Page 17

I felt sexy right now. For the first time, possibly ever , I felt sexy. Hot. Pretty—maybe even beautiful.

I knew men wanted my body. Malcolm’s comments and his hard body cuddled against me all those months eventually clicked into place in my aging brain. He wasn’t being affectionate with his supposed daughter, he was being a filthy old man who wanted something he shouldn’t.

Daren is the same. He has the same predatory look in his eyes, the way they devour me every time I walk in the room, the way they linger where they shouldn’t.

But never have I taken their looks as anything more than a fetish for them to get off on. I know I have big boobs, a big ass—but it comes with a tummy roll and thick thighs. I was too big for all the boys in high school. Every single boy I’ve ever had a crush on ended up dating a girl much, much skinnier than me.

And I couldn’t blame them, the dumb boys or the pretty girls. No, I could only blame myself and God for giving me this body.

But when I look in this mirror, wearing the light pink lingerie set Marcelo bought me—I can see what’s to like. The straps of the thong hug the curves of my hips just right, as if they were made to cradle the pouch of my belly. When I turn in front of the mirror, the thong gets lost between my plump cheeks, making me feel like a cute peach.

The bra is somehow even more flattering. For starters, it actually fits. The soft lace feels wonderful against my skin, and the underwire is simultaneously lifting and supporting, while being covered by enough material so as to not feel like it’s digging into me. I didn’t realize they made bras this comfortable. I thought they were all medieval torture devices meant to suppress the true strength and power of women.

A comfortable bra feels more like witchcraft and sorcery than the demonic imps I saw earlier.

My boobs have honestly never looked better. I can see the faintest peek of my nipples through them, but the pink lace masks the pink peaks perfectly—like a hidden secret only I know about.

Seeing myself like this—no, feeling myself like this . . . it’s liberating. Intoxicating. Arousing. I have never liked myself more.

I pose in front of the mirror, grabbing my breasts, sitting on my knees, my butt resting on the back of my feet. My thighs are so big like this but, Lord, do I look good. Heat pools between my thighs, as a breeze from my open window wafts into the room. I can’t wait for Marcelo to see me like this, for the masked man to creep into my room, and find his little songbird waiting for him.

I wonder what he’ll do to me. Part of me feels bad for trying to make a priest break his vows, but the rest of me—the rest of me craves it. To have a man go to such lengths for me, to want me more than anything, more than God and Jesus and eternal glory.

To be wanted —it’s something I always only thought to be a fallacy, but now it could be real.

I stand, turning toward the window. It’s late enough but still no sight of that Salvation I seek hiding in the shadows beyond my room.

Maybe he’s toying with me, waiting for me to see him, like the night before.

I walk to the window, sticking my head out of it. It’s just started to drizzle, the droplets fall on my bangs, on my cheeks, and the autumn air is cold on my skin, the wind blowing my brown hair all around. I can almost hear a whisper in the wind, “Junia.”

But no masked man. No Marcelo.

“Junia!”

The whisper in the wind turns into a bellow. My hair is yanked back, pulling me from the window. I don’t even fully land on my butt before I feel her hand slap across my face. Each hit stings new, and I can’t see a thing behind the mess of hair covering my eyes.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” she yells. “Where did you get that? What were you looking for out the window? Were you waiting for someone?” Smack, smack, smack.

I fight out of her grip and scramble to a standing position.

My mother’s pale skin is as red as the devil, and her heavy breaths match my own. But it’s her eyes that freeze me to the spot, that terrify me to my core. Her pupils are so dilated, they’re practically hidden within the raging blue storm aimed directly at me.

I can’t even question what she’s doing in here. Dammit. I knew she had a key to my door, but I never thought she’d use it when it was actually locked. Or at least she could’ve knocked.

But . . . she’s caught me. Like this. It’s my fault. I should’ve never worn something like this, something so . . . so . . .

“You fucking slut. I knew it. I knew you were up to something.”

“No—no, it’s not—”

She stalks toward me, and all I can do is back up until my thighs hit my bed. The moment I lose my balance, my mother rushes on me, her fist connecting with my jaw, my eye, my nose—over and over.

I try to fight her off, but she screams through her fury. I can taste blood, I can see blood, but she doesn’t stop, not even after I stop feeling my face entirely.

“Please, please, please,” I beg, and still she hits me.

“I knew you were trying to steal him from me. You wanted Daren to see you like this? Well, let’s go fucking show him.”

Her hand wraps around my upper arm, and she yanks me up, dragging me from my room. Her fingers bruise my skin as I’m pulled from the only safe space I’ve ever known.

Such a small woman, but she is the source of all my fears, all my nightmares, and all my scars.

I try to fight her, try to pry her fingers from me, but her grip is ironclad. I stumble behind her and she doesn’t slow a bit as she yells, “Daren!”

