Holly
oHHhgHThree Days Later
I’ve been on my best behavior. I haven’t undressed in my room and I haven’t even looked at the mirror intentionally.
I want to get up close again, so I can see those eyes right in front of me again. I want to get up close, so close I can count his long eyelashes and see whether that ring of blue is there or if it’s a mirage. I want to ask him why. Why am I safe? What’s next?
And I know he’s been here. I watched him swim tonight, perched in the window sill, my sketchbook and charcoal in my hand.
And was he ever powerful-looking! Muscular arms slicing across the water in the moonlight, moving so fluidly, water dripping off his tanned and muscular skin as he sailed the length of the pool. And back. And forward. And back. I’ve never seen a man so beautiful before.
Being that I was in high school before I was taken, I’ve been around boys enough to have had some crushes. My sister was boy-crazy and she used to date cute guys and I was fortunate enough to tag-along sometimes.
I was too shy, the shy quiet girl, to do any sort of dating. Never been on a date. Never been kissed. Had some crushes but nothing like this. Nothing even close. Alessandro is on a whole other level beyond crush for me.
I keep daydreaming about when he was hovering over me here in this bed. And every time I do, I feel heat in my face and dampness in my underwear.
I’ve since fantasized repeatedly about him climbing in with me, holding me, kissing me, touching my breasts, putting his hand between my legs, saying things in soft beautiful Spanish in his sexy deep voice while kissing me. I can’t stop thinking about it, but I no longer act on the urge to touch myself. I’m afraid to.
Don’t look in the mirror.
Don’t touch myself.
Try to forget he might be watching.
But, I’m strangely comforted by the fact that he might be watching. It makes me feel like I’m safe. I’m safe as long as I don’t provoke him. He could be watching over me. Keeping me safe. Looking at me. Wanting me.
***
I think I have a good idea of when he’s not home. It’s all based on how Esmerelda acts when she brings my meals, when she comes in to bring things or take things.
Today, I’m pretty sure he’s not here. She’s acting friendly, lingering, chatting with me about the weather, about a book she read and how she thinks the movie is on Netflix and we should watch it together. We’ve never watched a movie together before. She’s never even suggested it.
Come to think of it, she’s never been this chatty before.
She let me stay with her in the kitchen for three hours tonight and she wouldn’t have done that if he were here. I helped her polish some silver and then she hung out in my bedroom with me and we watched that romantic comedy together, in my bed, giggling and eating sweet and salty popcorn and then gorging ourselves on strawberry ice cream.
She’s just left. Before she went, she lingered in the doorway and smiled at me. But it was kind of a weird smile.
“You’re a good girl. You don’t deserve this. I’m very sorry.”
Before I could react, she left the room, all our dishes and snack paraphernalia in tow. I didn’t dwell on her statement for long. It’s not like she can do anything about my captivity. I don’t know how she’s come to be here, what she thinks of what goes on underground. It’s not likely something we’ll ever be able to discuss.
I’ve gone to my bathroom and gotten ready for bed and now that I’m in bed, I’m thinking about Alessandro.
And since he’s not likely around, I’m pondering taking an extra shower, so I can touch myself. But, then I realize something and it dawns on me in a way that makes me gasp in shock.
I didn’t hear the lock turn when Esmerelda left.
I’ve been down, quiet, sad the past few days, in my head over my encounters with Alessandro, so I’m thinking she felt bad for me and that was why she tried extra hard today to cheer me up. And because of being happy that she succeeded in cheering me up, that’s why she’s forgotten to lock me in.
Unless I’m wrong and just didn’t notice the door locking.
I try the doorknob. It turns. My heart starts hammering harder, almost bruising my chest, but I go anyway; I open the door enough to squeeze out. I’m in the dim hallway and then I’m at the double doors next door. Alessandro’s doors. I open one and step inside, shutting the door behind me.
I’m in the sitting room. It smells like orange furniture polish. The room is lit with a floor lamp beside a dark leather loveseat. Beside it is a dark brown leather recliner that matches. They face the fireplace. There’s no fire burning tonight, which might be another sign that he’s not home. He has a set of iron scrolled double doors with curve tops. I peek out. This is a balcony that overlooks the side of the house. It’s not big. There is a small wrought iron bistro set and some flower pots that burst with color.
I turn my attention back to the room.
There’s a bearskin rug in front of the fireplace and the mantle is bare. There’s a coffee table and the fireplace and to the side, the wall holds a small bar area as well as a sink and small fridge.
I see a sketchbook on the coffee table.
