I rubbed my eyes not sure as to where I was. A strange face was peering over me. "Are you all right?" a male voice said. It sounded as if I was trying to listen through syrup, his voice was low and garbled. I thought I knew that sound, the slurred speech could only ean one thing.
I screamed. How had he gotten here? Why was he still torturing me after his death?
"Shhhh...it's all right," heard the voice again. "You'll be ok." A hand reached out and stroked my forehead. I suddenly remembered. it was Michael, it wasn't him. I had fainted and now Michael was here. Strangely that thought comforted me.
"I thought you were him," I said looking up into his face. His eyes were warm, inviting. "I thought you were him," I repeated. Michael took his hand from my forehead and pulled me to him. His hand rubbed my back in circles. He knew just how to comfort someone, just how to make them feel safe.
I felt like a child, crying on his shoulder and all, but suddenly I didn't care that I was crying. I couldn't stop the tears and for the first time in my life I didn't care if I could or not. A feeling of relief swept over me as each tear poured from me.
After I had fainted Michael must have carried me to my bed. Now I was happy I had the soft cushioning underneath my still weak body. Michael continued to hold me and whisper softly.
"I'm sorry," I finally managed. I felt like such an idiot. The feeling of freedom fled and I retreated from him. He let go hesitantly.
"For what? For screaming? For crying? For having a bastard father? I don't see anything you should be sorry for," he said. I still pulled away. Why did he have to be so rational? Didn't he know it was all my fault, everything was. I was a whore, addicted to men. I needed them.
And "he" had convinced me they needed me, even though I could see it in their eyes that they didn't. The cold stare they gave me, the look of disgust. But I looked past it. I was trash, he told me so every time he came to me. I deserved it. I let him in every night. I let him take me over and over. I let him steal my innocence, my soul. I belonged back in New York, on the street corner I was raised on or in some anonymous guy's bed with my legs spread open for the world to get inside or with "him" beating me, stringing curses together with my name.
I pulled away and tried to run to the bathroom, but he caught my arm and pulled me back to him. I struggled. Was this the way it was always going to be? Would I always have to struggle to keep my independence? Would I always have to run and hide? I hit him hard in the chest. He looked miffed but he didn't let go of me. I felt his arms once again embrace me and again I was powerless against him.
"You need to cry, it's ok to cry," he whispered. I couldn't look at him, but I didn't have to see his face to know that he was crying. I didn't want to cry, not again. It was pointless. "It's ok," his voice came out hoarse and strangled. I felt his shirt begin to dampen with my tears, and the back of mine with his. I was safe once more.
For the second time that night I had found my salvation. If only I could hold onto it. I wanted to. I wanted to stay warm in his arms until my tear ducts were dry. But my head was screaming. I had gone to battle with every instinct I had ever known and I was losing. I gave one more push against him. My head told me to get out of his arms, to run as far away as I could. But I was too weak to fight anymore. The battle within me was threatening my body.
Michael just continued to hold me tight. I think he was afraid to let go. His tears were slowing but mine were just flowing harder. He didn't talk, he didn't move. Never had I been in a room so quite so still, at least not with another person. And by myself I couldn't stand the silence. But now I invited it. I wanted to fall asleep in Michael's arms.
As the thought crossed my mind he slipped off his shoes, careful not to move me. And laid down on my bed. He pulled me up close to him. I could hear the rhythm of his heart. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. I looked up at him and smiled, and he smiled down at me.
"How did you know?" I whispered, wiping the last of the salty teardrops off my face. I don't know why I was whispering, my mother wasn't coming home tonight. I would see her at work tomorrow and that would be that. That's how it was when she had a date I quickly learned. She wanted me to go on dates, but I was far from the dating type of girl. Plus men scared me, well all except Michael.
"I'll tell you later," he said in a normal tone. I guess he wasn't even scared if my mom did come home. My mom liked him, but if she found him in my bed with me I know that relationship would be over. She was very protective, as a mother should be. I was sorry I missed ten years with her. Maybe she could have helped me. But I would have been too scared, too ashamed, to let her know anyway.
