“Let’s go back to when your mother started to get worse,” Ada says in her usual gentle tone, adjusting the glasses on her nose and tilting her head as if this angle allows her a better analysis of my face.
I like Ada, but I hate the sessions. They always bring me back to a dark place.
Ada gives me time to bring my thoughts in order, twirling a pen between her fingers.
“My father started to come home in the middle of the night. Then, there were times he didn’t return for days.” I drop my head onto the backrest, eyes grazing over the floor-to-ceiling shelf stacked with psychology books. “My mother used to spend every free minute in the studio losing herself in her world of surrealism, but then she started to drink.” I remember her neatly arranged studio turning into a mess of dirty brushes, dried-out colors, and torn canvases within a couple of weeks.
Ada scribbles something on her notepad. “You said your mother left when you were fifteen. Correct?” I nod. “Tell me what happened that day.”
I close my eyes, unwillingly dragging my mind back to the past. I still remember drawing a breaking heart shattering to the floor, and how the pencil shook in my hand as I listened to my parents screaming at each other.
“I… I can’t do this anymore, Piero,” my mother whimpers, and I hear her sob as I press my ear against the door. “It destroys me.”
“Then don’t touch the stuff!” my father shouts back, and I cringe at his harsh voice.
“You know I can’t!”
“It’s not my fault you can’t keep your shit together, Sofia!”
I hear a sigh before my mother says with resolve, “This has to end. I’m going to leave with Leo.”
I pull my mind back to the present. My hands itch for a pencil, but I won’t draw in front of Ada. I can only imagine what conclusions she’d jump to if she saw my depressing drawings.
“She left without me,” I conclude in a beaten tone. My father had always been slightly detached, but from then on, I sensed him becoming more and more distant. I suppose with the woman he loved gone, he had no reason to stick around. His love for me could have never competed to the love he held for my mother. I could see it in his eyes whenever he looked at me—the disappointment, the regret, the wish it was her standing in front of him and not me. Not the child she always wanted to have, whereas he only ever wanted to have her. “It took me a long time to find out why.”
Ada tilts her head to the other side. “Tell me about it.”
So, I dive into the story of how everything went downhill in the first place. Until then, my father was doing business selling my mother’s paintings. At least, that’s what he made us believe.
One day, I found a trail of white powder leading from the house to the garage. Following it, I opened a wrapped-up painting hidden in a corner only to find pouches filled with the powder hidden within the frame. I was still young but old enough to recognize the substance as the same the eighth graders at school were sniffing in the restrooms.
Turned out my father had been dealing drugs for a long time. My mother found the stuff and got addicted herself. I still remember her mumbling weird things while restlessly prowling through her studio, wiping a finger under her nose all the time, and scratching her scalp until her hair was ruffled.
When it all became too much for her, she begged my father to quit. He didn’t. My mother feared I would tumble down the same road, so she decided to leave with me.
But my father had no intentions of letting her go. He threatened to bring her to trial and start a custody battle, one she would have lost for sure. Over the years, my father had built connections everywhere including a network of the best lawyers. He would have testified she was an addict, and that would have been the end of it.
That left my mother with two choices—stay or leave without me. She chose the latter, leaving her old life and her only daughter behind. Snuggling into my room that night, she bent over me and whispered into my ear, “I’ll come back, my love.”
And then she was gone. The only thing she took for some mysterious reason was one of the paintings in my room, one she’d given me as a birthday present.
I think my father always hoped she was going to come back, knowing she never wanted to leave without me in the first place. This was the only reason he didn’t kick me out after she shut the door behind her. I didn’t stay long, though, not after the ‘twenty-one-minutes’ incident.
I wonder if things would have gone differently if I’d kept my mouth shut and pretended not to know what kind of business my father conducted instead of facing him head-on, throwing a pouch of coke into his face and demanding answers. How my life would have continued if it hadn’t ended in a fight of screams and profanities. How everything would have turned out if he’d stayed instead of banging the door behind him to leave me in the hands of… him.
Ada watches me intently when I finish my story. “Did you ever go looking for her?”
“No,” I say, my tone quipped.
She squints her eyes at my cold undertone. “You don’t want her to come back?”
I cross my arms, shrugging. “She won’t come back.” I don’t allow myself the hope to see her again. I’ve hoped year after year, staring out the window and wishing a familiar mass of black, wavy hair came up the sidewalk, ready to take me with her.