Hey! I feel a little bit of outrage. It’s my sketchbook. It’s singed around the edges. So much so that ash flakes off as I lift and examine it. He must have had it rescued from my old room, after the fire. I’m sort of shocked.
I open it and look over the partly burnt pages. This is one of three that I had and this one is the most recent of the three. If it had a name, it would be named The Book of Alessandro. Though I couldn’t have named it until after the fire.
On the first page is a cluster of black hollyhock flowers. I drew them. I tend to draw these namesake flowers a lot, though I usually shade them in with vibrant colors. The day I drew them was a gloomy day so I shaded black in.
I flip the page.
There are no less than a dozen portraits of him, which I’ve tried to draw from memory, from the few times I’d seen him. Talking to people, walking, smoking. Now, after being here, I can draw sketches of him exercising. I can draw him with more accuracy. Where his image already felt like it was vividly in my mind from the few times I saw him before the fire? Now, he’s singed into my memory banks. Indelibly.
I’m suddenly anxious to go back to my room to paint.
At the back of the book are several pages of my attempts to draw just his eyes. I can never seem to get his eyes just right. Now that I’ve seen him up close several times, I’d like to try to draw his eyes again. And I could draw his chest and biceps and thighs, now that I’ve seen him working out. I need a closer look to see the detail of his tattoo in order to draw his torso. But, his eyes? Even if I can get the shading right, I’m not sure they can be captured adequately in one still drawing.
I feel a twinge of mortification that he has this, that it’s here, that he’s seen that I’ve been trying to draw him.
I put the book back where I found it and debate going back to my room to paint.
I may never get access to his room like this again. I tell myself I’ll go back in a moment.
I walk toward the set of dark double doors that lead to his bedroom. My heart is racing, but in a good way.
I open the doors and slip in and close them behind me.
There’s a desk here, too, a smaller one. As I walk past it, I spy a laptop. I take two steps back and I open it up.
A login screen. Username: Lex. The cursor is blinking at the start of the password box. Waiting. I have no idea what the password could be. My lips twitch, I’m lost in thought for a moment and then I close the lid.
His bed is straight ahead, taking up a lot of the big space. It’s big, beautiful, and as the focal point of this room, it looks inviting as can possibly be. I had a really good sleep in here the night of the fire. The crystal and copper lamp on his right-hand side nightstand is lit.
I look around. And then I see a wall-mounted cabinet. It wasn’t here before. It dawns that this is where the mirror would be. The mirror that looks through to my room.
The double doors are closed. I try them. Locked.
My heart has been racing since I found my door unlocked. But, now it’s kicked into overdrive.
Does he watch me at night from this bed?
Are these doors opened while he’s in his bed every night?
Does he touch himself when he looks at me?
Does he say goodnight to me and then look at me when he starts his day?
Does he wear night vision goggles to see me masturbating in the dark?
I cringe, but even still, my panties feel like they’re hot.
I pull back and then climb under his covers. It’s warm and it smells like clean laundry, but I feel him here. I feel like I felt when he was over me, breathing on me, so close to touching me.
I think back to when I was in his arms. I smile and squirm, burrowing deeper into the bedding.
I lift my knees so that the blankets are tented my hand goes back into my panties as I imagine him here with me, hovering over me, his mouth within reach of my mouth.
I hear noise.
Oh damn. Is Esmerelda looking for me? I bet she realizes what she did, leaving my door unlocked.
No. Not Alessandro.
I quickly pray that it won’t be him, that he won’t find me here.
But, my prayer goes unanswered. He’s suddenly in the room with me. I freeze, hand still in my panties, mouth wide open in shock at seeing him, at the fact that he’s at the end of the bed with an incredulous look on his handsome face.
He doesn’t look fresh. He looks disheveled. And irritated.
God, I’m so stupid.
I drop my legs straight and try to inconspicuously withdraw my hand. It’s not inconspicuous enough, judging by the hardening expression on his face, a face whose eyes are on me in a way that I know he knows exactly what he walked in on.
And the look in his eyes? His eyes are like the eye of a storm. If only I could draw them right now. Or, they’re more like a storm that’s already done damage but not quite cleared.
I stay stone still, clenching the sheets. I have no words.
“What the fuck?” he snaps.
I blink and try to swallow, but I fail and cough.
He shakes his head and I watch as his tongue moves across his top teeth behind his lips. He sucks on his tongue and shakes his head some more and then moves to the night table and lifts the cordless phone.
“You make any calls?”
