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I stood on the center of the suspension bridge that joined downtown to the rest of the city, the river below extra rough from the storms today. I stood on the sidewalk for a few moments, staring at the slick railing. My feet drew me to the edge, and my body leaned over it as I peered down into the river. It was a long drop. A very long drop.
I climbed up, my body swaying a bit. The wind whipped at me, as if trying to take me. But it wouldn’t be the wind that took me; it wouldn’t be the rain. It would be the river below. It would swallow me up whole and never spit me out. This river had a fast current; boats were not often on it because of it. It was the perfect place to dispose of bodies; the current washed them away before you could blink.
My eyes moved off the river, lifting to the city. The skyscrapers seemed more ominous in this dark, stormy night. A whole city full of people, some who had no idea about how it was really ran, how crooked all of its police and politicians were. How great would it be to be that oblivious? To be just a normal girl in this world, born to a normal family—a family that loved you no matter what. A family that worked to keep you safe instead of throwing you to the wolves.
My father didn’t care about that. He’d say those families coddled their children. Everything he did was to mold me into what he wanted: a pawn on the board he controlled, something he could use however he wanted, whenever he wanted. I was hardly a daughter to him. I was more like an employee than anything else.
And he’d given me away for a night. I didn’t even know why, but it didn’t matter. What’s done was done, and now I felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.
I… I didn’t know if I wanted to live anymore. What was the point? If he didn’t sell me out for other men, he’d still end up choosing who to give me to, who I’d marry. I wouldn’t have a say in anything, because a good daughter was a quiet daughter, a daughter who did as she was told. Loyal and silent.
I would be silent enough, after the river swallowed me.
Lights came on the bridge, but I didn’t turn to look. I didn’t look; I’d made up my mind. I straightened myself out, ready to do it. Ready to end it all right here, right now. Maybe, as I fell, I’d regret it, but probably not. Death would be a welcome embrace compared to the sickening touches I’d endured at the hands of Rocco Moretti.
The car pulled up beside where I was, and a man got out the moment after. One look over my shoulder told me it was Father Charlie. Father Charlie had somehow found me—of fucking course. He’d driven his old, somewhat beat-up car all the way here, as if he’d known this was where I’d be.
Later he would tell me that the bridge was a favorite among people who debated whether they wanted to live or not, but for now, all he said was: “Come down. We can talk. Nothing is worth throwing your life away.”
“Go away,” I hissed. The wind whipped at me again, causing my legs to sway. Balancing on the wet railing in this storm was a feat; a normal person might’ve already fallen, even accidentally.
“Whatever it is,” Father Charlie went on, carefully stepping toward me yet again, “it will get better. Things always do. That’s the miracle of life.” He lifted up a hand, offering it to me. He still stood two feet away, so he wasn’t close enough to grab me; just close enough to make me doubt.
“And what if it doesn’t? You don’t know who I am. Things don’t get better for people like me,” I told him, not sure if the wetness on my face was due to tears or the rain. I had to practically shout to say all that over the storm. Across the river, lightning lit up the sky, thunder following shortly after.
“Then come down and tell me why you think you would be the exception,” he said. “Just come down from there, please.”
That got me to nearly stop breathing. He’d said the word please. As stupid as it was—and surely, it was beyond fucking stupid—no one had ever said that word to me before, and if they did, I couldn’t remember it. Anytime my father told me to do something, he never said that word. He never thanked me. What I did for him was simply my duty, what was expected of me. Nothing to be praised or pleaded for.
He must’ve sensed that word affected me, for Father Charlie said again, “Please, child, step down. We don’t even have to talk. I can take you home, if you want, or anywhere you want to go. I only want you to see the sunrise tomorrow. They’re always beautiful after storms like these.” He took a tiny step closer to me, expectant.
What could I do? What could I do besides whimper and stumble back, off the railing? What could I do other than take that priest’s hand and let him lead me to his car, which sat nearby, idling? I wanted to die… but I also knew that dying would be it. The end. Was I really ready for it to all be over?
I didn’t know, and that stupid word please had weakened my resolve.
Father Charlie didn’t complain about how I was getting his car’s seat all wet. He also didn’t complain that he was all wet after standing in the rain with me for so long. In fact, he said not a word as he drove us back to the church, as he pulled his car into the back parking lot. He said not a single freaking word as he turned it off and got out, moving around the car to help me out. I let him, even though his touch physically repulsed me.
I had the feeling touches from men would do that for a long, long time.
He brought me into the church, and together, we sat down on one of the front pews. We’d entered the church through one of the side doors, and again, it was just us. He made a soft groaning sound when he sat down, as if he was too old to be doing this.
“When you find out who I am, you’re probably going to wish you would’ve let me jump,” I muttered. Father Charlie only looked at me, not saying a word, which forced me to add, “I’m sure you’ve heard of Miguel Santos.” Everyone in this city knew of my father, pretty much. He was that infamous.
Father Charlie nodded, and he was slow to say, “I have. His wife used to frequent my church before she passed.”
“He’s my father.”
He didn’t say anything right away, but he did stare at me. I couldn’t tell if he stared at me in a new light or not. He had to know that, because of me being Miguel Santos’s daughter, I would be the opposite of an angel to this city. I would do whatever my father told me to, even if he told me to kill someone.
“What is your name, child?” he asked, his voice gentle.
“Giselle.”
“Giselle,” he repeated my name. “It’s beautiful, much like you. The world would’ve been bereft if it lost your brilliance tonight. You might not see it, but you will. After the darkest night comes the brightest dawn.” I didn’t say anything to that, because I had nothing to say, and that caused him to go on, “If you want to talk, you know I’m here, even if it’s not in there.” He pointed to the confessionals on the side of the big room.
I looked around, seeing that we were alone, and then I met his eyes. “You won’t tell anyone?”
“No one but God,” he whispered.
