Lia
Sixteen years old
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.
Each word punctuates another spasm, and I hunch over on the bed, my skin slick with perspiration from the pain of pushing out my demon creation.
I’ve had a whole lot of time to regret everything that has led to this moment.
The short leather skirt and fishnet stockings I’d worn just to taunt Logan. The lies about all the guys I’d fucked, just to taunt Logan. Walking over to that bar, and heading inside, just to taunt Logan.
Calling him a loser in front of the whole cafeteria, and drawing Damien’s ire. Calling him a loser, period.
Every one of the heartless insults I’d made a habit of using on him since the day I met him in first grade.
I’ve never understood why I felt compelled to treat him so horribly.
After a while, I stopped trying to understand it.
There was something addictive about feeling power over someone who could easily have crushed me, if he had wanted to.
There was something desperate in the way I used cruelty to hide all the insecurities, the loneliness, the need that bubbled to the surface every time I laid eyes on him.
I guess the saying is true. You don’t know how good you’ve got it until it’s over.
Because on the morning that I needed Logan more than I’d ever needed anyone in my entire life—he was absent from school.
I’d spent that entire night with my lower body sore and bleeding, picturing just what I’d do when I saw him the next day. How I’d fall to his feet and beg for forgiveness. How I would accept that ticket, and go to that dance, and thank him, too.
Pride is a word that lost its meaning that night. In its place appeared two new ones. If only.
And I’ve been repeating those words ever since.
If only I hadn’t gone to the bar that night.
If only I hadn’t smiled at Carmelo Moretti.
If only I hadn’t let him buy me a drink.
If only I hadn’t drunk it.
If only I’d remembered how to throw a punch before he’d forced himself on me.
If only I hadn’t told those five guys to beat the shit out of the only boy who could have protected me.
Too late. Too fucking late.
For a while, I wondered if Logan was dead. He was gone for months, and I was terrified those men had killed him. If he wasn’t dead, surely he would have contacted me, no? Nothing I’d done to him had ever kept him away before.
Hadn’t he stood up for me time and time again when all he’d ever gotten were insults in return?
Hadn’t he saved me that day when I got jumped in seventh grade?
Maybe he hadn’t saved me from his friend. But I could tell how miserable he was. I could tell how hard he tried to say something. He tried a lot harder than any of the other kids in class.
And all he got as a thank you was a whole lot more abuse.
After a while, I found out that Logan wasn’t dead, after all. And I couldn’t tell what was worse. The idea that he’d died because of me, or that he’d lived, in spite of me, and wanted nothing more to do with me.
I heard rumors that he’d dropped out. That he was working for the Morettis now. Going around with a new crew… and the don’s son.
Not even my virginity being stolen by Carmelo Moretti could have prepared me for that pain.
Did Logan know what had happened? Did he simply… not care?
Why the hell would he care, anyway? What had I ever done to make him care?
And yet, he did care, once.
It feels awfully lonely not to be cared about anymore.
It feels awfully lonely, too, to remember his words. The words he shouted at me just as I entered the bar, and right before the first punch landed.
The words I can’t help but believe, now.
In fact, the longer I go without seeing him, the more I hear about how he’s living the high life with my rapist, the more I believe them.
Until it gets to the point that they become gospel.
I’ll never fucking forgive you! Lia! I’m going to fucking kill you if you walk into that bar! You know I don’t fucking lie! Turn around, Lia, or you’re dead!
I guess it’s a good thing he hasn’t come near me, because if he had, I have no doubt he’d put that threat to execution.
But sometimes, I wish he would. Ever since I got the test results back, life has gotten pretty fucking intolerable.
It took only a few short months for the proof of what Carmelo Moretti did to me to appear, and I had to drop out.
Dad was too much of a traditionalist to let me get rid of that proof, so here I am, pushing out the monstrous creation that I know I will despise for the rest of my life.
But my life is already over, anyway, so who cares?
A tear of self-pity bubbles up into my eye just as I eject the creature with a final push.
Finally excised of the demon. Finally free.
No, not that. I don’t think I’ll ever be free again.
The nurse whips the creature away to clean it, weigh it and check its vitals. She returns moments later, holding it in her arms, wrapped in a white cloth.
“What a sweet, sweet baby! She looks exactly like you.”
