Chapter 68 Delilah
Delilah
“Boarding school?” He frowned. “What are you on about, DeeDee? Who do you think you are? The Queen of Sheba?”
My heart pounded. His reaction wasn’t surprising, which was why I came prepared.
“It’s not what you think,” I said, my mouth dry. “You wouldn’t have to pay anything. They do these fully funded scholarships, you see. For people like me.”
“People like you?”
“You know, disadvantaged…”
“Oh!” he said, in mock surprise. “Poor little Delilah. Always the victim. What’s wrong with your normal school?”
“I’m better than that. Better than this.”
It slipped out. I knew he’d see it as arrogance, but in that moment, I didn’t care.
It was true. I’d had enough of hearing him say he couldn’t afford to buy food or clothes that actually fitted me because he had no money, only to blow what he did have on booze and fags. It was no way for a child to live.
“What? You want to go and live in a stately home and hang around with lords and princesses while I fester here alone?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “I do.”
His eyes burned into me, but I didn’t look away. He was sitting on the sofa drinking a can of lager. I stood above him; it was important in this moment to feel bigger.
“You’re not leaving here,” he said quietly.
“Why not?”
He thought about it for a moment, standing up to face me, hoping I’d back down. I didn’t.
“It’ll be full of lads, being all over you.”
“As opposed to you being all over me, you mean?”
It shocked him, my saying it out loud. Of all the rules he taught me, that was the most important one, the one that remained unspoken forever.
For abuse to thrive in a dysfunctional and toxic family, it must never, ever be mentioned.
I made it real. The silence was broken. I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—take it back. If it resulted in a beating, I didn’t care.
He looked me up and down, trying to make me feel small and dirty and insignificant.
“You’re not going,” he snarled, ignoring what I said. He would make me pay for it later.
“It’s girls only.”
Glaring, he stepped away, reassessing me. He sensed I’d grown a backbone, and that was not allowed in our house.
“No,” he said casually.
“I’m going,” I said firmly. I swallowed hard to center myself. I knew I mustn’t back down now.
“You’re sixteen.”
“I don’t want to stay here.”
My voice trembled. Forcing myself to look him in the face went against all my instincts, but this was it: my escape. I was getting out and he needed to know I was strong enough to do it.
“Oh, we’re not good enough for you here anymore?” It was little more than a whisper; it didn’t need to be louder than that to have the intended effect.
“You’re not,” I shot back without thinking. “You know you’re not.”
I knew immediately it would escalate, but adrenaline was coursing through my body, and I understood that if I wanted this, I’d have to fight with everything I had.
“You think you’re better than me?”
“I know I am.”
He said nothing, initially. But he looked at me in a way he never had before, in that moment. It was a look of sheer hatred. He moved closer so that his nose was inches away from mine. I could feel his hot breath on my face, as I had on so many occasions before.
“You’re mine,” he spat. “You think you can get away from me? You even think like me now, you stupid, stuck-up, ungrateful bitch.”
“This isn’t the life I want. It’s not normal—I know that now. I don’t want to be like you.”
“You already are. And you know it.”
“No.”
“And the best part is, you like being like that, don’t you?”
“No.”
“You love everything I taught you.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You just don’t want to admit it,” he said softly, delicately placing his hands on the sides of my face. “Just like you don’t want to admit you love me. You don’t want to leave. Not really.”
He put his arms around me.
Having Stockholm syndrome with your own father is very complex. How does a child make sense of that? He had imprisoned me with a set of rules. Coached me to be just like him. To rely on him. But the rules had given me more than he’d bargained for. They’d made me cunning.
Rule #7: Beware the Talented Student.
I knew he’d never allow me to leave, but this truly felt like my last chance to escape. And so, after promising him I’d reject the offer, I went upstairs and waited.
Rule #8: Be Patient.
He used to settle on the sofa and watch films on Friday nights, drinking and smoking until late. He never used to open the windows. A thick fog of smoke would sit in the room, blurring everything in sight. He’d usually fall asleep, and I’d find him in the morning, passed out with the TV still on.
I stayed awake all night, watched the digital clock in my bedroom as it passed midnight. At 1 a.m. I crept downstairs in the freezing cold, tiptoeing to avoid the creaks on the third and seventh steps, until finally, I reached the bottom. I held my breath the entire time.
He was snoring heavily. One arm was hanging off the sofa. His mouth gaped open. A glass ashtray on the floor housed cigarette butts surrounded by eight empty lager cans. This man—this monster—had ruined my life for long enough. I knew I’d never be free until he was gone.
Walking over to one of the armchairs, I quietly removed a single match from the box I’d bought earlier that day. I felt no remorse, no emotion, no regret for what I was about to do.
As I dragged the match down the strip on the side of the box, it burst into a single flame. I took one final look at him before dropping it on the cheap fabric.
I calmly walked out of the back door, locking it as I went. The living room was engulfed in flames by the time I was across the street.
Nobody questioned it. Everyone knew Dad smoked like a chimney.
From that day on, I stuck to the rules as best I could.
They were, after all, what had allowed me to get away from that place.
I knew they made me the same as him, but for some time after his death, I had nothing but the rules to guide me in the world.
I did not have my shit together, even though I pretended I did at that posh school.
But who could blame me? I’d just murdered my dad.
The grief knocked me out. I expected to feel relieved, free, but I didn’t. It was messy, complicated and multilayered. I hated him, but I also felt angry with myself for loving him. Why did I love someone who abused me? Why was I sad he was dead? He’d be so mad at me for killing him.
He was the only person in the world who loved me, and I murdered him. I carried that shame and guilt for years, unable to see I was still under his spell.
How do you begin to unpack all that childhood trauma? At the time, I couldn’t. I pushed it away, made very bad choices, formed toxic relationships. Elise was a part of that. I stuck to the rules, too afraid to have nothing.
Then I met Jack.
And everything changed. I changed. I finally felt brave enough to cast aside Dad’s legacy.
I discovered my own capacity to love and be loved, something I’d never imagined would be possible.
I wanted to be a better person around him.
No longer was I interested in obtaining power or influence; I wanted to be a decent person with integrity.
No longer did I want to seek external validation to feel complete; I wanted to create that myself.
While my father taught me things that gave me the illusion of control, living by his teachings, his rules, kept me under his thumb, unable to think freely and be who I could have been without his influence.
Becoming Leila—deliberately exorcising my past and embodying the characteristics of someone good and caring and honorable—is what finally set me free, giving me the real power I needed to let go, to start again.
So when I say I’m not having anyone threaten what I’ve worked for, what I’ve endured, I mean it.
Don’t talk to me about real justice. I’ve seen it all. Sometimes, justice isn’t served in a courtroom. It’s served at 1:46 a.m. in a living room with a box of matches.