Virginity Sold : A Night To Remember Auction

1. Elena

“What the hell are you good for, Sally Anne? When I come home, I expect a fucking hot meal on the table, not this barely edible shit you’re trying to pass off as food,” my dad bellows as I cower under my blankets, praying he doesn’t come into my room.

“I’m sorry,” Mama pleads, just before a loud smack and my mama”s cries fill the air. Daddy hit her. Again.

I hate it when Daddy’s mad. He’s mean and doesn’t care about how bad he hurts us. I get out of bed quietly, not wanting him to know I’m awake. If I make a noise, he’ll come in here.

Picking up my favorite stuffed unicorn, my pillow, and blanket, I tiptoe to my closet. It’s my fortress, my safe zone when Daddy’s like this.

As I open the door, it lets out a squeak. My body freezes, afraid he’ll come charging through the door and snatch me up by the neck. The last time he did, I had to stay home from school until the bruises faded. Mama didn’t want the people to come and investigate like they did before.

Daddy’s shouting gets louder, and I flinch when glass shatters on the floor. It takes everything in me not to scream every time he throws something.

“Where’s the little brat?!” he screams. Oh no, he’s looking for me. What did I do?

“She’s asleep,” comes from my sobbing mother.

“I don’t give a fuck. Her goddamn toys are all over my motherfucking floor. I’m tired of this shit, Sally Anne. Get the little brat out here and have her clean this shit up, or I’m going to beat her ass.”

My body shakes. I don’t want to go out there, but if I don’t, he’ll do exactly what he says, or worse. I have a school field trip tomorrow to the zoo. I don’t want to miss that.

Maybe he’ll forget about me. Mama will get him another beer and he’ll sit down in his chair and watch television.

But when the thundering of his feet gets louder with each step, I know it’s not going to be that kind of night. I scoot backward, as far into the corner as I can go, and pull my blanket around me, holding my unicorn tight to my body.

I clasp my hands together and close my eyes as my body shakes. Please, God, let him change his mind and not come in here.

The slamming of my door on the wall has me jumping, yelping in fright, as the shimmer of the hall light casts a glow through the slats of the bi-fold door of the closet. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to make myself invisible. If I don’t breathe, don’t move, maybe he’ll soon grow bored with looking for me.

But he doesn’t. He’s tearing apart my room. I can hear something large crashing to the floor and fear for my few toys. My only friends, my confidants. Only they know the horrors that happen in this house.

Steps grow louder until they stop right in front of the door.

My heart races; this is it.

The door flies open and a large hand grabs hold of my arm, pulling me out as I scream.

“There you are, you worthless good-for-nothing brat. What have I told you about leaving your shit lying around the house?”

The sound of metal clanking just before a loud whoosh. “It’s time I teach you a lesson.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed, laying me over his lap. Daddy places his large hand on my back, holding me firmly in place as he pulls up my nightgown, giving him a view of my favorite pair of My Little Pony panties.

“I’m sick of you and your mother. All you do is mooch and lie around while I bust my ass every day to keep a roof over your heads. You’re both disrespectful bitches.” A whistling sound cuts through the air just before the belt hits my bottom, and I scream. A searing pain shoots through my body, sucking all the air out of my lungs. I’m barely able to catch my breath before it happens again.

Where is my mama? Why isn’t she coming to help me?

Another sting hits me in the same spot, and I jerk.

I shoot up in bed, gasping for air. Why does this keep happening? It’s yet another morning I wake up, covered in sweat from having the same nightmare again. But it’s not a nightmare, it’s a memory. A reminder of the hell I lived through as a child.

My father left not long after that. He came in late one night, screaming at my mother about something, before I heard her scream, then a loud crash. I ran as quickly as I could to my hiding place, but he never came looking for me. Instead, he left and never came back.

That was twelve years ago.

I don’t know why I continue to have these dreams. It’s not like I would even remember him if I ever saw him again. He’s merely a blur most of the time except in my dreams, where he runs rampant, but his face is never visible. It’s always a shadow, a black spot where his head should be. His voice, though. That I remember. It sends chills over my whole body.

I’m a sweaty mess as I try to calm my heartbeat. Even if I could fall back asleep after that, I know I can’t. The sun shining through the threadbare curtains tells me it’s time to get up, so I toss the covers off and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My bare feet hit the cold floor, it sends shivers down my spine.

