Page 13

Louhi

When I come to, I’m strapped to a metal medical table. Out of my periphery, I can see Honey Eyes and Digs murmuring against the wall to my left. I hear the clanking sound of metal on metal, and I try to lift my head to see where it’s coming from and, more importantly, who is making the sound, but I can’t move. When I make another attempt, I’m met with the same inability. I can’t even wiggle my fingers. I’m paralyzed. Despite whatever drug is flowing through my blood, I can still feel straps digging into my skin, securing me to the table. Vittu. Fuck.

Suddenly, cool metal skitters across my shin and ascends higher and higher, gliding up toward my thigh. Cool air kisses my skin, and I realize with horror that my clothes are being removed. Curses in both English and Finnish—even some in Irish—spew from my lips. I try to buck and thrash, but my body won’t cooperate.

The scraps of my trousers are pulled from me and the metal scissors remove my top and bare me to the room. A second later, the doctor from earlier enters my periphery and places the bell of a stethoscope on my chest. I hope he can hear the ire and barbaric rage being pumped out of my heart and into my veins. I hope he can hear the sound of his impending death, because I will kill him. He’s a walking dead man .

I won’t deny it to myself anymore: I’m scared—bloody terrified. Being in the infirmary with this strange man’s hands on me, I’m flooded with the feeling. I’ve never liked hospitals, and I like doctors even less. I didn’t like them when they came out and told Mercer and I that our parents were dead. I didn’t care for them when they told me at seventeen that I’d never be able to have children, and I bloody well hated them when I underwent that surgery from hell.

Mercer, you’re getting the arse-kicking of the century when I see you. He’d have to swoop in on a white horse right now to save me from this, and that’s not happening. I’m on my own, but I can do this. I can handle this. This will not destroy me.

Another curse leaps from my lips in a feeble attempt to revolt despite not being able to move as gloved hands roam over my exposed body, squeezing and kneading as he examines and scrutinizes me.

I will live through this. I am strong. I’ve survived worse. I don’t know how many times I repeat this mantra to myself, but the affirmations aren’t working the way they normally do. Something cold and hard prods at my entrance and horror surges through me as I identify the telltale feeling of a speculum sliding between my spread legs.

I’m not able to fixate on that, though, when there’s a sudden pinch at my cervix. My breaths are coming shorter and more forcefully now. I need to calm down.

Silencing my muttered curses, I mentally take myself somewhere I rarely go before the panic gripping me roots itself.

The heavenly scent of freshly baked bread permeates the kitchen of our cozy home. I flounce around the space, getting underfoot, as soft music plays.

My mother bends as she pulls the loaf from her opulent navy-blue and gold oven and wipes her hands on her apron before she reaches around and unties the bow at the small of her back. She folds the cotton apron and places it on the counter before turning in my direction. Her long dark blonde hair swishes around her face and she tosses it over a shoulder as he squats down to my seven-year-old level, the skirt of her brown and white dress pooling around her ankles.

“Can we dance, ?iti?”

She smiles, the gesture softening her already delicate features. She rights herself and turns up the music, the vintage love ballad now filling the space. Her smile is bright as she takes my hands and dances with me to the beat. I mirror her grin and giggle as she spins me out and back. I bounce on the balls of my small feet as we both laugh and belt out the words to Frank Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight.”

Since my mother is a fan, I’ve grown up listening to all the Big Band classics. The Frank Sinatra dance parties we have are easily my favorite way I spend time with her. She beams down at me now, her brown eyes shining brightly.

“You look happy, ?iti.”

Her nose crinkles and the lines around her eyes become more prominent as her refulgent smile somehow glows more radiantly. Her English accent is thick as she replies, “I am, my love. You make me happy.”

She spins me again and my feet pitter across the wooden floor. When I whirl back into her lithe, slender body, I ask, “Does Mercer make you happy too?”

“Of course, he does.”

“What about Is??”

“Daddy makes me very happy too, Louhi.”

We belt out the remainder of the song together, and when it’s over, she tells me, “Loving your dad feels like the sun shining on the coldest day of the year. This world is a cold, dark place, and he makes it warm and light for me.” She crouches down, the flecks of gold in her brown eyes glinting in the late afternoon sunlight that peeks through the window above the sink. Her gaze is intense, but full of affection as she continues. “Someday, I pray you find your own warmth in a man—or woman, whatever you prefer, my love—and I hope they love you the way I love your father.”

My brow furrows as concern ripples through me. “What if I don’t? ”

She swipes a rogue strand of my black hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear as she responds, “You are strong, Louhi. Always find solace, power, and love within yourself. You need no one but yourself. You are a treasure. Recognize that within yourself and the world will see it too. You don’t need a man for any of that; he’s only a bonus. But if you find him, he’ll simply enhance your shine. The love he has for you should be so brilliant that when you see it reflected back, you’re nearly blinded by it. Every day should end brighter than it started with a man that loves you.”

She scoops me up then, setting me on the countertop, my bare feet dangling off the edge as she slices into the warm bread.

When I come out of the haze of the memory, my cheeks are wet from crying, and I’m sprawled out on the floor of my cell. I look down and see that I’m wearing a new black prison uniform, and it’s then that I notice that I’ve regained movement. I test things by making a fist. It’s weak, but the ability to move is there. Thank fuck.

I don’t immerse myself in that memory often since the feelings of sadness and grief are so powerful, they border on overwhelming. However, I needed it today. I needed to reach back and hold on to the joy and love I felt back then.

Gingerly, I wipe at my damp face and internally cringe at the knowledge that those men saw me cry. I’m not a big crier, but thinking of that day I spent with my mum prompted the action.

I miss her. I miss my dad too. And fuck it, I miss Mercer, despite him being the arsehole that sent me here in the first place. He rescued me when my parents were taken from us, and if torture is the price of that, I’ll willingly pay.

Slowly sitting, I lift the hem of my shirt over my head. When I’m naked from the waist up, I inspect my skin for evidence of what was done to me. A voice in the back of my mind reminds me that I should’ve been cognizant of what was happening to me while I was on that table, but I couldn’t do it. It was too much.

I find affirmation of needle pricks in the crook of both elbows, but nothing else. I already feel mild cramping in my lower abdomen from that harrowing gynecological exam, and I pull my trousers down to see if I can find anything else. I don’t.

When I’m fully dressed again, I slump against the wall and allow one more tear to escape. An impending sense of despair knocks on the door of my mind, begging to creep inside, but I lock away those thoughts, manning my mental fortress once again. The tear tracking down my face is the last one I’ll let fall.

I followed my mother’s instructions to the letter. I learned to love myself, found my power and recognized myself for the treasure that I am, then became more than just a treasure. I became a treasured weapon.