I shake my head vigorously.
“If you did…” his expression makes my blood run cold.
“I didn’t.”
It didn’t even occur to me. Does 9-1-1 work in Mexico? How would I even call my mother? Would she know how to help me? Would she even try? I didn’t know how to reach my sister, either.
He hits a button on the bottom of the phone, probably the redial button, and listens for a minute and then says something in Spanish and hangs up.
“I suggest you get your ass to your room and do it immediately, before you feel my anger.”
I scamper out of the bed on the opposite side to where he stands.
“What are you doing with me? Why am I here? Why am I safe when the others…aren’t?”
He scoffs and scratches his jaw.
“Alessandro?”
“What are you doing here?” he asks, and his eyes are lit with something that screams danger!
“I was just…” I shrug.
“You find you can leave your room and you immediately come here? And you don’t use my phone?”
“I didn’t notice it.”
“Ah. What did you do in here?”
“I opened the laptop,” I admit.
“And?”
“And it’s password protected.”
“Of course it is. Am I stupid?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“That’s a very honest response,” he observes.
I moisten my lips. They feel so dry. His eyes are fixed on my mouth. I moisten them again. And then I suck on my bottom lip.
“Are you?”
“Me?” I ask.
“Are you stupid?” he asks, eyes moving back up from my mouth to lock with mine.
“Maybe.” I shrug and smile.
He doesn’t return the smile. “What were you doing in here?”
“I opened my sketchbook.”
“Why did you choose,” he emphasizes the word choose,
“to come in here?”
“I don’t know how to answer that,” I admit and then add, “without seeming silly.”
He steps toward me and then he keeps coming until he almost collides with me. I step back and find myself backed against the wall, beside the bathroom.
“It wasn’t silly. It was fuckin’ stupid. And lucky for you that you weren’t that stupid to try to call someone. You need to be locked in, it seems. Otherwise you wander. Where would you have wandered to after making yourself come in my bed?”
My belly dips and my knees go weak at his words. My face is bright red; I feel it.
“Answer me,” he orders.
“I wouldn’t have left the house. I know there are guards.”
“Good thing, I suppose. Or you’d think.”
He’s said that so calm and collected. But his words sort of also don’t make sense. I smile nervously.
I see instantly that it pisses him off.
“Why do you watch me through the mirror?” I ask and gesture with my chin toward those closed doors.
He gives nothing away with his gaze. It’s just fixed on me.
“What do you have planned?” I try.
He snickers, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“So… there is a plan, then? What is it?” I feel bold.
He leans forward and puts a palm flat on the wall, beside my head. “Maybe your slave training is about to start. Maybe you’ll be broken and then sold to the highest bidder. Sassy little thing like you needs to be broken. Where’d this sassy come from, anyway?”
I shudder and shrug. Good question.
He continues to talk. “Maybe I’m getting ready to break you myself.” His eyes rove over my face. “So, I’ve decided to watch you, so I can decide the best way to go about doing just that. Since you’re here, how about I suspend you,” he gestures to the canopy above his bed, “and get started.”
“You…” I take a deep breath, “You can’t. You don’t mean that.” I look up at the racks, the rings.
Oh God, no.
“I can do whatever I please. You’re my possession to do with whatever I choose to do. Maybe I already have a buyer in mind.”
“You don’t need the money.”
“Why do you say that? What do you think you would fetch? A trained blonde-haired blue-eyed virgin with these perky tits? Down here? An untrained virgin even. You don’t know who I am, if I work for someone. You’re an expense. You could be profit. What do you know about me, Holly, besides my name, which I’d like to know where you heard it?”
“Someone said it by accident.”
“Accidents. Too many accidents around here lately.” He lifts the phone and hits buttons.
“Esmerelda. To my bedroom please. Now.” He hangs it up. I’ve never heard him speak English to her before. He must have done that for my benefit.
And he stands there and stares.
“Should I…” I jerk my thumb toward the door, about to ask if I should go back to my room.
“Don’t move,” he snaps. His voice is so cold and angry. Cold prickles over me. I shiver.
“You let that opportunity pass you by. Since you chose to stay, you’ll reap the consequences of that choice. You don’t know me, Holly.”
Before I can halt my reaction, he reads something on my face.
“You don’t.” He moves closer again, both hands now on the wall on either side of my face. Arms bent. His breath is warm and minty.
He’s beautiful. He’s complicated, for sure. He’s in pain, too; that much I can plainly see.
“You don’t know how dangerous these games you play are.”