Standing slowly, I trudge over to my closet and sigh, staring at the few measly garments hanging. I pull out my last clean waitress uniform and shut the door. I need to make a trip to the laundromat. Thankfully, I don’t have to work tomorrow.

Not even bothering to shower since I did last night, I get dressed in the sickening pink uniform and slip on my white tennis shoes before heading to the bathroom. Once in there, I pee, wash my hands, and pull my hair into a ponytail. That’s as good as it’s going to get.

Looking at my reflection in the mirror, my sunken eyes, surrounded by black circles, stare back. I look like shit. Damn it, I should probably just put a light layer of makeup on. Just some concealer, foundation and mascara to give my face some color so I don’t look like death.

Ten minutes later I’m done. I turn the light off and walk out, heading down the hall. The foul, stomach turning smell hits my nose before I ever enter the living room. I breathe through my mouth as I try not to gag, knowing what I’m about to come face to face with. Bypassing the living room all together, I go straight to the kitchen and get the paper towels and disinfectant. Anyone else would be repulsed, but not me. After ten years, it’s become normal.

When I step into the living room, I find my mother, her upper body slumped halfway off the couch, the tips of her honey brown strands sink into the vomit.

I squint, checking for the subtle rise and fall of her body that shows me she’s still breathing. But I don’t see it.

My heart races and sweat beads on my forehead. Please God, not today. I can’t handle it.

I step around the pile of vomit and place my fingers on her neck, right over her carotid artery, and apply gentle pressure.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I feel the faint pulse.

She’s alive. Well, she is for now, but one day I know she won’t be. I’m going to find her face down, in a puddle of her own fluids. I’m just thankful it’s not today.

I take hold of her hair and lift the strands, wiping them with the paper towel. It takes everything in me not to empty the contents of my own stomach. Once that’s done, I roll her body back onto the couch. From the intensity of the alcohol seeping out of her pores she’s going to be out for a while. That, and the fact she didn’t even groan when I moved her.

Once I’ve got her positioned on her side, so she doesn’t choke if she pukes while I’m gone, I clean the mess off the floor.

“Lenny,” she whispers, just as I finish.

“Yeah, Mama.” I don’t look over at her, continuing to place the soiled napkins into the plastic bag so I can sanitize the area. Thank God we don’t have carpet.

“I need some money.”

Of course she does. I roll my eyes.

“What for? I just gave you a twenty yesterday,” I remind her, as I spray the cleaner on the spot.

“Twenty ain’t nothing. Come on now, give me some money. I need some more booze.”

“I’m not giving you anymore money so you can drink yourself into an early grave. You’re barely forty-two, Mama, and you look like a sixty-year-old woman. Drinking is killing you, and in return me. I’m tired as a dog, working just to keep a roof over our heads, lights on and food in the cabinets.”

“Give me the money or I’ll just go whore myself on the street. You think you pay the bills? No, I do. I’m the one who took care of your whiny ass after your father left us. You’re the reason he did. You were such a spoiled little brat.”

Standing up, I pick up the bag and place it in the trash can, ignoring all the insults she’s hurling my way. I don’t need to hear to know what she’s saying. It’s the same thing every day. Instead, I get my purse, keys and jacket off the hook by the door and leave.

When I step outside, I take a deep breath. The neighborhood is quiet, not a soul on the street yet. I shut the warped, peeling wood door behind me and lock it. Mama will be out within a few minutes and won’t think to do it.

I give a wishful stare at my old ‘96 Impala in the driveway. It finally broke down two months ago and I haven’t had the money to repair it. One day I’ll be able to afford it, but until then it’s walking, Ubers, and buses to get where I need to go. Today I’m going with the cheaper of the three, walking.

I’ve promised the landlord I’d give him this month”s rent and the remaining five hundred from last month at the end of next week, and I’m still more than six hundred dollars short. Not to mention the light bill is due in two days.

My stomach growls as I open the fence and step onto the broken sidewalk. I should’ve taken the time to make a sandwich, but I didn’t want to continue listening to my mother blame me for my father leaving.

For the longest time, I believed her. Then I grew up and came to understand the monster he truly was. The best thing he ever did was leave. If only Mama had left, too. Maybe I would’ve had a chance at being placed in a good home. I could’ve gone on to college and become more than what I am.

But she didn’t. Now I’m doomed to live paycheck to paycheck, stretching my dollars just to live, but never truly enjoying life.

Some days, I wonder if death would’ve been a better choice.