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“That’s enough, Edward!” she says, reaching for his arm. His other arm whips around and slaps her to the ground. “He’s just a boy!” she cries as my face puffs up, turning blue.
He throws me to the ground, and I lie there, gasping and coughing. My brother has already fled the room.
“And if you keep raising him the way you do, he’ll never be a man,” he says, stomping toward her and grabbing her by the neck. “What did I tell you about challenging my authority?” he says, pulling her forward as she begs him for his forgiveness. I can’t tell if her begging enrages him more or emboldens him. He pulls his blade from his leg sheath.
Mother’s voice becomes a whisper as she pleads with his eyes. He presses the pointy end of the blade against her skin, making a dent. “Are you going to challenge my authority again?!” Spittle flies into her face as he speaks.
“He’s just a … oof.” My mother’s words are cut off by his tightening hand, and he presses the blade even further into her skin, drawing slight blood. My mother sobs. My little heart quakes at the sound.
“Mama?” I say in the tiniest voice. Tears stream down my face as I get to my feet. “Mama!” I say louder when fear slams into my stomach, and the thought of losing her becomes a real possibility.
“Shut up, boy!” My father pulls away from her, spinning around to look at me. My mother jumps to her feet, clutching her neck in horror before my father grabs me by the scruff of my shirt and pulls me out of the room. The collar of my shirt chokes me as he drags me across the floor. My mother cries for me, and I try to pull away from his grasp. “I’m going to teach you what it means to be a man,” he growls.
My heartbeat builds, pounding blood that rises to my throat, suffocating me. I’m drowning in it.
“No!” I try to pull away, but I can’t. “No!” The rooms of the house fade to black, and my father’s rock-hard fist heads toward my face. I jump, trying to dodge it.
When I open my eyes again, I’m back in my own mansion, yelling, “No!” My voice frightens me, and I gulp against the shock.
There’s candlelight, and the blue light of the morning streams in through the windows. I should feel relieved, but my body is on fire, and I’m drenched in sweat. I’m sweating so much, my throat is like a desert. My chest tightens, and I rub it, trying to relieve the pressure. But I can’t breathe. It’s like I’m dying.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay,” a voice says from beside me, followed by a soft palm against my skin.
The touch scorches me, and I spin to look at her, shaking. Who is she? Where did she come from? This stranger has seen me weak and trembling.
“It’s okay,” she says again, reaching out for me. “Did you have a bad dream?” she asks.
She mocks me. She must think of me as an imbecile, an overgrown fool. I grab her hand. “Don’t touch me,” I growl.
“Sir, it’s okay. You have nothing to be ashamed of,” she says. “I can kiss it better,” she offers.
Rippling booms crash through my body, and I reach for her neck. “Ashamed?” I ask. “Ashamed?! I have nothing to be ashamed of,” I say before hauling her out of my bed by her neck and throwing her across the room.
Ah, shit. Shit! Guilt spreads through my body like an inescapable fire. But it’s already done, and I’m not taking it back. Taking it back would be a sign of weakness.
“Leave,” I shout at her.
She’s horrified as I tap my foot against the rug, fighting against the guilt, shame, self-soothing, and justification running amok through my veins. My veins bulge at the restraint I’m trying to exercise.
“M-m-my clothes.” She points with a shaky hand.
I grab them and fling them at her, waiting for her to leave the room. I sigh when she runs naked out the door. The fire in my brain cools significantly, and I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. I don’t even remember how she got in my bed but with her now gone, I flop backward in the safety of privacy.
My mother’s face flashes in my mind once more, along with the other horrible memories trying to win out as I struggle to keep the image of her in my mind. That was the last time I’d ever seen my mother. I don’t know what happened to her, but I know my life changed at that moment. My father had sent my brother off to boarding school. He later lived with an aunt. Meanwhile, I was stuck at home with my nightmare Papa.
He spent many years trying to get me to hate my mama, but the only thing I remembered was that she fought for me, and I never saw her again. He remarried several times, for the sake of society’s perceptions but behind closed doors, those marriages were sick. His wives entertained men, and he entertained women. As I grew older, my eyes and ears were sullied by the images of women and men engaging shamelessly with sex. It wasn’t long until I was seeking my own pleasure in whorehouses across town.
Agatha was the first one who made me think that my mother wasn’t so rare among the female kind. In the same way my mother was an angelic memory for me, Agatha became an angelic reality. Being in her company was so precious, I’d have done nothing to taint our time together. When our relationship transitioned from friends into romance, I thought I’d gotten another chance to experience love in its highest form. Hope sprang forth within me like a spring. She shone like a brilliant light. She could save me from the life I seemed doomed to live.
With her, I was able to believe that everything that man had taught me about women or even life in general had been wrong. It was like being given a new lens to view life through. But she soon proved him right, didn’t she? She proved him right, and she proved me a fool. I hated her for it.
I chose to never be a fool again and to silence the mocking, hateful voice of my father. I chose to prove to him, even in his death, that he wasn’t right about me. I am a man, I’m not too soft, and I’m capable of power and control. Love was that rare thing I got one shot at and lost in childhood. My mother was an anomaly, unmatched in her compassion and love. She was one and done. An experience never to be had again. A chance I missed at experiencing tenderness.
Until Olivia. The way she easily offered up her own life in exchange for her father blew my mind. It seemed too good to be true, but it also gave me the first hope in years of connecting with someone so pure.
Still, the memory of my father’s teachings and Agatha’s betrayal has served as constant warnings. So, I’m of two minds when it comes to her. One mind tells me that by keeping her here and breaking her down, her true nature will come true. She’ll soon show me like all women, where only her needs matter. Soon enough, she’ll break and risk her father’s life for her own. She’ll go back on her word and betray him.
As for him, I don’t care for him in any way. Punishing him gives me great satisfaction. I can’t imagine a father to be anything but monstrous. It matters less to me what he does and more what she does. Of course, it’d be satisfying to teach the man a lesson and restore the money he stole from my father. But more than anything, I want to push her to the edge.
