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“She’s lost a bit of weight. Wedding nerves, I’m sure.”
I’m sure.
I wait for her to ask me what I think, although I know I’m once again just being that naive little girl who thinks her mother wants or values her opinion.
I move my gaze to the seamstress, with her neatly placed gray hair and apron embellished with pins. She smiles at me in the mirror as she pulls measuring tape from her apron, and I force my red-stained lips to tilt up at the corners enough to pass for a smile.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m glad you like it!” she says as she moves behind me to place more pins into the fabric.
I suppose most brides with watery eyes are holding back tears of pure happiness.
Not this bride, though.
The fuzziness grows even louder, loud enough that my ears pulsate with pain. A hand grips my waist, triggering the momenthispalm made contact with my skin, and suddenly I’m no longer here at all.
“Shut the fuck up before I hurt you where everyone can see,” he says, his eyes glistening as he brandishes the sharp knife in his grasp.
I’m tied down, whimpering around the bandana he shoved into my mouth. As he slides the blade against the sole of my foot, I cry out, feeling the sticky warmth of my blood as it runs and drips onto the floor. In direct contrast to his violence, he runs his thumb delicately against my instep, his eyes fluttering with the ecstasy of his sadistic desire.
He cuts deeper every time, and I wonder if anyone will ever stop him. Or if I’m destined to be his victim for the rest of my life.
He won’t mark me where anyone will notice. But the shame still fills me, like everyone can see each scar he leaves behind.
The sound of a door opening and closing pulls me from the memory, and suddenly everything is moving normally again. Gone is the slow motion. My mother’s voice chirping away to the seamstress is close now, no longer far away and fuzzy.
I am my own, I am my own, I am my own.
Heavy footsteps thud against the floor in an all too familiar pattern. The thumping grows closer and closer until my eyes meet those of my father’s in the mirror while I stand here waiting for him to pick me apart.
I’m a sitting duck for him to shoot down, and there’s no doubt in my mind he’ll take aim. I’m already deep within his sights.
He clears his throat, knocking me out of my thoughts once again, and I quickly turn toward my father, accidentally bumping into both my mother and the seamstress.
“Father.”
I don’t know why I didn’t expect this, but I curse myself for not seeing it coming.
He eyes me from top to bottom, silently assessing. He squints with a look I know all too well.Disapproval.
I wait for the carefully constructed words I know will come as he places both hands on his hips and draws in a deep breath. His charcoal suit, one of his favorites, hangs against his tall frame without even one single crease, moving with his body as he takes a step toward me. Still judging. Still disapproving.
I have to physically force myself to not squint my own eyes in retaliation. A habit of his I’ve acquired over the years. I’ve picked up a few of his traits, one of them being my smart mouth, but he’ll never see that side of me.
He can’t. No matter how fucked up this life I lead is, I still want to survive.
My father’s salt-and-pepper hair has one small strand out of place, no doubt from the strong Chicago wind, and I want to pick him apart for it the way he’s picked me apart for the same exact thing.
But I don’t.
I would never.
I know my place.
Father clears his throat again before speaking, and my heart beats an out-of-control staccato that I feel pounding all the way up in the middle of my throat.Thump, thump-thump, thump, thump-thump-thump.Everything spins as I force the small bit of air left in the room down into my lungs.
“This body is for your husband,piccolo uccello.” He shakes his head and glances from me to my mother and back again. “Not for every man in the church.”
“Gabriel, she looks beautiful. Don’t you remember when we married? This reminds me of my gown.” My mother places her palm on my father’s chest with a smile, but he moves away.
