Chapter 28 Enzo
ENZO
Let me make you feel good, Enzo.
The words keep replaying in my head, and no matter how much I try, I can't seem to make them stop.
Why did she have to say those exact words… Why? It had triggered something in me that I'd managed to keep bottled for years now.
I'd snapped. And the words had flowed out of my mouth. I'd wanted to hurt her, reach deep inside her, and make her hate me—forever.
But her face—so full of desolation—probably hurt me more than it did her.
Reaching my room, I lock the door behind me, promptly taking refuge in the bottle of whiskey I keep in my drawer.
My only hope is to escape, but as I drink more and more, the memories become clearer than ever.
AGE NINE
“Aren’t you handsome in your little suit?" The lady in front of me coos, her eyes roaming greedily over my face and body. I tilt my head to the side, but I don't say anything. When I don't respond to her obvious attempt at getting a subservient answer out of me, she slaps me across the face.
"Rotten child, you think you're so much better than everyone, don't you?" Her lips pull into a thin line.
I don't fight it. I've learned to never fight it. It's not the first time she's tried to get a reaction out of me with violence.
"Get out of my sight! I've had enough of you for today." She dismisses me with a wave of her hand, and I don't linger.
Mrs. Woods is not a kind woman, for all she'd like people to believe otherwise. Everyone at school loves her because they only see her charming side. But when someone crosses her, she stops being nice.
It had all started when I'd been indifferent to her compliments.
When she'd seen that I hadn't batted an eye, hadn't said thank you, or returned the compliment, she'd proceeded to insult me.
It's become customary for her to comment on my looks, still waiting for me to be all smiles around her, before ending it with a put-down, just like she did just now.
I sigh as I go to the back of the row.
It's not like I do it purposefully, but I've learned to differentiate when people are genuinely nice to me or when they try to get something. And Mrs. Woods would like nothing more than to be in my parents' good graces.
All of my classmates are in a line as we prepare to go onstage, our end-of-year play ready to begin.
Since I'd been rude to her once before, I'd been offered the role with the fewest lines. But I'm not complaining since I would rather not have done the play at all. I hate it when the spotlight falls on me, and everyone starts complimenting my face.
It's like they can never see anything but my face.
I'm the top student in my class, but I've heard the rumors—my parents paid for it, or teachers favor me. It's never because of my own achievements.
The play goes well, just as we'd rehearsed. But it's at the end when we bow to the audience that I hear the ever-familiar words.
"Wow, what a beautiful child. He'll be such a handsome man when he grows up."
"Did you see his eyes? I've never seen that shade before."
"He sure hit the genetic lottery."
More and more comments of that kind, and then there's my mother, sitting in the first row with a satisfied smile on her face.
She's just shown off her precious son.
Next to her is my baby sister, Catalina, dressed in a pink dress that makes her look like a doll—mother's next project.
We make our way to the back again, and my mother and my sister are waiting for me.
"Enzo!" Lina beams at me, letting go of mother's hand to come running towards me.
I take her in my arms and swing her around, softly kissing her brow.
"I still can't believe she didn't give you the main role. I'll have to talk to her," mother grumbles under her breath, and I sigh deeply, not wanting to be involved in another conflict.
"It's fine. I didn't want the main role," I tell her, hoping for once she'd listen to me and drop it.
"If only your father weren't so against it"—she makes a tsk sound as she stares at my face—"you'd be the face of every modeling ad. With your sister next to you"—she shakes her head, the disappointment clear on her face—"you'd take the country by storm."
It's not the first time I've heard mother say this.
Since I was old enough to understand adult talk, I'd realized that my mother had great aspirations for her beautiful children.
She'd wanted to take us to Hollywood, get everyone to stare at us like we're objects, not humans.
But of course, her dreams had been quickly quashed by my father, who'd have none of it.
That didn't stop Mother from taking us everywhere with her as her little dolls.
We head back home, and I hurry to my room, the events of the day already taking a toll on me.
Going to the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror, wondering what exactly causes everyone to obsess over my face.
Lifting my hand, I trace the contours of my face, looking for any imperfection, but finding none.
What if I had one?
What if I weren't so perfect? Would people stop staring at me? Maybe this could solve all my problems.
