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The single problem with that statement is I’ve never been loyal to that self-centered, political piece of shit.
Not even when he married my mother.
Nine
Atlas
There’s a gift inside my apartment when I get home. It’s carefully wrapped by someone with an expert hand, every crease and fold done with the utmost care. There’s not a wrinkle or rip in sight. I wonder how many hours it took of meticulous finger work to make everything look so... perfect.
And I wonder if whoever did it would work my body just as nicely.
With a soft smile, I shake that thought off as I pick up the gift and carry it to my bed. My fingers quickly undo the wrapping, trying to be careful, but ultimately, my impatience has me tearing through it quickly.
This isn’t the first time I’ve received a gift. Nor the second, nor the third.
I lost count after, like, the twentieth?
The first time a package showed up outside my door, I’d been frightened. I almost hadn’t opened it, afraid that whatever was inside it would be a bomb or something poisonous. It had sat on my dresser, glaring at me with what felt like an accusation.
I couldn’t bring myself to turn it in to the police for several reasons. What if my paranoia was all in my head? What if they called me crazy like they did my mother? What if they hauled me away once again, only this time, I didn’t survive?
So there it sat.
Until one day, I threw a fuck-it up to the air, prayed over my mom’s old rosary, and then got the courage to open it.
I’d yelped as the lid had fallen open, revealing the contents inside.
Food certificates to all my favorite restaurants and a pair of fuzzy winter gloves.
The gift had been random, and I’d been skeptical at first. Until I used the certificates. They’d helped tide me over, considering I had little money to my name. I still have the gloves. They’re my favorite.
Like clockwork, more things kept arriving. Sometimes monthly, sometimes every four months or so. There was no time frame, and no matter how hard I tried to spy, I could never figure out who was sending me stuff.
Nothim, that’s for certain. He’d written me off long ago.
No, this was the work of someone else. Someone special. For a long time, I liked to think they were from my mother. It wasn’t true, of course. We were broke long before they took her from me. She’d never be able to afford the gifts I got. That and the institution doesn’t even allow her to take my phone calls; they’re definitely not going to allow her a pair of scissors to cut paper to wrap a gift in.
But it didn’t stop me from imagining they were from her. It helped ease the pain the first few years after.
Soon, the boxes at my door migratedinsidethe house, waiting for me in plain sight on dressers and tables. It’d freaked me the fuck out at first, and I’d torn through my apartment, trying to find someone that I instinctually knew wasn’t there at all. I would havefeltit if they were.
Eventually, I accepted them without question, even if the curiosity persisted in the back of my mind. They were subtle items at first: my eighteenth birthday cake, a necklace with a little silver bird spreading its wings from an open cage, shoes, you name it, I’ve been gifted it.
Now, I take the pretty wrapped basket and set it on my bed. This month’s gift is larger than usual. I immediately start pulling the contents from the basket. It’s a self-care package and probably a reminder to me to take better care of myself, something I’m absolutely shit at.
Face masks, sheet masks, jade rollers, and essential oils all line the inside. There’s a silk bonnet and pillowcase, a fuzzy hair band, and several dark scrunchies. My face heats as I pick through the things, a strange warmth flowing through me as I see all the items I’ve been gifted.
I’ve never gotten a gift like this before, and that’s probably sad to say.
God, what kind of lame-ass person gets emotional over essential oils?
Me. Fucking me.
At the bottom are scented candles, a shower steamer, expensive body wash, shampoo, and several bottles of conditioner... The gifts continue deep down in the basket that seems endless. The more I uncover, the wilder they get. My fingers touch the edges of several matching bra and panty sets. I’m almost afraid to touch them, but I eventually pick them up, noting how they’re my exact size and in my favorite colors.
I set them aside and dig through it again, pulling out clinking metal. When I hold it up at eye level, my mouth drops open.
Handcuffs.
