3. The Sperm Donor
three
The Sperm Donor
Onyx: 2024
T he structure waiting in front of me is anything but a house. I recall Mom referring to it as an estate . Who calls their home an estate? The word alone invokes coldness.
No wonder she was never happy here.
From the few fragmented memories I have left, nothing about this place has changed. The cold gray bricks represent a fortress of ice, frozen, refusing to let time alter it. I can still see the empty rows where the tulips will grow during the right season.
I know if I walk down the stone path to my right, past the rounded brick tower where I spent countless hours pretending to be a queen, waiting on her king - Newsflash: Kings are fake ass hats! - I’ll find the small gray ranch-style cottage perched on the edge of the land, overlooking the river. Even though the grounds are huge, there isn’t much distance between the structures on this side of the property — just the massive weeping willow, where we spent most of our days.
Once upon a time, this was my pretend castle. Now, it’s just a shitty memory I wish I could forget.
Exhaling, pushing old moments I swore to forget into the void as I heave the overnight bag off the ground. I’m pissed at myself. Angry with the world. Sick over the bullshit I’m being forced to do and confused as fuck at what I worry my life is about to become.
With every fiber of my soul, I never wanted to come back here. Nothing in this shithole town is worth the brainpower it would take to endure the memories. The man who was supposed to love me unconditionally left me on my fifth birthday.
The boy who promised to keep all my secrets locked away with his heart because someday it would be mine. Constantly reciting lame stories about our history being written, and no one could ever change it.
Lying sack of shit! My goal is to avoid him at all costs.
Anyway, this place is why I decided to remove the word trust from my vocabulary years ago. My short existence has been fractured and glued together too many times to dwell on some asshole's lies. My heart’s been shattered enough. If ripped from my chest, it’d probably look like a Rubik’s cube with scattered pieces fused to the new spots they’ve been spun to.
Each step I take, bringing me closer to the door, helps me shut down the storm brewing inside me. I refuse to waste one ounce of my precious energy on the worthless sperm donor ever again. Especially on the worst days, when I can feel my energy dwindling by the second.
The purple door is the only obstacle separating me and the life I never wanted to revisit. The only thing this place ever brought me was pain, and now I’m being forced to endure it again.
His voice grates against my ear drums when he greets me, bile bubbling from my stomach, reaching the back of my throat as I step inside. I can’t stomach his deceiving face at the moment, so I focus on the interior instead.
It’s as though I’ve stepped into a time warp, spiraling me back to my childhood.
Nothing’s changed.
Dim lighting cast over the entryway sets an uninviting tone. The cappuccino walls remind me of lonely shadows casted by small hands. While the same off-white carpet lines the stairs, making me wonder if the stains where it absorbed my forgotten tears can still be seen.
Wait… the pictures… are they different?
I notice the douchebag motion awkwardly for me to follow him down the hall to his office. The clanking of my heels over the marble floor reminds me of Mom, causing tears to sting the backs of my eyes as we enter his office. We split in different directions as though our lives depended on it, anxiety wrapping its long fingers around my chest, squeezing until it’s hard for me to breathe. The large window overlooking the grounds calls to me, giving me a portal from the suffocating proximity he’s lured me into.
Taking a moment, I lose myself in the scene outside, working to level out my breaths as I watch the weeping willow dancing in the breeze. From this view, I’m unable to see if the swing is still hanging from the branch. The same one we spent most of our afternoons hiding in its shade.
Fuck the boy that stole my trust!
A memory I’ve held captive, locked away in a box, hidden in the darkest recesses of my brain, slithers through the worn cracks, making itself seen.
A little girl sits crying on the swing alone. From the corner of her leaking eyes, she sees the boy appear. She pretends not to watch as he trips over his own feet. When he finally reaches her, he offers her two roses. Angrily, she snatches them from his shaky hand, throwing them at the bushes. The boy seems so confused when she yells at him…
A wave of static crackles down my spine, pulling me from the memory, setting off warning bells as it gathers at the base. Cold sweat forms on my brow as I notice the figure standing by a black truck beyond the grounds and across the cul-de-sac. Slowly, realization sets in, helping me rationalize the situation.