Ada nods. “All right. I think that’s enough for today.” Thank God. Ada rises, wiping a hand over her pencil skirt. “Until next week, Leo.” I manage a half-smile, swinging my backpack over my shoulder and heading out for my next appointment.
~~~
The low buzzing of the needle drilling my skin is a comforting sound as I stare holes into the ceiling trying my best not to flinch every time Zach’s latex-gloved hand touches me.
“What does it mean?” Zach wants to know, referring to the words he’s branding onto my skin.
“It’s the name of a painting of a French artist,” I reply, clawing my fingers into the seat to remain still as the needle punctures my ribs.
Zach sighs dramatically before saying in his usual gay-ish tone that rises and drops like a siren, “Baby, I wish you’d let me put a few red roses around the letters.”
“Nope. This one stays color-free. Argh!” I howl as Zach moves the needle over already tattooed and raw skin.
“Sorry, darling. Just one… more…” he drawls, his tongue clamped between his teeth in concentration. “There you go, sweetie. It’s done.”
“Great.”
Eagerly, I rise from my torture bed and hurry over to the mirror to examine my newest body decoration. Et In Arcadia Ego reflects back at me in black, swirly letters, making a bow across my left side.
“Very pretty, Leo, darling,” Zach gushes. “It enhances your waist.”
I scoff. I couldn’t care less about how the tattoos beautify my body as long as they cover every inch of where his hands have been. “It’s gorgeous, Zach. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Leo. See you around soon, sweetheart, and give Kendra a hug from me!” he chirps before feigning a left-and-right kiss to my cheeks, making exaggerated smacking noises.
“Sure thing.” I carefully drape my tee over my side before donning my cap and setting off to go home.
The sun is going down behind the horizon, and I throw an automatic look over my shoulder, relieved to see no one coming up the sidewalk. I would have arranged a later appointment with Zach, but as I’ll have to get up at the ungodly hour of 7:00 a.m. to meet with Carla, it would be wise to crash before midnight for once.
An uncomfortable feeling settles around me, and I roll my shoulder instinctively—a quirk I can’t shake off ever since. Anxious, I whip my head around again, but other than the occasional traffic on the street, the sidewalk is empty. Yet, for some reason, I can’t get rid of the notion of someone lurking in the shadows.
I quicken my steps, inconspicuously gliding my hand into one of the many baggies in my pants to grasp my switchblade. Why a switchblade, you ask? Well, because I’m not the pepper spray kind of girl, is all I can say.
Out of the blue, a hand clamps over my mouth, and my back collides with a hard body, a belt buckle scraping against my freshly tattooed skin. Panic shoots my adrenaline level high as my mind conjures images of that horrible night, and I kick air as I’m roughly dragged backward.
Suddenly, a van stops with screeching wheels next to me, and the doors slide open before a man yells, “Get her inside, quickly!”
Fuck, no. Only over my dead body.
Instinct kicks in, and I bite down on the hand pressing on my mouth. I only manage to clamp the skin of one finger between my teeth, but the guy behind me hisses and loosens his grip.
I try to spin around and face him head-on, but he grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. Quickly retrieving my secret weapon, I snap the switchblade open swinging aimlessly. Fabric rips, and the man behind me grunts.
Wriggling free from his hold, I swing the knife but only hit his upper arm. He recoils with a howl, and I wrench the blade free, blood soaking his sleeve.
“Fuck!” the guy in the van curses, leaping out of the vehicle and dashing after me as I make my escape. I stumble in my haste to get to safety, giving my chaser the opportunity to tackle me to the ground.
I swing my knife again, but he blocks my arm and twists it, making me yell in pain. He snatches the switchblade from my hand, skillfully bending it to render me immobile. Out of reflex, I snap my head up colliding with his forehead. Pain shoots through my skull, and stars appear in front of my vision, blinding me momentarily.
I manage to roll him off me, kicking him in the balls for good measure and scramble up, simultaneously grabbing my weapon. Before I can bring it down on him, the second guy comes to his defense and snatches my arm. I drive my elbow into his chin, pissing him off for good this time.
“You called for it, girl,” he growls. A fist slams into my face so hard my body flings sideways and lands on the concrete. My tongue burns as if cut in two, and I spit blood.
Someone yanks me up. My survival instinct tells me to fight, but the pain pounding in my skull is unbearable, and I stagger, barely able to keep upright. I see people coming up the sidewalk in my peripheral vision and open my mouth, ready to scream.
“Oh, no, you won’t,” is my only warning before the same fist comes down on me again, this time knocking me out for good.