25
Amy
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The sound of my phone vibrating on the nightstand woke me from a peaceful sleep. My eyes creaked open, hesitant to take on the rays of sunlight head on. I tried to sit up to grab my phone, but my waist was wrapped in a strong, warm chain. I glanced down to see Sonic's arm wrapped tightly around my waist. His eyes were still closed, and soft snores were escaping his nose. Carefully, as not to wake him, I reached out as far as I could to grab my phone. Papa's name was lit across the lock screen.
"Hey Papa," I answered quietly.
"Good morning, princesa. Are you next door? Benny went to check your room, and you weren't there."
"Yeah. I was still asleep. I'm sorry." I briefly pulled the phone away from my ear to glance at the time. It was almost 11:00. My brother, when we'd made these plans, promised he'd pick me up around 12. "I'll be right over," I told my father before hanging up the phone.
Gently, I grabbed one of Sonic's wrists and tried to unwind his arm from around my waist.
His hold tightened from the movement. His brows came together as he stirred in his sleep. "No," he murmured. "Stay."
"I've gotta go," I told him. Although I would've loved nothing more than to stay cuddled up with him for the rest of the morning, I couldn't avoid speaking to my mother any longer. I needed to hear whatever she needed to say, take it with a grain of salt, and move on with my life. Nothing she could say could heal the wounds she'd inflicted, but like Sonic had said: I couldn't keep nursing them. Not when there were so many opportunities for healing and acceptance and love around me. If anything, this conversation would bring her closure. Not me. And somehow, I was perfectly fine with that.
"Will you come back later?" He asked as his eyes cracked open the slightest bit.
"Yeah. We'll hang out later," I promised.
"Mhm."
I pecked a kiss at his temple. "I'll see you later. Love you."
"Te amo," he mumbled, his eyes closing.
His arms finally released me, and I reluctantly climbed out of the bed.
With his clothes still hanging off of my body, I gathered my discarded outfit and climbed out of his window. I hurried down the fire escape to my own window and stepped into my room.
My fathers were sitting on my bed, waiting expectantly for me.
Papa's eyes raked over Sonic's clothes on me and his eyebrow rose.
Blushing, I flashed them an innocent smile. "Good morning," she said. "I stayed with Sonic last night."
"So we see," Benny said.
"I'm sorry I didn't text you guys. I had the message typed, but I just forgot to hit send." Sonic's strong arms around my waist and his warm lips at my neck being the distraction that deterred my actions. The blush on my cheeks deepened from the memory. "Am I in trouble?"
"Not necessarily," Papa said. "We just need to set a few ground rules since you and your boyfriend have such easy access to each other's rooms."
I raised an eyebrow. "What kind of rules?"
"While we're fine with you sleeping over there and him vice versa, we need to ensure your safety. So, you need to text us when you're staying over there or when he's staying over here. We'll grant you privacy while he's over, but don't take advantage of it. If you and Sonic are going to be…active, then we need you to be safe."
Daddy tossed me a box of condoms. "We had an extra box of these in the closet."
The box fumbled between my hands and fell on the floor like a hot potato. "Daddy!" I exclaimed. "We're not having sex!"
Daddy put a hand to his heart. "Oh thank God!"
I couldn't help but giggle at his dramatic response.
Papa nodded his head towards the door. "Go take a shower," he commanded softly. "We know you have a tough day ahead of you."
I offered my fathers a smile before heading out into the hallway. I locked myself in the bathroom and hopped into the shower. Silently, I wished the melodies of Sza's new album and the hot water falling from the shower head could push away the dark clouds creeping over my mind. My stomach lurched and clenched into familiar knots as I thought of all the directions this conversation could go. The optimistic roads rarely crossed my mind. After eight years of absolute torture, I just knew nothing good was going to come out of that woman's mouth. How could someone who verbally abused, beat, scarred, and degraded her own daughter suddenly turn into a remorseful soul seeking redemption? Wyatt may be buying her little sob story, but I'm sure not. I don't care for her reconciliation - only answers to the questions I've held since my brain stopped operating in perpetual fear.
Wyatt was waiting outside for me by the time I was finished getting ready. He leaned against his Silver Audi with his hands in his pockets and his lips pressed in a soft line. At the sight of me, he offered a tiny smile - a feigned one that I knew all too well.
As we were driving to the correctional facility, I realized that I'd never cared to ask about Wyatt's relationship with our mother after the trial. I'd been too caught up with the aftermath of feeling betrayed and abandoned by him. It was news to me the last time we saw each other that his father had been the one to force him to lie on the stand. All those years, I swore our mother coerced him into it. Now, knowing that it was his father who made him do it, I wondered how he felt about her.
Did he hate her? Did he fear her? Did he see some good in her? Did they ever have a healthy relationship?
Growing up, I rarely watched them interact with each other. Wyatt was with me most of the time when we were kids. The only time we were separated was when he spent time at his father's house or during my punishments. Where did that leave time for the two of them?
I remembered our mother did favor Wyatt over me - considering he wasn't the one being beaten every day. At the social parties she hosted, she'd always brag about how smart he was and his array of academic accolades. She'd gloat over his accomplishments with a glowing smile and proud ambiance. But, I don't remember any exchange of kind words or even a mutual smile between the two of them. Was our mother truly proud of her golden boy or were her boasts yet another opportunity to pretend to be mother of the year in front of the public?