I really fucking doubt it.
“Want to hold her, mom?”
No! And don’t call me mom! I’m not a fucking mom!
But before I can object, she lays the demon against my bare chest. “Skin to skin contact,” she croons. “Nothing like it. Go ahead, mom. Don’t be scared to touch her. You won’t break her.”
I don’t move, so the nurse leans over me. She arranges one of my hands so that it cups the creature. The other, she runs over its head, so that my fingers touch a texture of coarse curls.
Huh. It’s got hair. Curly hair. Like me.
The nurse must see that I’m relaxing somewhat, because she tilts my head down. I don’t resist, letting her guide me so that at last, my eyes are taking in the sight of the child my heart is convinced will destroy me.
Oh.
The thing in my hands is definitely not what I’d consider pretty. Her skin is mottled purple, and the color does not go with her hair, which is decidedly red. She’s got more wrinkles than a ninety-year-old, and her hands are clenched into angry little fists.
“She’s very ugly,” I mumble.
The nurse lets out a strangled laugh.
“Her skin is that shade because she overstayed her welcome inside you,” she explains. “The irritation will die down in a few days. Babies are always wrinkled. She’ll be a real beauty, I bet. She looks just like you,” she repeats.
I’m not listening to her anymore, though. No matter what she says, the baby in my arms is just about the ugliest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
But she’s my ugly baby.
Mine.
All mine.
A violent surge of emotions chokes up my throat, and the nurse has to hastily intervene before I accidentally crush my new baby to my chest.
_
“Are you fucking serious? No fucking way, papa!”
“I am serious, Lia. And don’t swear.”
Papa sits by the bed, averting his eyes as I breastfeed the baby I’ve decided to call Aurora. Though I haven’t gotten used to calling her anything but baby yet.
“Papa,” I groan, “you must not understand what happened. I didn’t choose to go out with Carmelo Moretti.
He’s not my boyfriend. Not anything like that.
” I can’t believe I have to spell the words out to him.
Or nearly, because I can’t bear to call what happened by its real, ugly name.
“We had a… a one-night stand. But not even that. Not even that, papa.”
“I know.” His mouth sets in a grim line. “I know you’re not to blame, sweetie. These bad things just… happen.”
My chest constricts with the injustice of his reaction. No, it didn’t just happen. Carmelo Moretti made it happen! Carmelo Moretti, the guy papa is telling me I’m going to marry, whether I want to or not!
“I am not going anywhere near that man ever again,” I hiss. “And I am certainly not marrying him.”
“Honey,” says papa, in a firmer voice than I’ve ever heard him use with me, “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”
“I DO have a choice!” I snap. “This is America, papa! The 21st century! Parents can’t just force their minor children into unwanted marriages!”
“Parents might not be able to,” growls papa, “but the Morettis certainly can. Carmelo Moretti has decided to marry you, and there’s just no way to stop that from happening. Got it?”
I stare at him, aghast. For the first time ever, I’m seeing papa as the weak, pathetic man he really is. Not as the powerful made man or as the loving father I’d always imagined he was. Not even as the stern husband who came to America with his daughter, leaving his unwilling wife behind.
“You may be too weak to do a thing about it, but I certainly will,” I lash out. “I’m going back to Ireland to live with mamaí.”
He lets out an exhausted sigh. “Your mother has made it clear many times over the years that she wants nothing to do with you. And anyway, if you leave, you’re just going to put everyone in danger. Do you really think Carmelo Moretti will let you leave with his child?”
I clutch the baby protectively, and my breast accidentally pops out of her mouth, causing her to whine in protest. “She’s my child!”
“The Morettis consider her to be their heir. The don only has one son, and Carmelo has no other progeny. So your baby is very important. Now, either you give in, and Carmelo will treat you and your daughter very well, and make you as happy as you can be given the circumstances. Or you run off to Ireland, and within a fortnight, we’ll all be dead. So, which will it be?”
I can only stare at him, my mouth wide in horror.
“You don’t need to answer,” says papa, planting a kiss on my head. “I’ve already answered for you. All you need to do is behave, daughter, and everything will be fine.”
With that, he stands up and walks out of the room, leaving me alone to realize that maybe, my life wasn’t over, before.
But it sure is now.