Tears of Tess

He licked his lips, worshipping awe and rapture in his gaze. “Je suis à toi.” I am yours.

I shook my head. “Nous sommes les uns des autres.” We are each other’s.

Epilogue

*Q Mercer*

*Twenty years ago*

Silence was my friend. Always had been. Probably always will be.

Somehow, the air carried me, killing any noise I made, turning me into a shadow. I moved with stealth—a ghost—a phantom. Never a peep—never a sound.

My parents lost me for two days once, and I never left the house. I disappeared inside the huge, rambling mansion we called home, drifting from room to room. Stealing food from the kitchen and camping inside giant, unused fireplaces.

Secrets were hard to keep hidden from a silent, inquisitive eight-year-old. I saw the truth of what went on, and it made me sick to my stomach.

My mother knew, but did nothing, preferring Peach Snapps and Baileys to my father. And my father preferred slaves to his wife.

I was five when I first heard the screams. Guttural calls for help, full of distress and heartache, followed by a horrible groan of pleasure and ecstasy.

That was the first day I slipped into the forbidden room, and watched my father beat and rape a girl. Her ass blazed red as he pumped into her from behind.

My little heart raced. I knew I shouldn’t see this. I didn’t understand it. Something bad was happening, but I was too naïve to know. But, on some level, I knew exactly what it was.

My father hurt a woman who didn’t want to be hurt. She hadn’t been naughty like I was sometimes. All she did was cry and curl into a ball. Yet my father beat her with fists and whips. Enjoying her cries, he turned into a purple faced baboon with pleasure.

The scene scarred my brain for life, irrevocably changing me. I went out of my way to be kind and gentle to every living thing. The cook caught me, time and time again, feeding birds, mice, and other woodland creatures.

My mother fell more and more in love with fruity smelling alcohol, leaving me motherless, with a rambling drunk.

All while my father amassed a stable.

He already had a stable full of cars: Bugatti, Audi, Ferrari, and Porsches. He owned a barn full of thoroughbreds and world cup racers. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted humans. Girls. Possessions.

On my eighth birthday, he brought home his twelfth filly. She kicked and screamed, until he punched her so hard she passed out. A full wing of the house was barricaded for his new acquisitions. No member of staff was permitted.

But I knew secrets he didn’t. Hidden passageways in the walls—no lock could keep me out.

I watched from air ducting and wall cavities. My stomach twisted as I saw sick, foul acts committed against fragile women.

Rather than suffer boyhood excitement, a thrill of shame coated my life. I wallowed in guilt. My own flesh and blood ruined lives of others. Stealing their freedom and turning them into broken belongings.

I never loved my father, but day by day, my hatred for him grew. I hated that he’d created me. I wanted nothing to do with him. I wanted him gone.

On my thirteenth birthday, I broke into the stable while my father wasn’t there.

The girls all looked up with red-rimmed eyes and fright. I didn’t know why I went. To offer sympathy? Comfort? It seemed so stupid, standing there. I offered to bring them anything they wanted—to steal food from the kitchen, anything to take that hopelessness from their eyes. But they wailed and hid; running from a scrawny thirteen-year-old boy.

Their fear stank, and I couldn’t stand to be there any longer. But I owed them something, anything—it was my father who ruined them—it was my place to make it right. “Please. I don’t mean to hurt you.” My balls hadn’t dropped; my voice sounded as high as their whimpers for help.

Not one of the girls came near me that day, but I saw their bruises, the shadows under their eyes, the haunting emptiness in their souls. I couldn’t stay away.

The next day I returned and uttered the one word I swore I never would. The word my father used a lot. “Esclave, obey me.”

Immediately, the girls stiffened, dropping to their knees. All twelve bowed, long hair, all different colours, kissing the ground.

That was the day I learned the word broken. They were broken. Completely. And I couldn’t stand it. With one command, they were mine, and I hated their weakness as much as I hated my father for creating such miserable creatures.

I ordered, “Crawl to me.”

Sounds of skin rubbing against carpet as the circle of na**d slaves obeyed.

“Stop.” They did. Immediately. Total obedience.

Standing in a circle of women, I made a vow. I would help them. No one should be broken beyond repair. No other human had the right to steal their life.

I would become their saviour, and rehabilitate them back to sanity.

* * * * *

Three years passed before I got hold of an untraceable gun. Boarding school in London allowed me to mingle with rich, bored kids with mean connections. Criminals hung around the wealthy like flies to rotten meat, and I took advantage.

I earned a reputation for being closed off and angry. When really, I plotted constantly how to bring my father to justice. My family’s reputation preceded him and people feared me. Feared my power, my own legacy of a ruthless tycoon.

I did nothing to disillusion them. Fear was a powerful weapon—I knew. I saw how fear ruled my father’s women.

Two weeks later, school holidays came around. I travelled home on the train, with my leather bound suitcase and a heavy black gun in my waist band.

I hated going home. There was nothing there for me. Only the undying need for vengeance.

My mother had died a year before from alcohol poisoning, leaving me vacant. She was my mother, but never paid attention to her only son. I wasn’t bourbon or Shiraz, therefore I wasn’t important.

Mrs. Sucre welcomed me home, and I holed away in my room, cleaning my new possession. Staring at shiny brass bullets, I welcomed anger and rage.

At two in the morning, I went hunting. Night was my father’s playtime hours. I knew where to find him.

I sneaked with the silence, fingers tight around the new purchase.

The whimpers of girls punched me in the chest. Soon. Soon you’ll be free. I knew they’d thank me for what I was about to do. My own sanity would thank me. Soon, I wouldn’t have to live with guilt that I allowed my father to continue hurting so many innocent women.

My father never heard a thing.