CHAPTER TWENTY
RUINED... I’VE RUINED everything. The realization hits me as I pick myself up from the concrete driveway, the cold seeping through the thin fabric of my dressing gown. I can’t go home, yet the thought of fleeing to somewhere—anywhere—makes me realize I’ve nowhere else to go.
What have I done? Why did I lose my mind like that? Questions whirl in my head as the coldness of the driveway presses against my skin. My brain registers the chill, yet I can’t bring myself to move, to react. I’m paralyzed, not just by the cold, but by the flood of memories and emotions that choose this moment to overwhelm me as I stare up at the mansion.
Dominic died this week, six years ago. I was just thirteen, barely stepping into my teenage years, when I lost my brother. My mother couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear most things, leaving me to grieve alone. Oh, God. How is she going to react to this news? The thought of facing her, of adding this failure to the mountain of disappointments that already defines our relationship, is unbearable.
I search the windows of all the rooms, trying to remember which one on the third floor we were in. Is Diarmuid up there with Selene and Niamh laughing at me? Did Niamh act like that for attention? Of course, she did; she was such a bitch to force my hand. Angry tears pour down my cheeks.
“Now, this is a view I rather enjoy.” The words drip with unwelcome amusement and insinuation.
Wolf stands there in the driveway, his gaze not meeting my eyes but wandering in a manner that makes my skin crawl, focusing on parts of me as if I”m nothing more than an object for his viewing pleasure.
With Wolf’s hungry gaze on me, I make no attempt to shield myself.
“I hoped I”d run into you again,” he says, and the memory of watching him train the last girl assaults my memory, along with the things I learned watching him. I had used the same techniques on Diarmuid, hoping to gain the upper hand.
I don’t speak, and Wolf takes a step closer.
“Speak to me.” There is nothing soft in his words.
“I need to go home,” is all I manage, my tone flat, devoid of the turmoil that rages inside me.
“Do you have Diarmuid’s permission to leave?”
His question sparks a bitter smile that doesn”t reach my eyes. “One could say that,” I murmur, the irony not lost on me.
He looks at me for another minute. “I’ll drop you home.”
I don”t exactly want to be alone with Wolf, but standing in the driveway with the image of Diarmuid and the girls laughing at me has me following him around the back of the mansion where his car waits.
The drive home is a silent journey, punctuated only by the occasional flick of Wolf”s lighter and the soft exhale of smoke. The car”s interior is filled with the sharp, acrid scent. Wolf doesn”t fire any questions my way. Either he doesn’t care, or his mind is somewhere else. It”s a relief, in a way, to not have to explain, to not have to relive the humiliation and pain through recounting.
Outside, the city moves past us in a blur of lights and shadows. Streetlamps cast shadows on the pavement, fleeting glimpses of people living their lives—a couple laughing on a street corner, a group of friends sharing a late-night snack—moments of normalcy that seem so alien to me now. The world goes on, indifferent to the upheaval in my own life.
As we turn down the long driveway to my house, a sense of unreality washes over me. Wolf, without having asked, knew where to take me. Under different circumstances, I might have found that alarming, questioned how he knew where I lived. But tonight, I”m beyond caring, beyond questioning. I”m just a shell.
When the car comes to a stop, I don”t thank Wolf. I don”t say goodbye. I simply get out and walk toward my front door. Wolf is gone before I even close the door behind me.
The moment I step inside, the house embraces me with an eerie silence, save for the faint hum of light emanating from the kitchen. My body is a tight coil of tension as I tiptoe through the foyer. I want to go to my room, but the state of the entry to the kitchen stops me cold.
The trash can lies on its side, contents spilled. The sugar bowl, once a fixture on the counter, now lies shattered against the wall, its contents strewn about in a chaotic spray of white against the darkened tile. The scene is one of absolute destruction.
Despite my urge to keep moving, I”m rooted to the spot. And there, amid the devastation, sits my mother. Her presence is almost ghostly, her head resting on the countertop, her eyes closed.
For a suspended moment, I entertain the thought that she”s finally drank herself to death. But then her eyes blink, and the harsh light of reality washes away the brief illusion of peace. Her face contorts.
“Amira!” Her scream sounds like a dying animal. It shatters the coldness inside me. I need to run to get to my room. But my legs won’t cooperate.
“Get in here!” She roars again. I close my eyes briefly, praying for a respite from my mother’s madness. If I don’t do as she says, what will she do?
I take a small step into the chaos of the kitchen. I don’t ask what happened.
When I come into full view, her face pinches in anger. “I would trade you for your brothers,” she spits out, a confession so cruel it seems almost unholy. “I ask God every day to do this.” Her words are venom, designed to wound, to break.