"Go to sleep."
"No," I said firmly.
"You're tired," he said.
"Who are you to tell me when I'm tired and when I'm not? There you go with that caring stuff again." It was all a mask, all a fucking mask. I was flattered that he cared, but I needed to know. I needed to know if I had said anything, or done something that let him know. This was my secret, not his. My past, not his.
"Maria there are people in this world who have an organ called the heart. It let's you love people." His tone was patronizing and it angered me. I pulled back from him and looked at him with a stone cold face.
"That's bullshit. You don't love with a frickin organ. You love with your emotions, it's part of your brain."
"Well than use it."
"Bastard," I screamed before I knew what I was doing. "Tell me how you know, tell me how you know." I shook him with all the strength I had left. He let me do it. He let me punch him and shake him until I started crying again. He let me curse his bloody name until I was breathless and weak. He let me scream until I was hoarse. And all the while he just sat in front of me staring. I let out all my anger on him.
I let out ten years of anger and rage, and then collapsed into a pile on the bed. I had used up every emotion I knew, every one I was trained to use. And there was nothing left inside of me, nothing left but organs and blood.
"How did you know?" I repeated. Trying to pretend nothing had happened. "How?" I insisted.
Michael breathed deep. I laid down against him. He must have thought I was a psycho patient, schizophrenic. "You let me see," he simply said. I started to sit up but decided against it. He had been through enough abuse tonight. And I didn't want to end up like all the people I had ever known, abusers of their lovers. But Michael wasn't my lover. He wasn't my friend. He was the boy next door who wouldn't leave me alone, he was an alien…and I had a major crush.
"Are you a mind reader?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. If he was…well I didn't want to think about that.
"No. But I can get images and feelings. That first time I touched you, when you were sleeping, your mind was open…" his voice trailed off.
"What did you see?" I no longer cared how he saw it. It scared me that he could see inside me, that he could find my secrets. "Is that why you looked scared of me? Why you let go of me like I burned you?"
"Slow down," he said, but I barely heard him over the whirling thoughts in my head. Thoughts were supposed to be private, not open for reading by some random alien off the street. I couldn't possibly slow down. What would he think of me if he knew the whole story? What if he found me out? How could he ever look at me again without disgust or hatred? How could I ever live here if they all knew?
"Maria," he said shaking me. My mind was still spinning, the noise of my thoughts drowning out his voice. My head was pounding and my mouth was dry, but I pressed him for answers. I could hear my voice pushing through my vocal chords, high and nervous.
"What did you see? What did you see?" I chanted. My father had driven me crazy. My body was sweating and I fought to keep from fainting once again.
I concentrated on Michael's face, his eyes like the light at the end of the tunnel. I wasn't ready for heaven, earth was where I belonged. But I was hanging onto a thread, Michael was the only thing keeping me grounded.
"Maria…you…" I could see his mouth moving but words didn't make sense to me. But his words were calling me back. My breath was slowing and my head came to a halt. My life felt like the tide of a sea, my emotions coming in and out on waves and I had no control to stop them. Some deep force within me pulled them in and then let them go.
"Maria, are you ok?" Michael asked for the hundredth time since I'd met him. "You just blacked out. It was like you left your body."
"Sorry, I'm all right," I said. "What did you see?" I repeated making sure he hadn't forgotten. I could feel the tide pulling away farther and my body was growing weak. But I needed to know the answer before another wave crashed over my brain, before I scared him away. I was surprised he had stayed this long.
" Are you sure you're all right?" His eyes were searching for contact with mine, but I wouldn't let him look into them. If eyes were really the windows to the soul I didn't want him looking inside and I couldn't find the blinds to block the view. The lights were on and it was dark outside, and that always makes it easiest to see the secrets behind the panes of glass.
