Chapter 12
Amy
Icry the whole ride back into the city. I keep silent so my grandfather doesn’t yell at me, but I can’t keep the tears at bay.
Fifteen minutes into the drive, we stop at a fast food restaurant and go through the drive-through.
The driver orders for my grandfather and himself, and then turns to my grandfather. “Anything for the kid?”
My grandfather scoffs. “No. She’ll just puke it up in the car.”
I try to swallow the knot that’s in my throat to no avail.
He’s not wrong, but it still feels cruel.
The smell of food makes my head sway as they get their food and eat on the road while we descend into the city.
I’m not sure whether to feel relieved to see the lights of New York City or to dread them.
The city lights are at least away from the horrors I witnessed, but it’s also where the potential horrors of my future lay in wait.
Waiting for me. Their prey.
I walk silently with my grandfather back into the hotel.
He hasn’t addressed me since we left the restaurant, and it’s both a relief and a terror.
But as we approach the elevators, he speaks, his voice is low and gravelly.
“You’re going to go upstairs and get cleaned up.
You reek of vomit and sweat. I want you to doll up with the new clothes your grandma told you to buy, and look pretty, do you understand?
Pretty girls aren’t crying messes. You’re going to smile, you’re going to calm yourself, and you’re going to come down and play the part of my graceful granddaughter, do you understand? ”
I clench my hands so hard that my nails bite into my palms. The spark of pain grounds me a bit. “I understand.”
Panic slams into me with every throbbing pulse in my head. I don’t have the clothes they assumed I bought, nor am I capable of pretending that everything’s okay. What am I going to do?
We’re quiet as we step into the elevators and go up. My grandfather walks me to the door of my hotel room for the first time. “Remember, play nice. Cooperate. Obey. Your life may just depend on it, kid.”
I nod and try to unlock my door, but my hands are trembling so badly that I fumble with it, just like yesterday. But I’d rather be overstimulated and a tad frightened like I was then than the shocked and traumatized state I’m in today.
My grandfather scoffs and rips the plastic key card out of my hand. “Move. I’ll do it.” He all but pushes me out of the way, and I stumble to the side, wiping the tears from my face. “Ridiculous,” he mutters, but I still hear it.
He takes my key card and gets the door open in about three seconds.
“Here.” He forces the key card back in my hand. “You have three hours. Your grandmother is going to check in on you to make sure that you’re presentable, and then we’re going to have a nice dinner, do you understand me?”
I nod, but apparently it isn’t good enough, because he steps closer.
“I need to hear it from you. I’m doing this for your own good, kid. You’re marrying a monster. I’m taking it easy on you in comparison. You need to get used to this kind of shit, you hear me? Say the words, tell me you understand.”
The words feel clogged in my throat, blocked by the emotions that want to heave out of me like the vomit I chucked up earlier. “I understand.” My voice sounds raspy, like I had swallowed sand or haven’t spoken in years. In my soul, it feels like that’s true.
He gives me a jerky nod. “Good. Remember, three hours. Compose yourself. This is a test, and failure isn’t an option.”
He doesn’t wait for me to reply before he turns and slams the door closed. I’m left there, clutching my room key in one hand and wallet in the other.
I stare at the door for a moment, unable to move. And then more tears start to flow before I can even register what’s happening. It takes over my body until I collapse on the bed, sobs tearing through me like tidal wave after tidal wave of shock and grief.
Who were those men? Did they have people who loved them?
Did they have dreams outside of the mafia?
Did they want to get out because they couldn’t bear it anymore?
Because they wanted to protect someone, perhaps their children?
Did their conscience weigh heavily on their minds?
Or were they forced to join at a young age?
I don’t know if anyone will mourn them. Their families may never really know what happened to them. But I will mourn them, even as I mourn my view of the world and what my mind was like before the scarring I received today.
I hate it here. I hate this city. I hate being around my grandparents. But I especially hate being in my own head.
I feel guilty. I don’t know why, but I do.
I should’ve done something, should’ve tried to stop my grandfather.
He’s my family. I’ve always taken on my family’s emotions and actions just a bit as my own.
I’m always trying to help my parents manage their feelings, so why would my grandfather be any different?
Except it is different. Because where I normally help my parents with their emotions to prevent a drinking binge, my grandfather just went on a violence binge.
After around half an hour of crying, I sit up. I need to do something. To show myself that I’m not like them, that I’m not a monster.
My eyes zero in on the flowers that the Irish Demon bought for me.
The once beautiful flowers somehow look less vibrant than they used to.
Now I imagine them wilting, oozing with decay, poisoning the very air I’m breathing.
I march across the hotel room and grab them, tossing them into the nearest trash can.
They’re nearly too big for it, but I push them down until they fit.
I’m not meant for this kind of world. I’ve been saying it from the start. I’m soft, I’m sweet, I’m gentle. I like to make people smile, not scream in pain and horror. I want to bring life and light into people’s lives, not death and suffering.
I know I’ll wither away in a life that’s like this until I’m a husk of a person. I already feel it happening.
I wish there could be some hero that steps in to save me, who whisks me away from all of this, and protects me from this darkness that threatens to permeate my soul. But I know there’s no one like that. There’s only my grandfather and the Demon.
I stare at the flowers in the trash for a few moments, disassociated and shaking.
Afterwards, I go through the motions of taking a shower, even though I know there’s nothing for me to change into.
I have no fancy clothes like they expect, but I can’t bring myself to care. What are they going to do, kill me?
At this point, that doesn’t even scare me as much as experiencing a life of horror like I’ve witnessed today.
I go through my suitcase, my wet hair dripping down my back and into the towel that I have wrapped around me.
I have a sundress that’s pretty enough. It’s old and a little wrinkled, but it’ll have to do.
