Then I’d felt hands touching my thigh, disappearing into my shirt to rub against my chest, lips on my neck.
I think I was trying to protest the idea, but my father’s voice had climbed on top of my own. “Take him up and show him a good time; his signature gave us this.” He raised his glass like he was doing me a huge favor. “Enjoy, Marino.”
I remember being led somewhere. And then falling on a soft mattress. I remember one of them trying to kiss me, but I remember stopping her and the chuckle she gave afterward when she whispered in my ear, “No kissing, got it.”
And then I remember waking up naked, next to two sleeping,nakedwomen. The headache afterward, the lipstick marks on my skin, the first minute of panic, and then the long shower I had taken. I hated it. I hated it all. I tried to tell myself later that I’d consented, that the alcohol had been a choice, but the facts were simple: I was seventeen, he had supplied the drink, and he had handed my body over.
That night, I stood in front of my father’s bedroom door, a gun in my hand, imagining myself entering and emptying my bullets into him.
But I couldn’t do it. He was my father, my mother’s husband, and my siblings’ guardian. I couldn’t kill him, so I slipped my gun behind me and walked away.
To this day, I wondered if I’d made the right decision. Walking away.
I knew if I didn’t leave now, the girls currently watching me would find their way to my table, and I didn’t need that.
Not today.
So, I finished my beer, paid my tab, and left the bar.
Reaching the compound an hour later, my phone buzzed in my pocket, and I fished it out, seeing my sister’s name on the screen with a text message that had my stomach jumping.
Mari:
SOS
I rushed into the house. The sound of glass shattering, coupled with screaming and crying, had me running toward my mother’s room.
I skidded down the hallway, my heart in my throat as I spotted Mariana on her knees, holding a crying Lorenzoin her arms, right in front of my mother’s room. Mariana was crying, too, and I caught the sight of blood on Lorenzo’s arm; the seven-year-old had his head buried in my sister’s chest.
Mariana looked up, her eyes burning with anger upon seeing me. “Where were you!” she screamed at me. “She fucking hurt him!”
I heard loud mumblings, glass shattering, thuds, and incoherent screams from behind the closed door.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Go—get up, go stitch him up; I’ll be with you both soon.”
She shot me a confused look, her gray eyes blinking as if she hadn’t heard me right. She got to her feet, and Lorenzo refused to look up. He never did. Never looked at me. I was on Papà’s side, not theirs. Never theirs.
“Soon? You want to go in there? She’s—God, she’s out of touch with reality! She hurt Enzo!”
“Please, Mariana, go to your room, lock your door—”
“What if she hurts you? Mamá isn’t here anymore!”
“No, don’t say that, she’s just—she’s fine, she’s just going through something.”
“I’m seventeen, I’m not a fucking child, Marino! She needs medical attention!”
“Mari, please, take Enzo away; I’ll handle it.”
“But she’s—”
“Enzo’s hurt, go help him—clean his wound—”
“What if she—”
“Fucking go! Go to your damn room and lock the fucking door, Mariana!” I bellowed.
She flinched; fear clouded her eyes, a look I’d seen her wear whenever our father was around. Enzo’s crying grew louder, and he hugged Mariana tighter.