I’m not as afraid of him as he wants me to be. Why, I don’t know, and it’s possibly a huge mistake, but the way he’s kept me safe, provided for me, the way he saved me from the burning building? I can’t put my finger on it but there’s just something about him that makes me think he’s not totally bad. Not really.
I don’t really know him, granted; I could count how many times I’ve seen him around. I know that everyone here fears him. So much they don’t make eye contact. So much, that when he speaks to people, they go completely stiff.
This is a scary place. He’s in charge of men who tote machine guns around the place. But, I’m strangely sure he won’t hurt me. He saved me. He watches me. Surely, he feels something protective, right?
Why would he want to hurt me when he’s made the effort to protect me? Actions speak louder than words and his actions so far with me don’t say bad guy.
A long moment continues, with his eyes on me, assessing me from head to toe. He’s looking at me in a way that makes me feel like I’m under a microscope.
“Don’t fuck with me, Holly.” He pounds his palm against the wall beside my head.
I gasp. Maybe I should be very afraid.
“No one fucks with me and gets away with it. Do you understand?” he demands, through gritted teeth.
I nod, fear prickling. Why is he trying to scare me? It’s like I can feel that he doesn’t really want to hurt me, but yet he’s doing it anyway. A tear slides down my cheek. I halt any others from coming, but he sees it.
“Ah, little flower. Mi pequeña flor. Did the monster wound your delicate heart?” He touches my cheek with his thumb and tenderly wipes the tear away.
He moves closer, impossibly close, and I see that the whites of his eyes have tiny red webs through them. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. There are beads of sweat on his upper lip, his forehead.
“You’re trying to convince me you have no heart, but I know better,” I say.
My lip quivers. He sees it and then his eyes move to mine and lock mine in his.
“I have a heart. It beats to wound you,” he says gruffly.
He grabs my hand and holds it against his chest. His shirt is damp with sweat, the fabric sticking to him, but his heart pounds fiercely against my palm.
“Feel that? It beats to rip yours to shreds. I’ll rip you to shreds, baby. You’ll be a lifeless pile of pretty shredded ribbons all over the floor. I’ll come all over them and then walk away and find a pretty new flower.”
I try to yank my hand back, but he doesn’t let go. I manage to tear my eyes from his and that’s when I notice his knuckles are bleeding. He jerks me forward and I slam against his sweaty body. His nose lands in the crook of my neck and he takes a big breath.
As he inhales me, I can’t help but take in his scent, too. I feel wet hit me as his tongue traces along where my neck meets my collarbone and then his nose is buried in my hair. I shiver from the tips of my hair to the tips of my toes.
He takes a big breath and I melt against him. His lips tenderly kiss my bare shoulder. I melt a little bit more. I’ve been starved of human affection and I’ve had a raging crush on him, so is that why I’m melting into him despite how mean he’s being to me?
His words aren’t tender but his actions? It’s as if he’s fighting to be bad when he’s actually good. And he looks like he’s already been in a fight tonight. Disheveled, sweaty, angry. I notice he’s got scraped and slightly bleeding knuckles on his right hand.
I’m having trouble reconciling the conflicting feelings I’m having. And my body likes the feel of him, despite that he’s sweating, despite that he looks angry enough to snap me like a twig.
“I don’t think so. Why would you keep me safe all this time only to hurt me? You’ve been taking care of me. Watching over me. At night in my room. I know that you…”
“Circle you. Like prey. I’ve been waiting.”
“Waiting?”
“For the perfect time to strike,” he says, matter-of-factly.
I summon some bravery from somewhere. I’ve never been brave. I’ve been kept hidden and locked away for years. I wasn’t brave back home in Alaska, either. Why is it I suddenly feel so brave, so brazen?
Maybe because I’m so sure about him. Maybe because there’s nothing to lose. Maybe because I’m nobody and worth nothing, but what I am to him.
“Why’ve you kept me safe? Kept me safe all this time? Kept me whole? You should get a Band-Aid on that.” Blood has dripped off his knuckles and has landed on the carpet. It looks like an expensive oriental or Persian rug in blues and greys. Two blood drops are now on the lighter grey spot.
He matter-of-factly answers, “For me.” He ignores my Band-Aid comment.
“For you?” Hope sparks deep in my heart. I know he wants me. I feel it. And I’m sure if he could see my eyes he’d know it’s what I dream about.
“So that when I’m ready…” His nose is in my hair again and that spark starts to ignite to a flame. But then it all comes screeching to a halt as he finishes with, “I can ruin you.”