"Yes," I said, playing with the corner of my comforter. I had never sat in a bed with a guy, just sat and talked. It was nice. It felt normal, like everything was supposed to be. Not twisted, like I was inside. If I couldn't be normal, at least I could participate in it.
"I saw darkness the first time. But there was a fear that filled the darkness. Then you closed yourself off, guarded me from reaching you." He paused and breathed deep. I could tell he was looking at me, trying to gauge my reaction to what he was saying. But what was I supposed to think. These were my feelings, at least that's what he said. I just kept playing with my blanket, praying that he hadn't seen anything worse than that.
"And the second time?"
Michael took another deep breath. "The second time you were angry with me and you let go of your shield. It was worse the second time. The fear wasn't there, but there was pain and screams. I could feel the screams vibrating through me, though I couldn't hear them." There was a thickness in his voice as he spoke and I thought he was going to cry again. "There was a man there." He stopped as if he forgot what he was going to say.
I waited for him to continue but he didn't. I finally looked up and he was watching me.
"Who was he Maria?" he asked, his voice pleading with me. I didn't know someone could care so much, especially for someone they just met.
"The man? I couldn't tell you. There's been too many. Maybe you saw my father, maybe not." I didn't know what else to tell him. I couldn't lie. I knew what he saw, I knew exactly who it was. But I couldn't tell him that. I couldn't tell him it was the only time I screamed, it was the only time I'd felt pain. It was my father…my first time.
But he saw it. He saw straight through my lie. And this time I knew it wasn't his alien powers that told him. I couldn't lie to Michael. He took every defense I had set up from me and left me naked and exposed. There were no walls left when I was around him, and my eyes were transparent, letting him inside to see every secret. And it scared me. I didn't know how to survive without protection. I didn't know how to keep other's from knowing. If he knew they all would. There was no way to stay away from prying eyes, not here in Roswell. At least in the city I was invisible. No one cared how I earned my money.
"It was your father," he stated for me. I nodded glad that I did not have to make the admission with words. My voice wouldn't have held up. "It's all right. You can tell me."
I hadn't wanted to say anything. I willed myself to keep it to myself, but things were starting to happen inside me tonight. Locks were opening to doors that I had shut when I was seven. I was finding keys I had lost ten years ago and he had helped me. And when he asked me to tell him I found the key to the oldest door of my soul. The door opened and my story poured out of my mouth.
Slowly I told him about my life in New York. How my father had bribed me with false promises to go with him to the city. I told him about the night he saw, the first time my father came to me. I told him how my father had taken my innocence at seven years old. Michael looked at me with pity and concern. I looked away, not wanting his sympathy. I just wanted to get through the whole story.
"He came to me that night, the first one in our new apartment. He told me what a good girl I was for following him, for keeping him company. And when I cried and asked if I'd see Mommy again soon he stroked my hair and told me my mother was not worthy of me. I still remember every word he spoke, and the soft voice he used.
"And when the tears flowed harder he told me to stop. He slapped me, and I screamed. He told me I was just like my mother, weak. He told me he should have known I was a whore just like her. 'Is that what you want?' he asked me. 'You're just like her. Now you'll see how it feels. I'll make you stop crying, bitch. I'll teach you a lesson you'll never forget.
"I remember the dark look in his eyes as he yelled at me. I remember the way he hissed at me. I screamed and tried to get away, but he held me down, bruising my shoulders. He cursed at my efforts to break free and I finally lay still. I had never heard words so mean sounding, so cruel. I thought something had taken over my father, possessed him.
"But I realized this was how he always was. That was how he had treated my mother, and she had taken it. Until I was seven. Then she left me with him. I don't think she thought he was capable of that cruelty, not to his own daughter.
"He tore my pajamas that night. I asked him if I would get new ones, he ignored me. But he tore more than just my pajamas and I cried. When he was finished he left without a word and I ran to the bathroom. I was only seven, but I knew what he was doing was wrong. I couldn't stop him. And after a while I stopped trying, I stopped wanting to."
