Mommy called them Pawns. Whatever that means. Pawns who were doing their leader’s “dirty work.”
Building up my courage, I unfold and slowly crawl forward to peek through the slats. Orange streaks of the morning sunstream through the blinds, casting stripes on the wall where Daddy slumps.
He’s still staring at me.
“Mommy? Where are you?” I whisper as I push the wardrobe door open, careful not to make a noise in case one of the bad men is still here.
No one is around, so I crawl into the room. “Daddy?”
He doesn’t move a muscle.
I step over to him, settling on my knees in the pool of blood around him. My pajama pants soon soak through at the knees as I wave a hand in front of his face. “Daddy? Are you awake? Where does it hurt, Daddy?”
He still doesn’t move. Is this like the movie Bambi? His mommy never moved again, and neither did Littlefoot’s mommy.
I choke on a pitiful sob and shake my daddy’s shoulder. He’s cold to the touch. Cold and stiff. “Daddy!” My voice is louder this time. “Please, wake up.” I stroke his shirt, my eyes blurry with tears. “This isn’t funny anymore. Please, wake up.” Staring at the spot where I’m repeatedly stroking his shoulder so I don’t have to look at the hole in his forehead, my tears spill over.
A heavy ache presses on my chest, and I clutch the fabric before releasing it again.“I don’t know where Mommy is, Daddy.” My voice breaks. “The bad men took her.”
I lift my gaze to Daddy’s face. His glazed eyes are milky, and his skin is paler than usual, which makes the streak of blood between his brows look like red paint, only darker.
I’m scared. I promised Mommy I would be brave, but I don’t feel it at all. I’m weak, and I hate being weak. Daddy says the weak disappear in our world.
“Daddy!” I shout, shaking him hard.
Why won’t he wake up? He can’t leave me here. I’m alone. I don’t know where Mommy is.
Daddy slides down the wall and topples to the side. I scramble back, my hands slipping in the cold blood beneath my fingers. Breathing hard, I struggle to see Daddy through my stinging tears.
“Daddy… Please…”
Seated on the hard concrete floor in the cellar, staring at the gun in my hand, the haunted voice of my younger self echoes through my mind. Even now, the hopelessness that clawed at me as I sat in a pool of my father’s congealing blood crawls back in from the blackened corners of my soul. The young boy is still alive inside me, but I don’t know if I have enough left to be strong for both of us.
A shadow shifting in my periphery tears me from my thoughts.
Cecilia’s father watches me from behind the bars, where he rests against the back wall with his grimy hands dangling off his knees.
A torch flickers on the wall as I take solace in the weapon in my hand. It’s the only semblance of control I have left. I could lift my arm, aim it at his head, pull back on the hammer, and end this nightmare once and for all.
So what’s stopping me?
I feel my chin wobble as the burn behind my eyes intensifies, so I swipe the vodka bottle off the floor and press it to my lips.
“You’re lost.” His gravelly, unused voice draws me out of my haze of pity.
“Whose fault is that?”
He remains silent. Forever my tormentor.
A violent wave of anger rips through me, and I throw the vodka bottle at the wall, watching glass shatter everywhere as Iremain seated in a sea of jagged shards, broken and alone. “I thought revenge would feel good.” My voice barely carries.
His dirty feet slide over the floor as he lowers his legs and crawls closer to the rusty bars. I sense him studying me, but I keep my attention on the gun in my hand, the only thing tethering me to reality.
“I locked you up and took away your freedom. I punished you the only way I knew how.” The broken organ in my chest clenches, but I resist rubbing it better. “And then, I found the only thing you care about in this world and entrapped her, too.” I look at him, observing the deep wrinkles on his gaunt, sunken face. The years haven’t been kind to him. “If anything, I feel worse. It’s like…” My chin begins to wobble, so I break eye contact and tighten my jaw to wrangle the onslaught of unwelcome, painful emotions.
Why the fuck does the past have to hurt? Even now, the memories slice at me like countless knives.
I skate my eyes to him again. “So tell me, what do I do now?”