“Ruin me?” The hope begins to slip away. But, I’m still in denial. Sort of. “If you were so terrible, you’d have done it before now.”
“You’re mine to ruin when I’m ready. And not true. I’m terrible.”
“I don’t think so. Not truly.”
He backs away enough to look into my eyes. We’re no longer touching. He grits his teeth. “You’re wrong. You’re a foolish little girl. I’ve just been edging. Edging for a long fucking time. When I do take you? It’ll be the best I’ve ever had. You’re a gift I’ve decided to award myself when the time is right. And believe me, I’ve earned it. I just haven’t claimed that gift yet. I didn’t save you for you, Holly. I’m saving you. For me.”
He moves closer, impossibly close. And now I’m feeling the bravery drain away. The look in his eyes? It’s starting to frighten me. I try to disappear into the wall at my back. His eyelashes touch my forehead.
“When I finally have you, mi pequeña flor…” He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and moves back so that his eyes can travel the length of me. “I’ll use you all up.”
My eyes close. This is kind of breaking my heart.
“I took my frustrations out elsewhere. Others have been satisfying my appetite. But only just barely. The way you’ve begun intentionally tempting me?” He slams his palm against the wall right beside me again. The cracking thud makes my body jolt and lock. Now I’m sweating, too, in this sauna-like room.
“Not smart. Your punishment? Now I’m savin’ it all up for you.” He shrugs. “Your birthday is in a few weeks, yeah? I told myself I could do who I wanted until you were eighteen. Until I finished making you mine. Knowing how close that is, and after your little stunts? I’m celibate until I have you, fucking only myself with visions of you while my cock is in my fist. When I take you, you might not recognize yourself afterwards. And for certain, you’ll look at me differently. I’ll miss those stars in your eyes, Holly. I really will. You won’t be so carelessly bold with me and I won’t allow it. You and me? We’ve now officially begun. No one but you until I use you all up.”
My chest hurts. The pain is crushing me. I’ve had some sort of fantasy of him, of him being a good guy that just needs his goodness acknowledged. But, maybe I’ve been wrong about him. The look on his face, the anger. The words coming out of his mouth? What does “we’ve now officially begun” even mean?
There’s a knock.
“Come!” he shouts.
Esmerelda comes in, in a yellow terrycloth robe, a pair of black flip flops on her feet. Her dark shoulder-length curly hair, which is usually in an efficient bun, is loose. She looks younger like this. I had her pegged at around forty but she looks barely thirty like this. She’s pale and looks stunned when she sees what she’s walked in on.
“Look who found their way out of their room. Do you know why?”
Horror washes over her features. A flurry of Spanish comes out of her mouth.
He answers quietly, also in Spanish, not looking at her, his eyes still on me. I’m still against the wall and his hand is an inch from my face, palm against the wall again.
She looks at me with horror. And remorse, I think.
She speaks quickly in Spanish but says a whole bunch of things that then ends with, “Por favor. Por favor.”
He backs off and then leans over, into his night table drawer and pulls a gun out.
I gasp.
He points it at her forehead. And then it’s touching her forehead.
I’m frozen. I can’t form a single word. He wouldn’t.
He cocks it, looks at me, I look at her horrified eyes, and then at his cold and angry eyes. And with his eyes on me, my eyes on her, he pulls the trigger. The sound makes my ears ring.
She drops.
I scream. I scream and scream and scream.
He’s on me. He’s pinned me, on my back, on his bed, the gun still in his hand. He looks down at me with crazy, scary eyes.
Tears are pooling so fast that I can barely see. His hand covers my mouth.
“Her stupidity could have cost me everything that matters. She deserved that.”
I’m hyperventilating. He lifts his hand.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! She didn’t tell me your name. It wasn’t her.” It’s too late, but I’m shouting it anyway.
“Shhh,” he covers my mouth with his free hand. He still has the gun. I can hardly breathe; my heart is about to burst out of my chest.
He runs his nose along my cheek and then his lips are on mine just for a beat in a soft closed-mouth kiss.
He leaves the gun on his bed as he scoops me up into his arms. He steps over Esmerelda’s body and carries me back to my bedroom.
He pulls the blankets over me and tucks me in. And then he softly, sweetly, kisses my forehead, his lips lingering for forever.
I’m shaking. I’m crying. And I’m feeling like my fragile and messed up world is crumbling.
“Sweet dreams, baby. Your birthday is soon. I look forward to it.”
