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Maison Enchante
Savannah, Georgia
Ten years ago….
Sixteen-year-old Sallina Dupree limped from the bedroom door to the bathroom across the plush, champagne carpet of a room that looked made for a princess, her good leg aching from taking on all her body weight as she’d made her way through the massive house.
She hurt. She hurt so much. The pain in her leg stinging and throbbing where the extension cord hit her. Repeatedly.
At least it wasn’t the broom handle this time…. That had left welts and bruises that took weeks to finally fade. And having to wear pants to hide the marks in the hottest part of summer had been an added layer of misery.
What else is new? Misery was her most faithful friend.
She knew how terrible that sounded, that she was relieved the broom hadn’t been within reach when he found her, cornered her, and punished her, letting loose the tension and anger she’d felt him storing up all through dinner until the house was quiet once more. She’d tried to ignore the waves of malicious rage pulsing from him, his ravenous hatred hidden behind a blindingly handsome smile, a welcoming, friendly smile—to anyone else. To her, though, the smile was a plague mask, hiding the diseased creature behind it.
In the bathroom now, she hissed when her thigh scraped the doorway as she stumbled against it, her sobs of agony caught in her throat, refusing to escape, even though the tears burned tracks down her face.
She couldn’t cry out. Couldn’t make a sound because if he heard her, he’d smile. He’d look down at her, his teeth white and perfect, his eyes dark and malicious, and he’d grin. He’d gloat.
Why the tears, mon cour? If you hadn’t been such a whore, I wouldn’t have had to punish you….
She’d wanted to scream at him, to shout that he was the whore, that he was the one sticking his dick in whichever flavor of slut he was pursuing that week. That he was a cheating, no good piece of shit husband and father who didn’t deserve her mother’s tolerant devotion. But she didn’t say a word because she couldn’t fathom his rage—and her pain—if she did. So, she remained silent, her body thrumming with pain and fear, her chest aching with barricaded sobs, and the very pit of her shuddering in hopelessness.
Wiping the traitorous tears from her eyes, she leaned against the vanity and reached for the light switch on the wall. A twinge of pain from the healing bruises on her back made her hesitate, but she couldn’t clean the wounds if she couldn’t see them.
Light on, Sally stared at herself in the wall-length mirror over the sink, her usually golden tanned skin was pale, her eyes embraced by dark circles, her cheeks puffy and red. Her lip split down the middle. She licked the cut, the tangy, coppery taste on her tongue making her cringe.
Bracing her left side against the counter, she turned on the hot water then reached into the cupboard under the sink for the First Aid kit she kept there. She’d gone through so many bandages and antiseptic wipes, Lisana had begun buying them in bulk.
Lisana had been working for the family since before Sallina was born—since before Sallina’s brother, Alejandro, had been born, too. She’d been housekeeper, cook, sometimes nanny, sometimes sounding board, and all the time friend and confidant.
Lisana knew what was happening, knew he was a woman-hating monster who preyed on those smaller and weaker than him…but there was little she could do other than keep Sallina stocked in First Aid supplies and Maria, Sallina’s mother, stocked in high-end booze. An immigrant with hazy credentials, Lisana was as trapped in the Maison as Sallina and her mamma, the master of the house holding threats of ICE and deportation over her head whenever she even thought to step a foot over the line.
Sallina didn’t blame Lisana for protecting herself and the life she’d built in the US—they were all victims of the monster of the Maison, though they weren’t as unfortunate as Sallina’s mother.
Over the years, her mother had gotten really good at hiding the scars and wounds, and the broken heart from her husband’s indiscretions. The glittering, brilliant hostess for her husband’s many affluent parties, her mother could entertain hundreds of wealthy, flashy, charity gala goers while nursing a twisted ankle, a concussion, a cracked rib, or a swollen knee—with no one the wiser. Even when Sallina’s father made no effort to hide the fact that he was trolling his own party for a new piece of ass. Yes, she and her mother were ridiculously good at hiding the worst of it…though the most profound wounds were already well hidden, deep on the inside, where, in her mama’s case, the booze helped numb it all. Sallina didn’t blame her mother for wanting to escape any way she could like Alejandro had escaped. After eighteen years trapped in hell with their father, her older brother had taken the first opportunity offered to him—a job as a framer for a construction company where Lisana’s brother, Hercule, worked in Miami. AJ called once a week to check in on her and tell her all about his life in Miami; the work, the excitement, and freedom. After all he’d endured and survived, he was finally living. At nineteen, he had so much left to experience. And she was happy for him. So glad that he got away, that he had shaken loose from the monster’s hold.
