaping hole my heart used to inhabit will be plastered over before any further vital organs spill out.
I press my hand flat against his chest and wish that things could be patched up that easily. Forgive and forget without putting in any of the work. A short-cut that’ll never stick.
I slide the engagement ring off my finger as I take a step back from Micah. A sense of déjà vu takes such a hard grip on me I expect to hear Marigold’s laugh from a corner of the room. Hear her mother reprimanding a waiter for forgetting his tie.
“Keep it,” Micah says, his voice low and thick. “It’s yours.”
But I press it into his hand and turn his fingers over to hold it within his grasp.
“Please, let me try again.” His face is wrecked. The parts that didn’t fall victim to my father’s fists are twisted with regret. I want to comfort him. Wash his wounds and try to heal him. Instead, I fold my arms so I’m not tempted to reach out and touch him.
“You must be joking,” my father says disparagingly, moving to stand by my side. “You’re never getting near my daughter again.”
“That’s not your decision,” I tell him, the weariness seeping into my voice.
“And what? You’re going to forgive him in a week so he can hurt you all over again?”
Micah’s calm cracks in two. “You’re one to talk. At least I didn’t break her arm or beat her so hard she nearly lost her hearing.”
“It’s not—” I begin but Dad gets there before me.
“I took care of that. Would you like me to get rid of her current problem the same way?”
Greta snaps, “Ciprian!” at the same time I turn to stare at him with a resigned expression.
“You killed her.” The words are flat, not a question. He’s already shouted as much to the room, but I still want to hear the admission again. Let it settle into my brain and find a place to rest.
“I had to. She wouldn’t stop.”
Images flash into my mind. Scrabbling backwards as my mother pursues me, her face screwed into the face of a monster. Dread suffocating me until my limbs become heavy. The white blast that enveloped my vision a second before the pain hit.
“You didn’t—” I break off, shaking my head. “Divorce never occurred to you? Getting a protective order? You couldn’t just take me away?”
But those choices are for people outside our organisation. Those lucky, lucky people who aren’t bonded to all this death, this destruction. Unbound by the ruinous love of money and power.
He takes my arm and I jerk it away, wondering why everyone seems to think it’s okay to manhandle me whenever they like.
“Come on, honey. Let’s go home,” my father pleads. “We can talk about all of this tomorrow.”
“I need to get changed.”
He nods and I slope out of the room, grateful to put space between me and these people that I love, God help me.
I change into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Pull on some Velcro sneakers that have a label emblazoned along the side. I’m so out of the loop with fashion that I don’t know if the symbol adds value or detracts from it.
A tentative knock comes on the door, and I open it to find Agnes shifting from foot to foot, an expression of concern carved into her features. “Are you all right?”