***
The next morning, I’m in bed, I haven’t slept I don’t think, and there’s a knock on the door, and then an older lady, maybe in her late fifties or early sixties with graying dark hair comes in. She’s dressed in a dark blue maid’s uniform and black running shoes. She brings a breakfast tray. She doesn’t make eye contact with me. She puts the tray on my desk and leaves. I don’t hear the lock turn. But, I don’t check the door. I may never touch that doorknob again.
Instead, I swing my legs off the side of my bed and sit, facing that mirror. I see myself. Big blue eyes that are red and swollen. Long blonde hair a tangled mess. It’s my fault that he killed Esmerelda. She was my friend. Or, the closest thing to a friend I’ve had in two years.
She tried to cheer me up last night because I’d been sad. She’s been nothing but kind to me and he killed her to punish her for leaving my door unlocked, me for leaving my room, and also decided to kill her to show me who he is. A murderer. A murderer who is saving me to ruin me. Like a farmer saving a prized pig until it’s fat enough, for a special occasion.
That’s what I am. His prized little pig.
I start to weep again and get back under the blankets and pull the covers over my head. I don’t eat my breakfast. I don’t eat the lunch the lady brings me. I don’t get out of bed all day other than to go to the bathroom twice.
That night, I dream of home.
***
Before Mom turned bitter and fell off the wagon again, she loved Christmas.
Angels, cherubs, mistletoe. Everything Christmas. She named me Holly Noelle, after Christmas, and since I was born on the day after Christmas she told me, when I was little, that it made her so happy, that I was the best Christmas gift ever. She said she prayed I’d be born on Christmas and that was when she’d gone into labor. She had me just after midnight, so technically December 26th, but I was still her Christmas baby.
She loved the holidays so much that when I was little, before my daddy died, she had the house decorated for Christmas as soon as Halloween was over and didn’t take the decorations down until the end of January when she would decorate for Valentine’s Day. She had Christmas tea towels, a Christmas set of dishes, Santa bathmat, the list went on. She loved it. Until she didn’t. And then she really didn’t.
My dad died on Christmas Eve when I was little, though I remember him vividly and remember how happy he made her. And me. He was a big lumberjack of a man with blond hair and arms the size of tree trunks. He loved us both like crazy. He called me his little dimpled dumpling.
After he died in a hunting accident, she could barely look at me.
She told me, during a drunken stupor at the funeral home, that I looked like him and she couldn’t bear to look at me. She said she’d see all the hope and subsequent disappointment in my eyes.
I had his blonde hair, but I had her eyes. He left her, even though it wasn’t his fault, and she acted like he’d abandoned us. His sudden death turned her into an angry, bitter, drunk.
She was drunk from that moment on, for weeks. Longer. The only time she wasn’t drunk was when she was looking for a way to get drunk. And miserable. Always miserable.
Little did I know that she’d been an angry drunk before she met him, so her descent into that state of mind wasn’t slow and gradual. That was why it was almost instantaneous.
I later found out that Dad had gotten Mom clean, off booze and pills. Dad had set her on the right path. And she’d held on so tight that when she lost him, she shattered. And life changed. She stopped even putting up a tree after that. Stopped putting any effort into her appearance, our home, me.
I watched her circle the drain for over a year. The house didn’t get cleaned. She hardly even bought groceries. The lady next door often came in quietly with a plate of food at night for me after Mom went to sleep.
I got sick and Mom didn’t even take me to the doctor. At school, they had me admitted into the hospital due to my being sick and my mother talked them into giving me back. She was about to lose me to Child Protective Services when my sister came.
Until Ang came, I didn’t even know I had a sister. Mom hadn’t mentioned her. Mom’s ex-husband, Angelica’s dad, had died in an accident at work. They lived in South Carolina. And because she had no other family and her Dad hadn’t expected to die in his 30’s, he hadn’t made all the sorts of arrangements you make in the event of your death. So, Angie was sent to us.
I think Mom pulled herself together enough to get Angie so she could have Angie’s dad’s life insurance money. It didn’t take long for her to start circling the drain again. But this time, at least I wasn’t alone.
Angie. Angelica Elizabeth. Ang. My angel of mercy. Her father won sole custody when divorcing Mom for being an alcoholic who was abusive and neglectful to their daughter, and Mom reacted by moving far away, to Alaska to find a new husband. She’d heard that there was a shortage of women to men in Alaska and that was empowering. She met my dad, he got her clean, and she got pregnant with me. Life was good until he died. She pretended that she didn’t even have another family before me and Dad.