I get dressed, everything taking so much longer than it normally would because of the state I’m in.
I’m in the middle of drying my hair when there’s a knock on my door.
I stare at it for a moment. My body feels stuck in the middle of the bathroom, wanting to run or hide.
I take a deep breath, mind racing on what I’m going to say or do to whoever is on the other side of the door.
I’m guessing it’s my grandmother, but I really don’t want to see her.
I don’t want to go to dinner tonight. I don’t want to have anything to do with any of them.
I want to go home.
But, instead, I look through my peephole, and seeing it is indeed my grandmother, I take a deep breath and open it.
Her eyes rise to meet mine, her thin lips pressed into a tight line.
“Ah. There you are. I was beginning to wonder if you were in the hotel room.” She steps in, looking at my mess of clothes from rummaging through my suitcase.
She frowns when she looks at the sundress I’m wearing. “Which boutique did you get this from?”
“I don’t remember,” I croak.
Her eyes snap up to my face and she sighs. “You’ve had a rough day, I know. But these things happen. Trust me, as a wife of someone who’s in this line of business, sometimes you see grizzly things. But it has its benefits, too. Money, luxury, opportunities.” She steps closer and forces a smile.
It’s at that moment I realize she hasn’t been smiling like she usually does, which means she’s upset.
I wonder for a brief moment if she’s concerned for me, but dismiss it.
If she is, it’s only because she’s worried about how it’ll affect her.
She’s probably worried that I’ll ‘misbehave’ by acting fucking traumatized, what a concept, and somehow ruin the arrangement with the Irish Demon.
I hope it fucking does.
“Just look at this nice hotel room you’ve had the opportunity to stay in. Not many people have experienced such amazing things as this. You should be thankful.” Her voice is soft and syrupy sweet, but it has a bitter aftertaste, and churns my stomach as I digest it.
I feel my lip tremble and tears sting my eyes, but this time from anger.
“I’d rather live in a dump for the rest of my life and never see anything luxurious ever again than have the memory of what I experienced today seared into my brain, never mind seeing more of it.
” My tone is dark and venomous, but I don’t care.
She deserves it at this point. They all do.
There’s a flash of pity in her face, but it’s false, forced.
Just like everything always is with her.
“I know, dear, I know. I’m just trying to help since there’s nothing you can do about it.
Why cry over spilled milk? Life has given you lemons, dear, so do something with them.
Turn this into something positive. You’re a strong girl, I know you are.
You can do it. I can see the fire in your eyes. ”
I want to curse at her, to lash out and tell her what I really think, to make her hear the hurt I’ve experienced so she can feel what I feel.
But it’s not as easy as that. She’d have to be empathetic to feel what I feel.
No matter how hard I push and shove my feelings at her, nothing I say can change that.
And that’s true for all of them. For her, my grandfather, and my soon-to-be husband.
None of them will ever feel my sorrows because they don’t care, nor do they want to care. I don’t matter.
It’s a fact that makes me feel like giving up.
My gaze flicker downwards, and my anger dissipates, the numbness from before returning. She smiles and pats my cheek. “There you go. I knew you could do it.”
How could she see this as me fighting? Turning lemons into lemonade? This is me giving up, resigning myself to a fate of constant trauma for the rest of my life. She doesn’t see the truth because she doesn’t want to. She wants only what’s convenient for her.
She’s not my family, and I don’t think she ever has been. Neither her nor my grandfather have been.
She helps me get ready, chatting at me like nothing’s wrong.
I don’t answer her, but it’s like she doesn’t even notice.
I’m nothing more than a doll to be shuttled around and fill the part of granddaughter, of future wife, of plaything.
Who I am as a person doesn’t matter. They just need a body to play the part.
I wither away a little more.
My grandmother looks at the tag on my dress. “Hm. I don’t recognize the brand on this tag. Are you sure they gave you something actually from the store, Amy? How much did you pay for it?”
Yeah, you don’t recognize it because it’s from Walmart. “I don’t know. It feels like a long time ago.” Because it was.
“Hmph. Well, it’ll have to do for tonight. It doesn’t look bad exactly…” She sighs and continues to work on styling my hair. “I just wish it looked better.”
I wonder if she’s still talking about the dress.
She cakes makeup on me like she’s trying to hide me underneath it, and it doesn’t feel like me. None of it does. But that’s not the point. I’m just playing a part, just a puppet in their games. And soon, I’m whisked off to the hotel lobby.
My grandfather and the Irish Demon are already there.
My grandfather nods, his back straight, as if he’s trying to make himself taller.
But it’s a joke, because he’s lacking quite a few noticeable inches on the Irishman.
Who, in comparison, looks calm and refined, his hands in his suit pockets, a relaxed expression on his face.
The Irish Demon notices our arrival first. His gaze glides over in our direction and focuses on me. His posture tenses, his brows furrowing, a muscle in his strong jaw twitching.
How is he able to tell something’s wrong already? I’ve pasted on a tiny smile, the best thing I can manage. But it still shouldn’t be obvious.
Unless the dress is that wrinkled. It’s not like it’s ugly or anything, but just a tad plain.
I don’t know, what do rich people wear? Is the cotton so obviously cheap or something?
Considering how the sales attendants in the boutique clocked me as poor from the moment I stepped in their store, maybe that really is the case.
My grandfather’s gaze looks me up and down, as if appraising me. But the Irish Demon’s eyes don’t leave my face. My grandfather slides his arm around my grandmother’s waist. “Ah, there you are, ladies. I was wondering if I was going to have to come up there and retrieve you. Heh. Women.”
The Irish Demon’s eyes narrow, those steel blue eyes staring into mine. “Yes. Women.”