I don't even think as I clench my hand in a tight fist, directing it straight at the mirror. It doesn't break, not immediately. But as I keep hitting it, small shards make their way onto the floor.
Wincing from the pain in my hand, I focus all my energy on a piece of glass. Picking it up, I bring it to my cheek.
One slash.
And I'd stop being so perfect.
I'm about to dig the sharp end into my skin when my mother bursts into the room and slaps it out of my hand.
"What are you doing?" she screeches at me, her eyes wide with horror. I don't react when she starts hitting me—always my body, never my face. I just let her do it until she tires of it.
"Don't you dare do that again!" she keeps repeating, and even though I nod at her words, I know I will do it again the moment I can.
I don't know if it's my expression that's not convincing enough, but she adds something that gives me pause.
"Every cut you make to your face, I'll do the same to your sister. Do you want her to be ugly and scarred? Do you want her to cry in pain? Because of you?" I look into my mother's eyes, hoping it's all a joke.
It's not.
"I won't do it again," I say in a small voice, convinced she will make good on her threats.
"Good. Now come, let Maria clean you up." She hands me over to my nanny and leaves the room.
My mother comes back later, like I knew she would. This sort of behavior doesn't go unpunished.
"You know I can't just let you be," she explains, her expression stoic as she regards me.
I nod.
"I don't want to do this, but I need to," she continues, as if it's such a hardship for her to punish me. She purses her lips, looking me up and down.
"Your punishment will be to not move and be silent." I frown at the odd punishment, but don't say anything. To me, it sounds rather easy.
She takes me to her room and to her walk-in closet. Opening the door, she thrusts me inside, telling me,
"Hands on your knees, eyes forward, and don't you dare move or make a sound." I comply, folding my legs under me and placing my palms on my knees.
Mother gives me a smirk of approval before pushing the door closed behind her. She doesn't close it all the way, and there's a small gap that allows perfect visibility into the room.
I wonder how long I'm supposed to sit here. Usually her punishments are corporal. This is the first time she's made me do something like this.
I hear the door to the room open, and I see Father come in. He sighs deeply and starts taking off his clothes. My mother is quick to offer him a shoulder massage, and as my father sits down on the bed, she starts kneading his flesh.
I don't think I'm supposed to see this.
But the scene quickly changes as Mother crawls on her knees in front of Father and puts her mouth on his penis.
My first instinct is to look away, but then I remember her words.
Eyes forward.
Dreading another beating, I continue watching.
Soon Mother is on her hands and knees, and Father is pumping into her from behind, his breaths uneven as he grunts curses.
Mother's eyes are focused on me the whole time.
Loud moans escape her mouth as she urges Father to go faster, harder.
The sound of a slap against Mother's flesh makes me flinch, but she keeps on staring at me, her hand between her legs.
"I'm coming! Harder!" she yells, her body trembling all over. Still, her gaze does not waver from me.
This continues for the next hour. No matter what Father does to her, her eyes do not stray from me.
She's making sure I'm not looking away.
When it's finally over and Father leaves the room, Mother comes to me, still naked, and opens the door.
"Good boy." She stoops down on her knees in front of me, her breasts hanging low and swinging into my face. She leans into me to kiss my face, her lips grazing my mouth.
"Now you can go play," she says, ushering me out of the room. It hurts when I get up, with my feet almost paralyzed from sitting in the same position for too long. But I'm just too happy to be out of there, so I limp out.
It's late at night when the first visit happens. I'm in my bed, sleeping, when I'm startled by the rustling of sheets, the bed dipping low to accommodate another person. I keep my eyes closed, convinced it's a dream.
There's no such thing as monsters, right? I'm too old to believe in that.
Keeping myself still, I feel a breath on my cheek as a hand starts trailing down my arm. I crack one eye open, and even in the shadows of the night, I can recognize my mother's profile. She looks enthralled as she caresses my skin. Her fingers settle on my hand and she tugs it softly toward her.
She molds her fingers to mine, her palm resting on top of my hand as she reaches toward her leg. She drags my hand high up her thigh, pressing my fingers into her flesh. I feel wetness coating the tips of my fingers, and she continues to use my hand, moving it in circles and getting it even wetter.