As sad as I was that my sister had lost her dad, too, losing him was what brought her to me. Despite being devastated about her dad dying and about having to move to what Ang called “The Frigid Frozen Tundra”, she stepped up immediately and appointed herself my caretaker.
She kept Mom at arm’s length and shielded me. This slowed her verbal assaults of me because she was too busy hurling insults at my sister. I heard Mom say, “Fuck off, Angelica,” at least a dozen times a week. At least once a month she’d say, “I wish I’d aborted you.” Or “Shoulda had that abortion your father paid for. Drank the money. Then poor Dave had to marry me once his daddy found out I had you in the oven. Poor sonofabitch, right? Right? Poor dead sonofabitch. Any poor sonofabitch that falls for Felicia ends up dead.”
Angie was strong. She didn’t let Mom get to her. She was like Teflon with Mom’s insults. I was in awe of her.
Mom didn’t take long to burn through that insurance money and things were rough. Really rough. Angie worked a part-time job as soon as someone would hire her and went to high school, cleaned the house as best as she could, cooked for me, helped me with homework, and did her best to shield me from Mom. I tried, too. I learned how to cook and clean and we just really didn’t need Mom. She kept a roof over our head but that was all she did. It was the two of us against the world.
But then, when I was 15, Ang 20, almost 21, she announced she had been offered the job she’d applied for in Thailand.
Angie didn’t want to leave me alone with Mom. But, the job offer was for a specific window of time. She was adventurous and she wanted to travel. It was a great opportunity and I didn’t want her to give up her dreams for her kid sister.
Mom overheard us talking, heard Ang and me mulling over my going to Charleston to stay with friends of Angie’s dad until she got back.
Mom lost it and threatened to have her arrested if she tried to take me out of the state.
Ang toyed with turning the job down, waiting and re-applying until I could get out of there, but I wouldn’t let her do that.
She then went on a mission and found my Dad’s mom, my Gran, who I’d met only a few times before Daddy died, and we hopped a ferry, then bus and train to get to Anchorage to visit her for a long weekend. Gran, a real spitfire, told me I was welcome to come stay with her and that she’d have no problem fighting to keep me if Mom raised a stink.
So, that’s what we came up with as a way to keep me from Mom’s craziness. I’d stay until I graduated high school and then I’d join Angie in South Carolina, on the farm her dad left in capable hands until she turned 21. At least he’d made that provision, if nothing else.
We were going to get far away from Alaska and Mom as soon as possible.
But it didn’t happen the way we planned.
I enjoyed just a few months with my Gran. She was nice, nurturing, not an addict. She told me stories about my Dad and it helped me feel closer to him.
But, she got very sick and then while in the hospital, she had a stroke. And I, as a minor, was sent back to Mom in Juneau before she got out of the hospital.
It makes me sick that Angie would probably never, ever know what happened to me. At first, after being kidnapped, I figured I was doomed because Mom wouldn’t deliver on ransom demands.
It didn’t take long for me to figure out that they’d never planned to ransom me at all. I figured I was just unlucky --- in the wrong place at a very wrong time. Some nasty bikers who partied with my mom had planned to do it. They grabbed me and threw me in a van and life changed.
For all this time, I’ve been kept in my gilded cage, in an ivory tower, of sorts, like Rapunzel awaiting her prince, growing her hair. But I don’t need my prince to rescue me. He already did. I want to rescue him.
I want the prince that runs this place, the prince who protects me. I thought he wanted me too. I thought maybe he was keeping me safe because he knew I was way too young, but instead of sending me away, maybe… it sounds stupid but I thought maybe, the way he looks at me, the way he rescued me from that fire, he really wants me: when I’m old enough… which will be soon.
I am a foolish little girl.
***
A week goes by, during which time I don’t get to leave my room. The new housekeeper points to herself the second morning and says, “Me Maria” and she hands me a notepad and a pen and I’m guessing it means I should write down anything I need.
I write down
- Spanish translation book or Spanish lessons (audio or video)
- Haircut
Thank you.
I hand it to her.
A week after Esmerelda died, Dr. Jimena knocks and enters. She’s been coming to my room for a while, rather than me go to her office.
She comes to my room with a cart filled with medical stuff and puts a bathroom scale on the floor.
She points to it. I step on.
She looks at me with worry in her eyes.
“You lost almost six pounds in just a few weeks. You’re already too slender. Why’re you losing weight? Maria says you barely eat.”
I shrug.
“You’re upset about things. I know this. I understand this. But you have to eat.” She touches my cheek sweetly and I break down and the tears start to flow.
