Page 8 of Volatile Waters

Not heeding his own advice, she became Father’s favorite pleasure after that night. He nicknamed her Seafoam due to the enchanting color of her eyes. Her fair skin glowed from under her wild red hair.

Maybe it was brotherly competition, but Uncle fell for her, too. One night, I saw him sneaking her into his chambers down the hall. He was kissing the back of her neck, not the way he usually treated slaves. She smiled at him.

She never smiled for Father.

Seafoam’s determination to not cave to his every demand made Father hungrier to mete out punishment than I had ever seen before. Bruises and wounds covered most of her body. I knew this because my training included learning how to handle a non-submissive slave. Uncle always looked away or left during these times. But, no matter what whip or stick Father used, or how often he raped her, no matter how many times he forced orgasms from her exhausted body, Father simply could not figure out how to break her spirit.

Not until he realized her secret.

She was pregnant.

This made him see red.

Seafoam was tainted.

Did Seafoam’s husband know she was with child when he offered her as payment for his gambling habit? I would learn that answer some years later when I killed him, deciding that was the way to truly enter manhood. His murder was the only revenge I could offer the poor woman, who finally broke when forced to have sexual intercourse with a twelve-year-old boy.

Father was smart. After learning Seafoam’s condition, he exploited it, violently. Uncle couldn’t persuade him to do otherwise. As punishment for a circumstance out of her control, being tainted, Father used her love for her unborn child against her. With bloodied knuckles, he refilled his glass of vodka, angrily laughing about how he was getting two birds with one stone. “What did I tell you, Yury?” He didn’t wait for my reply because he knew there wouldn’t be one. “The way to quench desire is to give her to another. Soiled in sperm not your own, you will no longer crave her.”

Seafoam and I both sobbed as I knelt between her legs. But we had no choice. I was the one taking every brutal hit until she complied. My father punched me in the face until she stopped refusing me. She gasped when more of my blood sprayed her, after Father smacked the back of my head, demanding I proceed. I had fallen to my hands, trying not to land on her naked body, my blood flinging onto her pale skin.

From the mattress, she peered up, giving me the first glimpse of motherly affection I had ever received. Under such vile circumstances, I’m surprised I had the sense to recognize compassion, but it was present. And it reached past all the walls I had built to protect myself. Seafoam’s eyes were full of sorrow and regret she would never recover from, when she whispered, “Shh, you will be okay, Yury.”

Crying like the terrified child I had reverted to—not the soon-to-be Master of our godforsaken family business—I tried to wipe under my nose, only to see more of my blood smear across my hand. It’s an image I remember vividly, to this day. And I changed. Right then and there. It was the only way to overcome unavoidable tragic events that were already a part of my future. The evidence was written in blood, glaring at me from my own skin.

Seafoam kept saying, “Shh,” as she held my busted lip together with one hand and reached between our bodies with the other, in efforts to get me erect. “Close your eyes, Yury.”

Petrified, I did as she asked and begged my body to cooperate, so this night from hell could end.

She wiped my tears, my blood, and helped me slip inside her.

Eventually, my body properly performed for my father and uncle, and I was allowed to go to my room. Lying in my bed, I denied myself more tears and demanded my heart grow cold. Exactly what my elders wanted. What fed my freeze of emotions was something I wouldn’t recognize, not for years. Hatred.

Seafoam chose a different route. She didn’t let ice soothe her aching soul. She simply let her soul flee, her spirit as well. Father tried to spur a fight with her, but none was left. He grew bored. That meant it was time to find another use for her. The rest of her pregnancy was spent with strangers who had a fetish to be with a woman in her condition. I hadn’t seen her in months because she was no longer permitted at our luxurious home. Uncle, sounding disappointed, had said she was transferred from motel to motel. Father laughed about the men who craved her full womb.

Now, here she was, in the guest bedroom, hemorrhaging. Uncle’s actions between her legs, working frantically to stop the bleeding, told me his “fire” had never been put out. He was fighting for this slave’s life. He barked orders. “I need more towels!”

The American—the bastard who stole my pet—was present and in a pure panic. He yelled at Father, “This is barbaric! How could you have let so many men be with a pregnant woman? She’s full term!”

Father spit on the floor. “This bitch deserved every bit of it. And she’s making me thousands online.”

Don’t be fooled to believe men won’t pay to see a pregnant woman raped, repeatedly.

Father glared at Harold Thompson. “The same goes for any who betray me.”

All blood drained from Harold’s face. At the time, I had no idea what Harold had done, nor the repercussions that had been set in motion, but Harold paid a heavy price, indeed. A hit had been placed on his eldest son.

Seafoam kept yelling to Uncle, “Something is wrong!!!” But one glance at me, and her yells of fear morphed into a complete breakdown. I don’t know what she saw in my expression, but she suddenly cried to God and the devil, asking why I was now ruined, her daughter soon to follow the same fate.

My jaw locked at her accusations. I didn’t view myself as ruined, and her stubbornness against being silenced was infuriating. She was recapturing control of her life in her final minutes, and I hated it. To the only woman who ever showed me an ounce of kindness, I said, “Shut up, you whore,” while she lay on her death bed.

As Seafoam struggled to push a baby from her womb, she placed a curse on my father. “With the blood from my body as a sacrifice, I pledge for you to find agony in your death. Let it be by the hands of one of your own. Let your spawn be your downfall and your demise. And I pray that my daughter witnesses it all.”

Resembling a madman possessed from within, Father stood next to the bed soaked in her blood, suddenly with a knife in his hands, raised it above his head, then slammed it into her chest.

“Nooooooo!” bellowed Uncle in a pain I was not accustomed to.

“Shit!” screamed the American.