Sallina lifted the hem of her ankle-length dress, a dress her father had demanded she wear for the luncheon with him, her mother, and three of his business friends. So, she’d worn it. She always wore what he wanted her to wear. Always sat where he told her to sit. Ate what he told her to eat. Only spoke when he told her to speak. And, usually, it was enough to keep the monster at bay, to appease the beast enough to keep him chained.
She was never good enough, though. No matter what she did, she was too loud, too fat, dressed too immodestly, not pretty enough, her hair too short or too long or too straight or too frizzy. Never good enough for him. But she tried—God, she tried! And for a few weeks, he’d seemed…calm, a little preoccupied, but…quiet. The lull, the striking hush that fell over the household…had almost—almost—fooled her.
Oh, how she wished it had been real, that the taste of tranquility hadn’t been a tease.
Today, though, the dormant beast raged awake. She’d smiled when she shouldn’t have, at a man her father had invited to lunch to impress. Her smile—one born of a fraction of a second during which her mask of forced neutrality had slipped—had earned her her father’s ice-cold wrath.
It was her fault, though. She knew better than to let any true emotion escape, to allow a smile, frown, or pout to show on her face. She was to wear a mask of simple serenity as her expression at all times. No one was to know that behind her facial façade was a girl screaming for help, a daughter terrified by her father, in fear for her mother, and desperately trying to keep her brother from finding out.
Alejandro can never know….
Her hem now at her waist, she glared down at the marks on her thigh. Horizontal lashes—ten of them—thin and red and beading with minuscule drops of blood.
But it wasn’t anything new. It wasn’t a new ache, a new wound. The burning, screaming flash on her back and thighs wasn’t a new agony, though. There was little she could do about her back other than hope it didn’t scar this time. It wouldn’t do for father’s special brand of love to show. Not that she ever wore anything that showed more than her hands, her feet, her neck, and her face—anything more and…well, she’d have more…love…to hide. The pain now wasn’t nearly as bad as the pain she’d felt before—and it wouldn’t be the worst she’d experience, either. She knew that. Dreaded it. Because she was trapped.
At least he didn’t rape her, right? At least he didn’t hurt her like he hurt her mother. He kept that brand of love just between him and his wife. When her father had grown bored of his shiny, new mistress or screwed his way through a bevy of escorts or hookers, he’d seek out his faithful, dutiful, blindly devoted wife…whether she wanted him or not. He’d take—with fear and violence—he’d take, though he didn’t care if Sallina heard…or witnessed it. Inside the house, no room was safe. When the urge to hurt—to love—came upon him, her father didn’t give a shit who was there. Lisana, too, had witnessed more than her fair share of…intimate moments. But she, like Sallina, could say nothing. That knowledge that he held such power only drove him, feeding him so his beast could gorge itself on their humiliation, their terror, their misery. It had only made him that much happier. That much more passionate about his deed. And her mother that much more broken. Shattered. Holding herself together with Drambuie and Stoli Elit.
But Sallina had no such escape. Nowhere to go. She could do nothing for herself. Nothing to numb the pain, the abject despair. Nothing but hiding the bruises, the stripes, the limping, and the wincing.
She was nothing.
But she would be something someday. She would be someone someday. If not for herself, then for AJ. In the year since he’d gone, her father had made it his mission to inflict as much pain and humiliation as possible—because their protector had gone. He’d made his escape. And Sallina couldn’t blame him. AJ didn’t know how bad it was, how good she’d gotten at hiding it—even before he’d left. If he had known…he’d be in an even more terrible prison. A real one. Sentenced to life for slaughtering their father like the pig he was.
And it was still a possibility.
So, she remained silent. She swallowed the sobs, she hid the signs, and she forced a smile into her voice whenever he called.
She owed it to him to let him live his freedom without her. He’d earned it. Through gritted teeth, mended bones, and pale scars, he’d earned it.
Shaking off the shuddering memories, Sallina focused on her thigh. Quickly cleaning it with practiced ease, she left the wounds to breathe, removing her dress to gingerly, carefully slide into her bed.
That night, like every night…Sallina dreamt of slipping away.