We make it to the old, worn couch far too quickly—the TV is on some old movie I don’t recognize, the volume loud like always. Mother shoves me toward the couch and I fall into it. These cushions have become my jail, my dungeon. I can’t sit on them without feeling tense, without waiting for the next impact on my skin. It’s where she always uses the belt on me.

I spin around, and just as I do, Daren walks in. His sunken eyes find me immediately and devour me whole.

“What’s going—” he starts, but Mother quickly cuts him off.

“Gimme your belt. The fat slut wanted to dress up for you.”

I sit up, trying to cover myself as much as possible as I feel Daren’s eyes locked on my breasts, my stomach, my thighs. “Mother, no, I wasn’t dressed up for him—”

“Shut up!” She leaps on me again, pounding her fist into the side of my head over and over again. “I see the way you look at him—you want him for yourself!” Mother hisses. She knocks my eye and I feel it immediately pulse under my skin; my lip splits in the corner, and my ear is brutalized. Each hit stings and hurts, but it all comes too fast to stop.

Daren pulls Mother off me, and when I finally look into her eyes, they’re—so far away. They look absolutely mad, wild. Her skin has gone nearly purple, and it hadn’t dawned on me till that moment that with each wail against me, the smell of vodka leaked from her breath.

I slump back on the couch, still covering myself as much as possible. Blood drips from a gash above my eyebrow into my eye, and my ear is ringing.

Movement calls my attention, and when I look, Daren’s eyes are still traveling up and down my body as he pulls his belt from his jeans. There’s a noticeable bulge just where his hands are, and he quickly gives my mother the belt.

He’s not even trying to hide how turned on he is right now.

And Mother’s too angry, too drunk—too hellbent on punishing me—to notice.

She grabs the belt from his hand and I squirm farther into the cushions, hoping they would just swallow me whole.

“Didn’t you want him to see you? Why are you coverin’ yourself now?”

Crack.

She whips the belt against my arms covering my breasts. The buckle slams into me and I can already feel the welt growing on the back of my hand where it hit.

“Let him see, like you wanted!” Another hit, this one on my stomach.

The thin table behind the couch rattles with the force of another impact. Nothing is on that table save for a small statue icon we have of the Virgin Mary—to watch over the home.

The irony is not lost on me.

Where is she, as another impact whips across my thighs? Where is she, as Daren’s eyes are fucking me from the corner? Where is God, as my own mother snags my chest with the metal of the belt, tearing a layer of skin away?

Fucking no where.

At some point, I turned, trying to save my front and revealing my ass to my mother. She strikes me again and again, not relenting. The welts from a few days ago tear as they’re impacted again and again with fresh hits. Nothing on me is allowed to heal. I’m not allowed to heal.

Mother slows, and while I don’t face her, I hear her labored breaths as she tries to catch them. The pain all around me buzzes, like they’re all connected by live wire, and the moment one goes off, my entire body will feel everything all over again.

And I wish . . . I wish I’d die. I don’t have the strength or courage to kill myself. I’ve thought about it. A lot. I can’t imagine plunging a blade into my wrists. I can’t imagine tying a rope around my neck or pulling the trigger to the gun at my head. I can’t even get the fortitude to swallow a bunch of pills and never wake up.

But . . . if someone could kill me? If I could just cease to exist? Then my will to live won’t be a problem.

I wonder, in those moments I hear her chest deeply rising and falling, how much more of this it would take for her to kill me.

“I think that’s enough, Jill.”

I turn as much as I’m able to and see Daren taking the belt from Mother’s hands. She’s still catching her breath as she lets him take it.

“But—we need to cleanse her of her sins. She’s not repentant yet. And she sure as Hell ain’t forgiven.”

“I’m not sayin’ that’s enough punishment, babe. I just think you’ve done enough. You need a break. I can handle the rest.”

There’s a beat of silence. Mother has never let Daren punish me before. Ever. Somewhere deep in her soul, she has to know what he thinks of me. She has to see how he stares—has to know it’s not me , but him.

Mother watches him now, completely still. Will she deny him? Will she . . . protect me?

“Here.” Daren fishes in his pocket and draws out a wadded up bill. It looks like a fifty. “How ’bout you run down to the store, get yourself a lil’ treat, get us a six-pack, and by the time you come back, I’ll have this taken care of.”

No. Fucking no. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t leave me here with him. She . . .

Mother stares at the money then glances at me. Her eyes are still filled with those painfully familiar daggers . She snatches the money and walks toward the front door.

“Mother, no,” I whimper as she’s putting on her shoes. “Please, don’t—Mom, he’ll—”

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?! You fucking whore!” She shoves her jacket on and turns her back to me.

I cry out, sobs raking through my broken chest, “Mommy, please, don’t—!” She ignores me, slamming the front door shut. Leaving me alone with Daren.

She left me.

She left me alone.

She knows and she left me.