I stopped and looked up to see if he was still there. He was, and I could see tears shimmering in his eyes. There was no disgust in them, no hatred. He didn't speak. He knew I needed time. I didn't need to tell him, he just read it off him. And I could read his emotions too. It was a connection we had formed.
"And it continued every night. Sometimes he came home drunk and he would beat me if I didn't have dinner ready. He would scream until I took my clothes off and brought him to bed with the promise of myself. Most of the time he passed out, sometimes he didn't.
"He convinced me that I needed him. And every time I wanted to leave I reminded myself it could have been worse. Though I don't see how looking back on it now. I don't see how I was so naïve and stupid. But I was afraid. Afraid of what he'd do if I left.
"When I was twelve he sold me. He threw me to the sharks. I still lived with him, but now I had to work for him. 'Earn your keep, slut,' he had hissed. And when I protested he slapped me. I was used to the black and blue marks covering my arms, and sometimes my legs. My clients didn't care. I was there to please them, to give them what they wanted, collect my pay and leave. I was a prostitute, just another form of garbage.
"And then he died. He had ruined some woman's career or something and she shot him. I wish I could say I did it. I wish I could have murdered him. Revenge is sweet, I don't care what they tell you. But I didn't kill him. Some other woman did. He didn't pay enough. I can never forgive that woman for killing him. Not because I loved him, not because I missed him, but because I should have done it. I should have been the one with the gun in my hand, laughing as his blood spilled onto our carpet. I should have been the one who had him begging on his knees for his life. It should have been me."
I couldn't look up this time. I was too scared of his reaction. He had understood that it wasn't my fault I was raped. He had understood I didn't want to be abused, so I just gave up. But how could he understand such a death as the one I described? How could he understand the hate that boiled within me? How could he understand my bloodlust?
"Maria," he said. And I was forced to look at him. And in an instant I knew he understood it all. I leaned forward and kissed him. My lips were hungry for him. And he let me slip my arms around him and sink into his embrace. He kissed me back gently. Then he laid me down next to him and kissed my forehead. And I fell asleep to the whisper of his breadth and the warm read light of the alarm clock.
I screamed. How had he gotten here? Why was he still torturing me after his death?
"Shhhh...it's all right," heard the voice again. "You'll be ok." A hand reached out and stroked my forehead. I suddenly remembered. it was Michael, it wasn't him. I had fainted and now Michael was here. Strangely that thought comforted me.
"I thought you were him," I said looking up into his face. His eyes were warm, inviting. "I thought you were him," I repeated. Michael took his hand from my forehead and pulled me to him. His hand rubbed my back in circles. He knew just how to comfort someone, just how to make them feel safe.
I felt like a child, crying on his shoulder and all, but suddenly I didn't care that I was crying. I couldn't stop the tears and for the first time in my life I didn't care if I could or not. A feeling of relief swept over me as each tear poured from me.
After I had fainted Michael must have carried me to my bed. Now I was happy I had the soft cushioning underneath my still weak body. Michael continued to hold me and whisper softly.
"I'm sorry," I finally managed. I felt like such an idiot. The feeling of freedom fled and I retreated from him. He let go hesitantly.
"For what? For screaming? For crying? For having a bastard father? I don't see anything you should be sorry for," he said. I still pulled away. Why did he have to be so rational? Didn't he know it was all my fault, everything was. I was a whore, addicted to men. I needed them.
And "he" had convinced me they needed me, even though I could see it in their eyes that they didn't. The cold stare they gave me, the look of disgust. But I looked past it. I was trash, he told me so every time he came to me. I deserved it. I let him in every night. I let him take me over and over. I let him steal my innocence, my soul. I belonged back in New York, on the street corner I was raised on or in some anonymous guy's bed with my legs spread open for the world to get inside or with "him" beating me, stringing curses together with my name.