Her next words strike hard. “Whore,” she hisses, a label meant to degrade, to diminish. It”s a blow aimed not just at who I am but at the very essence of my being.
In that moment, something within me shifts. The pain of her words is real, but it ignites a spark of defiance. “You don”t have to worry about me being a whore anymore,” I respond, my voice steady despite the chaos inside. “I”m not a Bride anymore.” It”s a declaration, not just of my status but of my refusal to be caged by her judgments, her expectations.
“So, not only are you a whore, but you are a bad whore.” Her voice drips with disdain.
My hands tighten into fists.“I am only a whore because you and Da fucked up our lives,” I shoot back, my voice laced with a venom born of years of suppressed anger and hurt. “You’re the reason why my virginity was given away. You’re the reason why Da is out with the hooker of the week. You’re the reason why my brothers are dead.” I’m smiling as each word drips from my lips. I laugh at her as her face turns white.
She’s still for a moment, but it’s only a short moment before she launches herself from the seat, and my back slams heavily into the kitchen floor, taking the air from my lungs.
“You dirty bitch.” She grabs the rubbish around us, stuffing it into my mouth, cutting off any air that tries to find its way into my starved lungs.
Before I can react, she drags me off the floor with a strength she shouldn’t be able to wield. She turns the tap of the sink on, and cold water violently splashes across my face before she rams a bar of soap into my mouth.
“You will wash your mouth out, you sinful, sinful girl.”
I choke on the acid taste of the soap. I push her away, and she stumbles, the soap dropping to the floor. She’s ready to launch herself at me again when I scoop up ice-cold water and aim for her face. The shock has her screeching, but she’s already grabbed a pan caked with grease and swings it, missing my face, but it slams against my shoulder. I cry out as I tumble to the ground.
“Get up!” she roars.
I’m stunned for a moment, but when her fingers curl around a cutting knife, I get to my feet. A sharp edge grazes my arm, drawing blood—a stark red line. The pain is sharp, and I try to wrestle the knife out of her hands. My bare foot slams down on her bare feet, and she cries in pain, her grip on the knife loosening. I scurry to the ground and pick it up, rising quickly to my feet and bringing the blade to her neck.
“You’re a sorry excuse for a mother.” Tears burn my face. My heart hammers in my chest. “I want you to die!!!” I roar into her face. “Die, you bitch.” I scream again, pushing the blade. Something in me snaps as blood makes a trail down her neck. I drop the knife, the clang loud at our feet.
As I stagger away, the taste of blood coppery in my mouth and my wounds stinging painfully, I know that this is a turning point. I’ve lost everything. This is not just about survival; it”s about forging a new path, one where my parents no longer dictate the direction of my future.
I take the first step up the stairs when a heavy weight lands on my back. I spin as my mother’s fist connects with my jaw. She puts all her hate behind the thump, and I’m dazed for a moment. I shuffle up two more steps and spin, kicking her in the face. She falls down the three steps, and for a moment, her still frame makes a hysterical laugh bubble up my throat. But when she raises her head, I know she will kill me. I claw at the stairs, scrambling to get to the safety of my room.
“Get back here!” Her screams are right behind me.
Fear wraps its dark fingers around me as I dart through my bedroom door. My heart races, pounding against my chest with the same ferocity that my mother slams her body against the door just as I get it closed and turn the key. She pounds against my bedroom door. I can hear the wood complaining, threatening to give way under her relentless assault. If she gets in here, she will kill me. The thought flashes through my mind, clear and terrifying.
My jaw aches, and I’m dazed for a moment, but I scramble around my room. My eyes scan the familiar space for anything that might aid my escape.
Tennis shoes—I gather them up along with a sweater and a pair of jeans. I slip everything on in a heartbeat. Panic courses through me as another crash sounds at my door.
Next, cash.I hastily shoved it into my pocket from a drawer I”d always hoped would remain a secret. It”s not much, but it”s all I have.
The window is my only exit, and it looms in front of me like a beacon of hope. I wrench it open, the night air slapping my face, sobering me with its chill. I”m halfway through, one leg dangling out into the void, when the inevitable crash sounds behind me. The door has given in. My mother”s fury has me scrambling, but I don”t look back. I can”t.
The fall from the window is brief, a momentary flight that ends with my feet hitting the ground hard. I stumble, but I don”t fall. Adrenaline is a miraculous thing, lending me the strength and speed I didn”t know I possessed. As I run, my mother”s rage-filled screams chase me, a haunting soundtrack that follows behind long after I”ve escaped into the night.
But for now, I run. I run from a house that was never a home, from a woman who was never truly a mother. Each step is an alchemy of liberation and terror. The night is cold as I race away from my mother and into the unknown.