“I need to hear it from you. I’m doing this for your own good, kid. You’re marrying a monster. I’m taking it easy on you in comparison. You need to get used to this kind of shit, you hear me? Say the words, tell me you understand.”
The words feel clogged in my throat, blocked by the emotions that want to heave out of me like the vomit I chucked up earlier. “I understand.” My voice sounds raspy, like I had swallowed sand or haven’t spoken in years. In my soul, it feels like that’s true.
He gives me a jerky nod. “Good. Remember, three hours. Compose yourself. Thisisa test, and failure isn’t an option.”
He doesn’t wait for me to reply before he turns and slams the door closed. I’m left there, clutching my room key in one hand and wallet in the other.
I stare at the door for a moment, unable to move. And then more tears start to flow before I can even register what’s happening. It takes over my body until I collapse on the bed, sobs tearing through me like tidal wave after tidal wave of shock and grief.
Who were those men? Did they have people who loved them? Did they have dreams outside of the mafia? Did they want to get out because they couldn’t bear it anymore? Because they wanted to protect someone, perhaps their children? Did their conscience weigh heavily on their minds? Or were they forced to join at a young age?
I don’t know if anyone will mourn them. Their families may never really know what happened to them. But I will mourn them, even as I mourn my view of the world and what my mind was like before the scarring I received today.
I hate it here. I hate this city. I hate being around my grandparents. But I especially hate being in my own head.
I feel guilty. I don’t know why, but I do. I should’ve done something, should’ve tried to stop my grandfather. He’s my family. I’ve always taken on my family’s emotions and actions just a bit as my own. I’m always trying to help my parents manage their feelings, so why would my grandfather be any different?
Except itisdifferent. Because where I normally help my parents with their emotions to prevent a drinking binge, my grandfather just went on a violence binge.
After around half an hour of crying, I sit up. I need to dosomething.To show myself that I’m not like them, that I’m not a monster.
My eyes zero in on the flowers that the Irish Demon bought for me. The once beautiful flowers somehow look less vibrant than they used to. Now I imagine them wilting, oozing with decay, poisoning the very air I’m breathing. I march across the hotel room and grab them, tossing them into the nearest trash can. They’re nearly too big for it, but I push them down until they fit.
I’m not meant for this kind of world. I’ve been saying it from the start. I’m soft, I’m sweet, I’m gentle. I like to make people smile, not scream in pain and horror. I want to bring life and light into people’s lives, not death and suffering.
I know I’ll wither away in a life that’s like this until I’m a husk of a person. I already feel it happening.
I wish there could be some hero that steps in to save me, who whisks me away from all of this, and protects me from this darkness that threatens to permeate my soul. But I know there’s no one like that. There’s only my grandfather and the Demon.
I stare at the flowers in the trash for a few moments, disassociated and shaking. Afterwards, I go through the motions of taking a shower, even though I know there’s nothing for me to change into. I have no fancy clothes like they expect, but I can’t bring myself to care. What are they going to do, kill me?
At this point, that doesn’t even scare me as much as experiencing a life of horror like I’ve witnessed today.
I go through my suitcase, my wet hair dripping down my back and into the towel that I have wrapped around me. I have a sundress that’s pretty enough. It’s old and a little wrinkled, butit’ll have to do. I get dressed, everything taking so much longer than it normally would because of the state I’m in.
I’m in the middle of drying my hair when there’s a knock on my door. I stare at it for a moment. My body feels stuck in the middle of the bathroom, wanting to run or hide. I take a deep breath, mind racing on what I’m going to say or do to whoever is on the other side of the door. I’m guessing it’s my grandmother, but I really don’t want to see her. I don’t want to go to dinner tonight. I don’t want to have anything to do with any of them.
I want to gohome.
But, instead, I look through my peephole, and seeing it is indeed my grandmother, I take a deep breath and open it. Her eyes rise to meet mine, her thin lips pressed into a tight line. “Ah. There you are. I was beginning to wonder if you were in the hotel room.” She steps in, looking at my mess of clothes from rummaging through my suitcase. She frowns when she looks at the sundress I’m wearing. “Which boutique did you get this from?”
“I don’t remember,” I croak.
Her eyes snap up to my face and she sighs. “You’ve had a rough day, I know. But these things happen. Trust me, as a wife of someone who’s in this line of business, sometimes you see grizzly things. But it has its benefits, too. Money, luxury, opportunities.” She steps closer and forces a smile.
It’s at that moment I realize she hasn’t been smiling like she usually does, which means she’s upset. I wonder for a brief moment if she’s concerned for me, but dismiss it. If she is, it’s only because she’s worried about how it’ll affect her. She’s probably worried that I’ll ‘misbehave’ by acting fucking traumatized,what a concept, and somehow ruin the arrangement with the Irish Demon.
I hope it fucking does.
“Just look at this nice hotel room you’ve had the opportunity to stay in. Not many people have experienced such amazing things as this. You should be thankful.” Her voice is soft and syrupy sweet, but it has a bitter aftertaste, and churns my stomach as I digest it.
I feel my lip tremble and tears sting my eyes, but this time from anger. “I’d rather live in a dump for the rest of my life and never see anything luxurious ever again than have the memory of what I experienced today seared into my brain, never mind seeingmoreof it.” My tone is dark and venomous, but I don’t care. She deserves it at this point.They all do.
There’s a flash of pity in her face, but it’s false, forced. Just like everything always is with her. “I know, dear, I know. I’m just trying to help since there’s nothing you can do about it. Why cry over spilled milk? Life has given you lemons, dear, so do something with them. Turn this into something positive. You’re a strong girl, I know you are. You can do it. I can see the fire in your eyes.”
I want to curse at her, to lash out and tell her what I really think, to make her hear the hurt I’ve experienced so she can feel what I feel. But it’s not as easy as that. She’d have to be empathetic to feel what I feel. No matter how hard I push and shove my feelings at her, nothing I say can change that. And that’s true for all of them. For her, my grandfather, and my soon-to-be husband.Noneof them will ever feel my sorrows because they don’t care, nor do they want to care.I don’t matter.
It’s a fact that makes me feel like giving up.