I pulled away and tried to run to the bathroom, but he caught my arm and pulled me back to him. I struggled. Was this the way it was always going to be? Would I always have to struggle to keep my independence? Would I always have to run and hide? I hit him hard in the chest. He looked miffed but he didn't let go of me. I felt his arms once again embrace me and again I was powerless against him.
"You need to cry, it's ok to cry," he whispered. I couldn't look at him, but I didn't have to see his face to know that he was crying. I didn't want to cry, not again. It was pointless. "It's ok," his voice came out hoarse and strangled. I felt his shirt begin to dampen with my tears, and the back of mine with his. I was safe once more.
For the second time that night I had found my salvation. If only I could hold onto it. I wanted to. I wanted to stay warm in his arms until my tear ducts were dry. But my head was screaming. I had gone to battle with every instinct I had ever known and I was losing. I gave one more push against him. My head told me to get out of his arms, to run as far away as I could. But I was too weak to fight anymore. The battle within me was threatening my body.
Michael just continued to hold me tight. I think he was afraid to let go. His tears were slowing but mine were just flowing harder. He didn't talk, he didn't move. Never had I been in a room so quite so still, at least not with another person. And by myself I couldn't stand the silence. But now I invited it. I wanted to fall asleep in Michael's arms.
As the thought crossed my mind he slipped off his shoes, careful not to move me. And laid down on my bed. He pulled me up close to him. I could hear the rhythm of his heart. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. I looked up at him and smiled, and he smiled down at me.
"How did you know?" I whispered, wiping the last of the salty teardrops off my face. I don't know why I was whispering, my mother wasn't coming home tonight. I would see her at work tomorrow and that would be that. That's how it was when she had a date I quickly learned. She wanted me to go on dates, but I was far from the dating type of girl. Plus men scared me, well all except Michael.
"I'll tell you later," he said in a normal tone. I guess he wasn't even scared if my mom did come home. My mom liked him, but if she found him in my bed with me I know that relationship would be over. She was very protective, as a mother should be. I was sorry I missed ten years with her. Maybe she could have helped me. But I would have been too scared, too ashamed, to let her know anyway.
"Go to sleep."
"No," I said firmly.
"You're tired," he said.
"Who are you to tell me when I'm tired and when I'm not? There you go with that caring stuff again." It was all a mask, all a fucking mask. I was flattered that he cared, but I needed to know. I needed to know if I had said anything, or done something that let him know. This was my secret, not his. My past, not his.
"Maria there are people in this world who have an organ called the heart. It let's you love people." His tone was patronizing and it angered me. I pulled back from him and looked at him with a stone cold face.
"That's bullshit. You don't love with a frickin organ. You love with your emotions, it's part of your brain."
"Well than use it."
"Bastard," I screamed before I knew what I was doing. "Tell me how you know, tell me how you know." I shook him with all the strength I had left. He let me do it. He let me punch him and shake him until I started crying again. He let me curse his bloody name until I was breathless and weak. He let me scream until I was hoarse. And all the while he just sat in front of me staring. I let out all my anger on him.
I let out ten years of anger and rage, and then collapsed into a pile on the bed. I had used up every emotion I knew, every one I was trained to use. And there was nothing left inside of me, nothing left but organs and blood.
"How did you know?" I repeated. Trying to pretend nothing had happened. "How?" I insisted.
Michael breathed deep. I laid down against him. He must have thought I was a psycho patient, schizophrenic. "You let me see," he simply said. I started to sit up but decided against it. He had been through enough abuse tonight. And I didn't want to end up like all the people I had ever known, abusers of their lovers. But Michael wasn't my lover. He wasn't my friend. He was the boy next door who wouldn't leave me alone, he was an alien…and I had a major crush.
"Are you a mind reader?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. If he was…well I didn't want to think about that.
"No. But I can get images and feelings. That first time I touched you, when you were sleeping, your mind was open…" his voice trailed off.
"What did you see?" I no longer cared how he saw it. It scared me that he could see inside me, that he could find my secrets. "Is that why you looked scared of me? Why you let go of me like I burned you?"