I glanced at the line on Wyatt's lips and immediately received my answer.
The correctional center didn't look much like a prison. The building was a tall skyscraper shaped like a right triangle; small slits covered the bronze colored metal. If I hadn't known such cruel humans occupied the space, I might've thought the building was beautiful.
I stayed close to Wyatt as we walked through the quiet lobby of the prison.
He spoke quietly to the guard at the front desk, seeming familiar with the process.
My brow threatened to raise, and I wanted to ask him how many times he's come to visit her. Why did he bother visiting her? After all she's done, she deserved to die alone.
After Wyatt finished completing the brief paperwork, a different guard led us down to the infirmary. The wide space resembled a hospital with a long empty hallway, small rooms with white beds, and the distinct scents of Lysol products.
We followed the guard to the last room down the hall. The door was shut, and our escort needed a key to unlock it.
Wyatt's hand brushed against mine, his fingers cautiously wrapping around my palm.
I looked up at him in surprise.
"Are you ready?" He asked.
I squeezed his hand. "Yeah."
The guard pushed open the door, revealing a plain white room. The steady sound of a heartbeat monitor filled the air. Bright white fluorescent lights glowed on the ceilings. Sitting on the bed was a frail woman with a sparkly pink hat covering her bald head and a fleece blanket wrapped around her thin body. A book lay in her pale hands, an IV needle stuck into one of her veins. She looked up at the creak of the door, revealing an unfamiliar face.
Her cheeks, once round and blushing like mine, were hollow and void of any color. Her once seductively red, shiny lips were now chapped and barely hanging on to the pink left on them. Purple bags lay underneath her once livid, animated eyes. Their color, while still the same lime green as mine, was lighter somehow - as if it'd been fading over time.
The ends of her lips pulled up into a smile as she observed my brother. "Wyatt," she said, her voice quieter than I remembered. "I didn't expect you to be back so soon."
"I brought Amy," he said.
Her eyes traveled to me, and her smile immediately vanished. Her lips twitched, threatening to pull into the malicious scowl she carried whenever I was in her presence.. She pressed her lips together to prevent it from appearing. "Hello Amy," she said.
"Hello Giselle," I replied. She'd lost the privilege of being called "mom" a long time ago.
She slowly examined my mature figure, a slew of judgements brewing in her eyes. "You're prettier than I thought you'd be," she commented.
My chest stung from her backhanded compliment. Ignoring her words, I followed Wyatt to one of the small chairs at her bedside.
"So, how have you been?" She asked.
"You don't have to pretend to care," I told her. "There's no audience around."
A frown finally appeared on her face, icing over every inch of her face. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?"
"Was I supposed to?" I feigned a gasp. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Let me just wipe my memory and pretend you didn't try to murder me."
She scoffed. "Murder is a strong word."
I tilted my head. "Then what would you call it? A punishment?"
"I was doing what I should've done when I found out I was pregnant with you."
"What stopped you back then?"
She averted her eyes, some of the ice melting from the memories my question summoned. "Because I wanted to make him suffer," she whispered.
"Who was he? My father?"
"His name is Sterling Davis. He ran a booming technology innovation firm that Scott was trying to do business with. Sterling invited us to vacation at one of his beautiful villas in Tennessee for the summer. He was trying to break good bread with Scott at first - until the first time we laid eyes on each other." A smile tugged at her lips as her eyes traveled to a far away land. "Sterling was a beautiful man; he had a charming smile that never failed to take my breath away. All it took was a glass of wine and a private chat underneath the stars for me to fall into his bed. He showered me with attention and affection that Scott hadn't shown me in years. Our affair wasn't like the others; it was more than just sex. We were falling in love." Her smile fell as her next words left her lips. "I thought we were falling in love."
"What happened?" I asked.
"When I found out I was pregnant, he asked me to stay in the villa with him. He promised he'd take care of me and Wyatt. He told me he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me - with our family." Small flames licked in her irises as her voice began to harden. "Then, he proposed to an heiress of a technology company during a gala we were all attending."
"And you decided to have the baby out of spite?"
"That son of a bitch didn't even bother to send money to prevent word from getting out. He knew I couldn't expose him without dragging myself down with him." She sighed. "So, I was stuck with a baby who wouldn't pass as my husband's and a broken heart. It wasn't too long after that the rest of my personal life fell into shambles. My husband left me, my friends outcasted me, and my parents were disappointed. The only saving grace was that my designs were evolving and my clothing brand expanded. If my company had fallen under, I don't know what I would've done."
"So, you hate me because of the choices you made?"
"I hate you because you're a worthless, wretched waste of space," she snapped, raising her livid eyes to me.
Her words sliced across my chest, reopening wounds that never truly healed. Tears burned behind my eyes as my scars tingled with the memories of her saying similar words while she created them. Invisible blood oozed from above my breast, draining me of any sympathy I was trying to hold for her. "Fuck you," I whispered through gritted teeth.
The raging fire in her eyes slowly diminished as I stood from my seat. "No, Amy," she started. She tried to reach for my arm, her bony fingers brushing my skin. "Wait. Don't go. Please."
I whipped my hand away, her touch like the surface of a hot oven on my skin. "I hope you rot in Hell," I hissed at her.
"Wait, Amy!"
I stormed out of the room and into the long hallway from which we came, silently choking on the sobs creeping up my throat. "Save the sob story for someone who gives a damn!"