They can’t see me.
The distance and the fact that I can hardly see them help the panic release its grip. My heart rate levels out, finally returning to normal.
“Onyx,” he calls from behind me, drawing attention to his forgotten presence.
Exhaling loudly. “What?” Hating the sound of his voice, still pissed that Nolan refused to be here to moderate this conversation.
“You’ll respect me in this house,” Hendrix warns, causing me to turn and really look at him for the first time in years.
Laughter bursts from somewhere deep inside me. “Wow,” I giggle, trying to catch my breath. “Woo, I really needed that. But you probably shouldn’t throw around words you don’t know the meaning of,” I taunt sarcastically. “Actually, go ahead and give it a quick search. I’ll wait. Ignorance is out these days.”
His eyes narrow on me, shoving the same image I see in my daily reflection back at me. His caramel eyes may be showing creases around the edges. And, his dark hair might be lightly salted. But they’re still the same as mine, and I hate it.
“I can still change my mind about this agreement. So, I’d watch your attitude,” he warns sternly, and I almost start laughing again.
“I’m not staying under this roof with you. I don’t give any shits what —”
“Why the cottage?” he challenges.
Crossing my arms defensively, showing him my back. “Because I don’t want to see you,” I answer honestly, proud of myself for speaking my truth.
“You’ll attend dinner in the main house. Six p.m. sharp. And curfew will be eleven p.m.,” he counters coldly.
Anger erupts under my skin as I turn to face him. “ Now you wanna pretend to be a parent? Seriously, I’m not five anymore. I know when to eat. And, curfews are —”
“Non-negotiable,” he throws out flatly, shrugging a shoulder.
My eyes dart to his as we stand, having a silent stare-off. We both challenge the other, waiting to see who’ll break first.
“Face it, my house, my rules,” the sperm giver chimes in, breaking the silence first.
“Seriously?” I wail, rolling my eyes so hard I get a headache in the process.
“Rowland was a selfish son of a bitch. All he ever cared about was his money. This is him securing his investment,” Hendrix enlightens me on his way to pour himself a drink.
Nothing here is worth remembering because all it’s ever done is fracture my heart. And now, I’m realizing it did Mom, too. Everything she thought she ever had started here. When she truly had nothing.
How the fuck is my life fair?
“Whatever,” I grumble.
“Fine,” he agrees, strolling around the sofa and sitting casually in the leather chair beside it. “We should talk.”
My brows shoot to my hair line. “There’s nothing to say. It’s been thirteen years. I think I’m good, donor pops,” I huff, ready to get the hell away from him.
His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply. “Sit down,” he tries to order.
“Listen, Hendrix . I’m good. I’ve got nothing to say. I don’t need closure.”
He leans back, crossing his legs. “Did Opal explain our history —”
“Fuck the history bullshit. I’m tired. In case you forgot, I buried my mom today. You know, your wife who left you the house in exchange for the kid,” I spit, anger heating my face. “Give me the code to the cottage. I want to leave.”
He stands slowly, walking to his desk. I watch him scribble what I hope is the code on a piece of scrap paper. “There’s a Jeep outside. It’s yours. You’ll need it to get to school. Keys are on the table in the entry,” he tells me, holding out the scrap of paper for me.
I take it and start to leave, then stop in the middle of the room. “Look at it this way. The privacy will be good. You wouldn’t want your donor daughter watching your whore parade,” I throw out evilly before continuing to stroll from the room.
Once I’m outside alone, far enough down the path, I can let the emotions grating at my insides show. Hugging myself tightly, I let the fear and frustration consuming me pour out, ugly-crying in the darkness. Purging the hate and anger thrashing around inside me.