"Slow down," he said, but I barely heard him over the whirling thoughts in my head. Thoughts were supposed to be private, not open for reading by some random alien off the street. I couldn't possibly slow down. What would he think of me if he knew the whole story? What if he found me out? How could he ever look at me again without disgust or hatred? How could I ever live here if they all knew?
"Maria," he said shaking me. My mind was still spinning, the noise of my thoughts drowning out his voice. My head was pounding and my mouth was dry, but I pressed him for answers. I could hear my voice pushing through my vocal chords, high and nervous.
"What did you see? What did you see?" I chanted. My father had driven me crazy. My body was sweating and I fought to keep from fainting once again.
I concentrated on Michael's face, his eyes like the light at the end of the tunnel. I wasn't ready for heaven, earth was where I belonged. But I was hanging onto a thread, Michael was the only thing keeping me grounded.
"Maria…you…" I could see his mouth moving but words didn't make sense to me. But his words were calling me back. My breath was slowing and my head came to a halt. My life felt like the tide of a sea, my emotions coming in and out on waves and I had no control to stop them. Some deep force within me pulled them in and then let them go.
"Maria, are you ok?" Michael asked for the hundredth time since I'd met him. "You just blacked out. It was like you left your body."
"Sorry, I'm all right," I said. "What did you see?" I repeated making sure he hadn't forgotten. I could feel the tide pulling away farther and my body was growing weak. But I needed to know the answer before another wave crashed over my brain, before I scared him away. I was surprised he had stayed this long.
" Are you sure you're all right?" His eyes were searching for contact with mine, but I wouldn't let him look into them. If eyes were really the windows to the soul I didn't want him looking inside and I couldn't find the blinds to block the view. The lights were on and it was dark outside, and that always makes it easiest to see the secrets behind the panes of glass.
"Yes," I said, playing with the corner of my comforter. I had never sat in a bed with a guy, just sat and talked. It was nice. It felt normal, like everything was supposed to be. Not twisted, like I was inside. If I couldn't be normal, at least I could participate in it.
"I saw darkness the first time. But there was a fear that filled the darkness. Then you closed yourself off, guarded me from reaching you." He paused and breathed deep. I could tell he was looking at me, trying to gauge my reaction to what he was saying. But what was I supposed to think. These were my feelings, at least that's what he said. I just kept playing with my blanket, praying that he hadn't seen anything worse than that.
"And the second time?"
Michael took another deep breath. "The second time you were angry with me and you let go of your shield. It was worse the second time. The fear wasn't there, but there was pain and screams. I could feel the screams vibrating through me, though I couldn't hear them." There was a thickness in his voice as he spoke and I thought he was going to cry again. "There was a man there." He stopped as if he forgot what he was going to say.
I waited for him to continue but he didn't. I finally looked up and he was watching me.
"Who was he Maria?" he asked, his voice pleading with me. I didn't know someone could care so much, especially for someone they just met.
"The man? I couldn't tell you. There's been too many. Maybe you saw my father, maybe not." I didn't know what else to tell him. I couldn't lie. I knew what he saw, I knew exactly who it was. But I couldn't tell him that. I couldn't tell him it was the only time I screamed, it was the only time I'd felt pain. It was my father…my first time.
But he saw it. He saw straight through my lie. And this time I knew it wasn't his alien powers that told him. I couldn't lie to Michael. He took every defense I had set up from me and left me naked and exposed. There were no walls left when I was around him, and my eyes were transparent, letting him inside to see every secret. And it scared me. I didn't know how to survive without protection. I didn't know how to keep other's from knowing. If he knew they all would. There was no way to stay away from prying eyes, not here in Roswell. At least in the city I was invisible. No one cared how I earned my money.
"It was your father," he stated for me. I nodded glad that I did not have to make the admission with words. My voice wouldn't have held up. "It's all right. You can tell me."