She’s never been sweet and nurturing like Esmerelda has. Esmerelda wasn’t overly physical until near the end but she was affectionate, almost maternal, in her way. Dr. Jimena usually only shows me what she thinks with her eyes.
He’s here, in my room suddenly, and I gasp in fear when I see him. I jump behind her and grab at her lab coat. She stands there, doesn’t move. But then I’m suddenly afraid that he’s going to kill her, too, so I jump in front of her and block her like I’m protecting her. She takes me into a hug and strokes my hair.
“Hey, it’s okay.”
He says something in Spanish to her, sounding cold. She responds and it sounds like she’s snapping at him.
I bury my face in her lab coat. I’m shaking so hard.
“Holly!” she exclaims, putting a Kleenex in my hand, “Pull yourself together. Sit.”
He’s still standing there, in a burgundy suit, black tailored shirt open at his throat. His hair has been cut but it’s still overlong on top. He’s clean shaven today and his grey eyes are sharp and on me.
I can’t take my eyes off him. I’m in shock that he killed Esmerelda, that he’s standing there looking so put together, so handsome, when he is capable of doing something as awful as that.
I suddenly try to defend the dead woman. “She was only trying to cheer me up so she forgot to lock the door. It’s my fault. You should have killed me. I was bad, not her. I shouldn’t have left my room. And she didn’t tell me your name, even. I only, uh…heard it.”
As soon as these words come out of my mouth I wish I could snatch them back.
He’s glaring at me.
“I said it,” Jimena says, in a challenging way, guiding me to the chair and touching my shoulder until I sit.
He blows out a breath and says something softly to Jimena in Spanish. She says something back that sounds snarky to me and he glares at her as hard as he glared at me. She’s not afraid of him. I feel like warning her that she should be.
She wheels her cart out and leaves, looking back at me for a second and then blowing her hair out of her eyes, looking exasperated.
“The shot, Mena,” Alessandro says.
“I’ll give it to her next week,” she snaps and shuts the door saying, “There’s none here.”
“Bullshit,” he mutters.
I don’t know what any of that meant. I’m alone with him now and I’m sick to my stomach.
I was so wrong about him.
“Tomorrow, I need you to do something.”
I’m all ears. And nerves.
“I want you to have lunch with someone. Tessa Ferrano-Michaelson. She’s a young woman who is staying here a few days.”
I nod slowly, surprised. Suspicious.
“But you don’t reveal anything about yourself or about me.”
I’m a little thrown off.
“You say nothing about me, your situation, your past. None of it. Nothing that has happened here. And you can’t look at this as a means to escape.”
I blink.
He moves closer to me and I jolt as he cups my chin in his palm. The touch is so surprising, so disarming. I’m kind of in shock. His eyes are on me. They’re gentle. More gentle than I’ve seen from him so far.
“You haven’t even thought of escape, have you?” His thumb strokes my face.
My lips part and I blink some more. Processing what he’s said. He’s right. I haven’t really given escape much thought. It never seemed like an option.
I’ve always just worried about my sister worrying about me and worried about whether or not our mom was all right. I saw someone raped and I’ve seen people get killed and just tried to keep myself safe, so I didn’t ever consider doing something that might mean I’d fail and get myself raped or killed.
He leans down and his mouth is on my forehead. He keeps it there and his hand moves from my face to cup the back of my head. The tenderness, it makes me feel faint. I’m not sure how to process it.
“Do this lunch. Show me that you’re trustworthy. I’ll know if you say anything you shouldn’t.” He looks right into my eyes.
I nod. But I’m trembling like a leaf.
Who is he? Is he the cold hard murderer who plans to destroy me?
Or, is he the man who saved me from the fire, who keeps me safe because maybe deep down, he’s good?
A good man wouldn’t put Esmerelda to death for forgetting to lock my door. That sobering thought makes me stiffen.
I’m more confused than ever. And more afraid than I’ve been since I first got here.
“We’ll talk again after the lunch. I’m trusting that you’ll be a good girl,” he says. “You don’t want to disappoint me, Holly.”
He leans forward and his lips land on mine. For a moment, we’re frozen that way, his mouth on mine. His lips are soft. He sucks my bottom lip into his mouth for a beat and then has my face in both hands. It makes me dizzy.
“Soon,” he whispers against my mouth, dips his tongue in to touch the tip of mine, and then pulls back and puts his nose in my hair and takes a deep breath.
He leaves.
I’m simultaneously aroused, confused, and frozen with fear.