Chapter 23
Yara
Six Years Old
“Mama? Look at this!” I exclaimed, showing her the rock I had found. It was shaped exactly like a heart and had been buried in a small pile of mud.
We were on the front lawn of our house where mama and I went to spend time together. She was too sick to go any further. At least that’s what she had always told me.
“What’s that sweetheart?” She leaned forward on the blanket she sat on. Holding out her hands for it, she tried to hide her pain, but I could see the wince that caused her whole body to flinch.
“Are you okay, Mama?” Dropping the rock, I shifted further up on the blanket.
“Yara, dear, please go clean your hands off for me, will you? Quickly.”
“Dolly! Where are you?!” My father’s harsh voice cut through our little bubble.
Immediately, even as a child, I knew to stop what I was doing. To freeze and try my best to be overlooked.
“Out here,” my mama called, but her soft tone pitched in anxiety. She dropped the rock. “Your hands. Put them behind your back. Now.”
My father barreled out of the house, shifting his gaze left and right, before settling on us. On my mama.
“You’re showing too much skin, Dolly. Your hair is a mess. What will the neighbors think? I didn’t marry a slob,” he advised calmly.
“Yes, sir. We will go back inside now. I apologize for my appearance.”
“We?” He stomped up until he stood on the blanket, his feet marking it in dirt and mud.
My mother shook, her face turned ashen.
My father didn’t often acknowledge me, but when he did? It was never good.
“Show me your hands, girl.” He didn’t turn his head, only his eyes flicking to my form.
My attention bounced to Mama, and I only listened when she inclined her head.
Placing my palms up, I didn’t expect the slap across my mama’s face that immediately followed. A sob escaped my lips as she fell back.
“Filthy child. You promised you would keep her clean. That she would be your mirrored image. Both of you, get inside, now.”
He didn’t wait for a reply before turning and stomping back to the house.
When he was back inside, Mama carefully got to her feet. “Yara, sweet child, soon enough we will escape. Everything will be okay, I promise.”
Three weeks later...
Feet pounding on the pavement.
Hair catching in the wind.
Sweat soaking through our clothes.
Trying to keep up with Mama as we fled our home.
But my father had caught us before we even made it out of the neighborhood. As if he had known her plans. And then he had lunged for me, but my mother had gotten between us. Protected me.
My father stabbed her instead. Over and over again. Until the blood soaked his clothes, stained the tops of my shoes, soaked into my skin.
I screamed and screamed. But nobody came.
They never did.
“This should have been you. And now who will be my Doll?” he had asked calmly afterwards as I shrieked and cried and begged for her to wake up.
And then he locked me up for good measure.
Two years later…
The matches catching on the third try.
The toilet paper going up into flames.
The drapes acting as kindling.
The wallpaper melting.
The smoke and heat wrapping painfully around me.
It was time.
Even at eight years old, I knew the world didn’t need him in it. Didn’t want to exist if only as a doll for him to mold.
My head fell to the carpet, waiting for it to be over. To find my mama.
The stomping of boots and distant shouting.
Firefighters had miraculously come, and I had been rescued. But they didn’t get to my father in time; he had died in the fire.
Or so the police told me.
And I had trusted them…
Why would they lie?
But as an adult, it made sense. He had money, he had been important in the community, he clearly had nefarious ties.
It was no wonder he escaped.
But now the question remained… What would he do to me now that he had me again?