I hadn't wanted to say anything. I willed myself to keep it to myself, but things were starting to happen inside me tonight. Locks were opening to doors that I had shut when I was seven. I was finding keys I had lost ten years ago and he had helped me. And when he asked me to tell him I found the key to the oldest door of my soul. The door opened and my story poured out of my mouth.
Slowly I told him about my life in New York. How my father had bribed me with false promises to go with him to the city. I told him about the night he saw, the first time my father came to me. I told him how my father had taken my innocence at seven years old. Michael looked at me with pity and concern. I looked away, not wanting his sympathy. I just wanted to get through the whole story.
"He came to me that night, the first one in our new apartment. He told me what a good girl I was for following him, for keeping him company. And when I cried and asked if I'd see Mommy again soon he stroked my hair and told me my mother was not worthy of me. I still remember every word he spoke, and the soft voice he used.
"And when the tears flowed harder he told me to stop. He slapped me, and I screamed. He told me I was just like my mother, weak. He told me he should have known I was a whore just like her. 'Is that what you want?' he asked me. 'You're just like her. Now you'll see how it feels. I'll make you stop crying, bitch. I'll teach you a lesson you'll never forget.
"I remember the dark look in his eyes as he yelled at me. I remember the way he hissed at me. I screamed and tried to get away, but he held me down, bruising my shoulders. He cursed at my efforts to break free and I finally lay still. I had never heard words so mean sounding, so cruel. I thought something had taken over my father, possessed him.
"But I realized this was how he always was. That was how he had treated my mother, and she had taken it. Until I was seven. Then she left me with him. I don't think she thought he was capable of that cruelty, not to his own daughter.
"He tore my pajamas that night. I asked him if I would get new ones, he ignored me. But he tore more than just my pajamas and I cried. When he was finished he left without a word and I ran to the bathroom. I was only seven, but I knew what he was doing was wrong. I couldn't stop him. And after a while I stopped trying, I stopped wanting to."
I stopped and looked up to see if he was still there. He was, and I could see tears shimmering in his eyes. There was no disgust in them, no hatred. He didn't speak. He knew I needed time. I didn't need to tell him, he just read it off him. And I could read his emotions too. It was a connection we had formed.
"And it continued every night. Sometimes he came home drunk and he would beat me if I didn't have dinner ready. He would scream until I took my clothes off and brought him to bed with the promise of myself. Most of the time he passed out, sometimes he didn't.
"He convinced me that I needed him. And every time I wanted to leave I reminded myself it could have been worse. Though I don't see how looking back on it now. I don't see how I was so naïve and stupid. But I was afraid. Afraid of what he'd do if I left.
"When I was twelve he sold me. He threw me to the sharks. I still lived with him, but now I had to work for him. 'Earn your keep, slut,' he had hissed. And when I protested he slapped me. I was used to the black and blue marks covering my arms, and sometimes my legs. My clients didn't care. I was there to please them, to give them what they wanted, collect my pay and leave. I was a prostitute, just another form of garbage.
"And then he died. He had ruined some woman's career or something and she shot him. I wish I could say I did it. I wish I could have murdered him. Revenge is sweet, I don't care what they tell you. But I didn't kill him. Some other woman did. He didn't pay enough. I can never forgive that woman for killing him. Not because I loved him, not because I missed him, but because I should have done it. I should have been the one with the gun in my hand, laughing as his blood spilled onto our carpet. I should have been the one who had him begging on his knees for his life. It should have been me."
I couldn't look up this time. I was too scared of his reaction. He had understood that it wasn't my fault I was raped. He had understood I didn't want to be abused, so I just gave up. But how could he understand such a death as the one I described? How could he understand the hate that boiled within me? How could he understand my bloodlust?
"Maria," he said. And I was forced to look at him. And in an instant I knew he understood it all. I leaned forward and kissed him. My lips were hungry for him. And he let me slip my arms around him and sink into his embrace. He kissed me back gently. Then he laid me down next to him and kissed my forehead. And I fell asleep to the whisper of his breadth and the warm read light of the alarm clock.