But the truth is—he raped me.
Being unable to talk about what happened, I have fallen into self-reliance. I’ve read countless self-help books on surviving sexual assaults. I’ve gone through other victims’ stories, searching between the lines for the answers, and it most certainly has helped. Perhaps it is wrong, but the biggest source of my healing comes knowing I get a reprieve from this life, four years at Unity Collegiate, the prestigious Omega finishing school—because of course the families want the very best education. So we’re sent away to learn how to cook, clean, and do nothing but pamper their Alphas.
And I would do everything expected of me. I would become a pillar of servitude if it meant I got one day of reprieve. Now more than ever.
When the shadows under my bed fade, I finish off my daily self-help session with a renewed energy. First things first, and starting with the hardest, I climb out from under my bed and walk straight to the mirror. Undressing from PJ's I don't remember putting on, I stare long and hard at the evidence Brody left behind. The bruises might have faded, but when I see my reflection I see the trauma of his touch in vivid recollection. My thighs are a tapestry of colour. The bruises are already black and purple, rust stains the inside of my inner thighs. Again, it’s because I know no one will listen, I needed to share proof of what happened even if it’s for myself later. I used the Instamatic camera—ironically a gift from Brody, and I remember taking hours the morning after cataloguing the marks he left behind. There wasn’t enough film left for all of them, but the collection I compiled within my journal was a morbid but accurate portrayal.
Pulling back the edge of the rug under my desk, I pry up a floorboard to triple check my journal is still hidden. And to pat my pet rock for comfort. Small things mean the world these days.
Reliving it is inevitable. Knowing the details are in my journal always makes me feel better, but it also keeps the memory alive, feeding it. There hasn’t been a morning since it happened that I haven’t walked into the shower trembling or out of it shaking. Only the coldest water helps, and I can’t budge an inch until the scent ofhimis gone because even now it’s all I can smell.
My bones literally hurt. I’d love nothing more than to crawl under my bed to hide but time is against me. People are arriving within the hour.
The short-sleeved floral dress I was going to wear gets replaced by a dour, long-sleeved dress my mother selected. It’s hideous. I hate it but not as much as I hate the marks Brody left—marks that are still on my body even though you can't see them.
The door opens and my mother starts crying. Her tears have a domino effect and within a few steps the other women are wiping their eyes. I stand stock still, not making a noise or even looking their way because I’m struggling to deal once again with their tried on emotions, on top of my own very real ones.
Wren, my mother, steps forward, and she is as small and delicate as her namesake. “You look exactly how I thought you would.” Her voice is soft and constricted with emotion.
Beside her, the other women mirror her words and actions.
If you think Stepford Wives on steroids, you’re only part way to understanding how contrived these women are. I don’t blame them, it’s all they know, but I most certainly resent the fact it’s the only life theywantto know. Maybe they foundtheir own way of accepting this life in forced pleasantries, but I’m sure I never will.
“Simona, you make my son so proud. You really are becoming such a lovely girl.” Brody’s mother, Fiona, steps forward, bringing her canned peach scent with her. I nearly choke on it but manage not to.
Her scent is as nauseating as her insinuation I’m anything but an object for Brody to play with. I’m pretty sure that is not something to make a mother proud, but I stick to the script for a few more hours.
“I think it’s time,” my mother says after a while and after she unnecessarily adjusts the belt and the sleeves of my dress.
Miraculously, I don’t recoil from her touch when she brushes her hand over my torso. Only because I’m more than experienced at hiding pretty much any and all reactions these days.
Fiona holds my blazer up for me, and I turn, letting her help me into it. Then the four of them step back and look at me for a final time before they each kiss my cheek and wish me luck, finally leaving me but also giving themselves time to get back downstairs to the guests.
I was hoping to avoid a scene but that was never going to happen. This going away party was probably scheduled and organised by the time I was fifteen years old. But that is the life they live—everything preordained and overly planned.
Once the women leave, I feel better. And I’m a little surprised by the nostalgia as I walk around my room. In a few more hours, I’ll be leaving this room for four beautiful years. Eventually, I run out of time trying to avoid the party and have no choice but to face the crowd downstairs.
One of the event organisers—tasked with outdoing the last ‘family’ party—waves me to a stop near the entry, leaving me with firm instructions to wait for Brody so we can make our grand entrance.
I pretend to pluck something off my jacket as opposed to looking at anyone, and as always, no one mentions or pays me attention anyway. I wish I could stand out here until the end of the party. At the end of a corridor a door opens, and it’s Daniel, the guy I caught Brody being intimate with at school all those months ago. Instead of a school uniform, he’s dressed in the standard black uniform of the hired staff. I turn quickly to face the opposite direction before he sees me, just in time to see Brody appear. He comes towards me, from the opposite direction, wearing his trademark false smile, his hand out for me to take. It’s not really an option. He pulls me close, holding me against him, his hand trailing up and down my waist.
I keep as supple as possible, even as his fingers brush harder than necessary, touching all the places he knows he hurt.
“Your scent makes me sick. Go put more blocker on,” he insists with a smile, barely hiding the condescending tone to his voice.
Without being told twice, I excuse myself and go off to check the downstairs powder room for more scent blocker, spraying another cloud of it. I didn’t forget to put it on earlier, he was just being an ass. The spray stings my nose, but I’d much rather harsh smell the chemicals than Brody.
By the time I’m back, Brody is in deep discussion with a couple of his friends—who I am starting to suspect he is thinking of adding to our pack. They’re not as bad as Brody but they’re all cut from the same cloth. Collectively, everyone ignores my return until Brody’s father pokes his head out, with Lawson behind him.
Brody’s father looks at me. “What is the problem, Simona? We’re waiting.”
“Sorry, sir.” Brody turns and goes straight to my father,patting him on the back. “Simona was nervous and running late, but we’re good to go now.”
“Fine,” my father says before he looks at me. It’s almost a double take, but I’m used to it now. The first time, I nearly fainted with relief—thinking he remembered. But he didn’t. He still doesn’t.
The speeches and cake cutting passes quickly. Brody works the crowd and keeps up appearances. The flowers and gifts make everyone in the room beam at Brody’s thoughtfulness. Thankfully as soon as the photographer snaps the final shot of everyone in attendance, the crowd returns to their own smaller groups, and I get a chance to take a full breath of air.
My excitement continues to rise with each passing second, threatening to crack through my carefully constructed veneer. It’s almost impossible to keep from dancing and singing, considering there’s only fifteen minutes left to go.
