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“There’s nothing stupid about this,” he countered evenly. “You obviously did this over time. You didn’t get all these marks in one day. Tell me how it started.”
“It was my thirteenth birthday,” I said softly, the truth compelled by his unyielding but tender demeanor. “My mom gave me my first razor and told me it was time to start shaving my legs because I was maturing as a woman. But she didn’t show me how to do it properly. Mom was…pretty hands-off. So, I started from a bad angle, slipped, and sliced up my leg pretty deep. I’d never gotten cut like that before. The worst injury I’d ever sustained up until that point was a scraped knee.”
I could still remember the shock of the red gash, the ruby red blood running thin in the warm water that filled the tub. I’d been so dumbfounded by the sight that it had barely even hurt at first.
“When I showed my mom the cut and asked her what to do about it, she called my nanny and left us alone to attend to the first aid. It started healing up, but it still hurt if I moved the wrong way. Or if I pressed on it. Or if I picked at the scab.”
I took a breath, my cheeks burning. “I know most kids would be thrilled to live in my house growing up. I had a big bedroom of my own, chef-prepared meals, and all the toys I could possibly want. But I was fully immersed in my poor little rich girl persona,” I said bitterly.
Mateo had told me he grew up poor. He had every reason to scorn my behavior even more than I did.
But he didn’t say anything cruel or judgmental. Instead, he stroked my cheek, offering warmth and support.
“Go on,” he urged. “I’m listening.”
I took a shuddering breath and continued. “I didn’t like that my mom dictated my style, dressing me up in frilly clothes that suited her ideal of a pretty little daughter. I didn’t like that the only time she paid any attention to me was to criticize my appearance. And if she did say nice things about me, it was always loudly in front of others so that they could hear and say what a wonderful mother she was.”
“And your father?” he pressed when I took too long of a pause. Mateo wasn’t going to let me trail off or redirect the subject. He was steady and solid, his massive arms enfolding me and holding me with aching care while he asked me to share my most shameful secrets.
“I love Daddy, but he was busy with work.” I echoed his familiar excuse. “He was sweet to me, but he wasn’t around on a normal schedule, and he especially didn’t have time for me if I was being difficult.”
“And were you a difficult child?” There was no censure in Mateo’s tone, just a desire to understand.
“I tried not to be. But I messed up sometimes, especially if I lost control of my emotions. The cutting helped with that.
“While the accidental cut from shaving was healing, I found that if I picked at it, I could focus my frustrations and volatile feelings. The physical pain allowed me to channel my inner pain, and it provided some relief. It gave me a sense of control over my life that I’d never had before. I was able to regulate my temper, so I didn’t upset the people around me with my toxic behavior.”
Mateo’s lips pressed together, and I suspected he was holding in something he wanted to say. But he remained silent and continued petting me, his dark eyes compelling me to confess everything.
“Once the cut fully healed, I only lasted three days before I intentionally made another. I didn’t ask my mom to help me patch that one up.
“I hid what I was doing for two years. It would have gone on longer if I hadn’t cut too deep. I bandaged up the one on my inner thigh, but it bled through my dress and stained Mom’s fancy upholstered dining chair.
“Daddy sent me to therapy, and I started writing poetry to deal with my emotions instead. If I’d just done that from the very beginning, I wouldn’t have ruined my body.”
He stroked his fingers over my thighs, rubbing my damaged flesh as though it didn’t bother him in the slightest.
“You keep repeating that phrase. You didn’t ruin your body, belleza. These marks don’t make you any less beautiful.”
“But they do,” I countered, my heart aching. “I… I’m ashamed of them. I’m ashamed of what I did.”
His rugged features firmed to solid granite, but his touch on my thighs remained gentle. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You were a child in pain, and you did what you could to ease the hurt. Someone should have protected you.”
