Chapter 36
Damien
I don't see why she had to drag me to this party. I could've stayed home. I could've sat with Berna, my older sister, and watched cartoons.
Not that Berna actually pays attention to the cartoons. She just stares into space, but during those twenty minutes we get in front of the TV, it's easier not to feel.
The air reeks of fish and champagne, and the room is covered in hideous green and gold wallpaper. Who puts something that ugly on their walls?
I spot Mom in a corner, her ash-blonde curls perfectly styled, that brownish lipstick applied without a single smudge, wearing her favorite black dress as she sits in some man's lap. His hand slides up her thigh and disappears under her skirt.
"Everyone will use you somehow, Damien." She was the first example of that. The moment I could grip a blade, she showed me how to make each cut, how to ensure someone either bleeds slowly or loses half their blood supply in five minutes.
"Something tells me you don't want to be here." I hear a voice from behind me, and when I turn, there's a woman with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing denim overalls.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I'm not allowed to talk to anyone without her permission. But when I glance at Mom, her eyes are closed, caught up in whatever that man's doing to her.
"Can I ask you a favor?" The woman looks toward where my mother's kissing that guy.
I don't answer, because now Mom's eyes are open. And I really don't want to find out what will happen at home if I do something that pisses her off.
"My little girl is by the entrance. Could you keep her company for a few minutes, please? I promise I'll talk to your mother, explain everything."
Mom's eyes find us, and as she sizes up the woman next to me, something flashes across her face. Something new, something I've never seen in her eyes before: fear.
The woman approaches them, and after a brief exchange, Mom looks at me and gives a subtle nod of permission. I don’t wait another second before heading for the exit.
The smell of smoke and heavy perfume fades behind me, and when I reach the door, sitting on a bench beside it is a small girl with chocolate-brown hair.
She's wearing a little green dress covered in sequins, and her hair is held back with clips that look like diamonds.
When her eyes lift from the doll in her hands to me, something twists in my stomach.
There's no trace of cruelty, no corruption like what Berna and I carry. It's something I've seen in other kids but never in my own reflection.
"Do you want a candy?" she whispers, and a smile spreads across her entire face.
Candy has sugar. I'm not allowed sugar without Mom’s permission. Actually, I'm not allowed to eat anything until she gives the okay.
"I won't tell anyone, I promise. Cross my heart. Wait, no. Pinky promise. Actually, green promise, green's my favorite color this week." Her words tumble out slightly jumbled, and before I can control my facial muscles, I smile.
She has an innocence I lost the moment I could speak my first words. I don't think she's older than six, and regret presses against my chest because I don't understand why she's here. Surrounded by people like Mom, who are capable of sinking their teeth into any ray of sunlight.
Because that's what she is. A ray of sunlight in a corner of shadows. I check the direction I came from, then take the candy from her.
"You should smile more. Maybe tell some jokes," she says seriously, studying me.
"Why?" I ask as I let the sugar from the candy release endorphins in my body.
"I like it when you smile. When I grow up, I'm gonna marry someone who smiles a lot. And who makes other people smile. Mom says that's the secret to a happy marriage, making each other smile."
I lean my head against the wall and listen to her. I think she's competing with herself to see how many words she can say per second, but somehow I don't want her to stop.
Because if she stops, I'll hear the voices from the other room again, where Mom's selling her body for some piece of information.
At twelve years old, I'm no stranger to how Mom chooses to consolidate our power. I don't know how Dad can be okay with his wife grinding in other men's laps, but I don't think he cares anymore.
These days, he's more of a shadow of the man he once was.
I turn my gaze back to the ray of sunshine beside me, who's still talking.
"What happened to your hand?"
I look down at my hand and the bandage covering a cut Mom made.
She cut a little too deep to show me what happens when I'm not paying attention.
Because I wasn't paying attention when she was talking to me.
Sometimes I think my brain intentionally blocks her out so I don't vomit up all the rage I keep locked inside.
Because I can't let it out. Berna needs me lucid.
Before I can answer, she positions herself in front of me, takes my bandaged hand, and brings it close to her lips. In one second, her lips make contact with that piece of fabric.
My eyes widen at her gesture, but I'm too shocked to pull my hand from her palms.
"There, I gave it a kiss, and now it'll heal. You'll see, it won't hurt anymore."
I stare at her like she's an alien because even though that's not how anatomy works, the throbbing pain in my hand seems to ease.
"Do you want to be my husband?" she asks.
"Why would you want me to be your husband?" I ask, my eyes still wide from what she just did.
No one's ever cared if something hurt me.
Everyone in the house where we stay in Poland knows to look the other way, not to say a word if they see something wrong.
And they've seen plenty of wrong things.
Countless times I've had to walk around with broken ribs, cuts on my skin, or bruises on my face from her punishments.
And no one did anything. Not even a sympathetic glance, not even a touch to assure me it would pass.
"I like when you smile. I like your hair, and you're so tall next to me that you can protect me from anyone and anything. So you have everything you need to be a good husband."
I can't respond because I'm still frozen, staring at her.
Staring at her smile. That fever inside me doesn't burn as hot since I sat down next to her on this bench.
"I don't think I'd be a good husband for anyone," I mumble, though I've never actually considered the idea.
The only marriage I've analyzed is my parents', and I'd rather die than have something like that with anyone.
I watch her face scrunch up slightly, and I don't know why, but it bothers me. She's a kid who, unlike me, probably has a normal family. Who hasn't seen a drop of blood. Who doesn't know what pain is.
And somehow, that thought consoles me. Because I can't imagine her without that sparkle in her eyes.
"I don't think I'd be a good wife either," she says, and I don't think she realizes she's pushed her lips forward into a pout, making her somehow even more adorable than before.
Who the hell is this little girl? And what is she doing here?
"Why?" I ask because I like her voice.
I watch her study me, weighing whether or not to trust me with this great secret.
"I don't like sharing my candy and chocolate, and I always leave my toys scattered all over my room." She bites her lower lip.
"You shared a candy with me," I point out.
"Because I wanted you to agree to be my husband," she says quietly, and before I can control my reactions, my mouth curves up.
Because she looks so guilty about her gesture, about how she tried to bribe me with candy.
"What else should your husband do?" I ask.
Her face lights up, and she starts swinging her legs. That's when I notice she's wearing white tights with glitter. God, how much glitter can one person wear?
"Well, besides smiling and making me smile, he has to pick up all my toys."
"Right, because you leave them everywhere," I respond as I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes.
"He has to have money because I like pizza. Actually, he should just give me his credit card because I also need lots of toys." She emphasizes the word card.
At that, my smile stretches wider across my face.
"He absolutely has to watch cartoons with me. Daddy can't stand them, and Mommy always falls asleep in the middle of the episode."
Her indignant voice makes me laugh, and I open my eyes. Because I don't laugh. Ever. So I look down at her to find she's already staring at me.
"So, do you want to be my husband? I promise if you fall asleep during cartoons too, I won't be mad," she tells me softly.
Before I can answer, her mother appears in the hallway.
"Thank you. Come on, amorino. We need to go home."
Before walking out the door, she pulls away from her mother's grip, comes to me, kisses my cheek, and says, "I'm Roxanne. Don't forget about the wedding. I can wait for you until...hmm. Mommy, how old do I have to be to get married?"
With a laugh, her mother shakes her head and answers. "There's no specific age, cara. But let's say thirty."
"I promise I'll wait for you until thirty," the ray of sunshine tells me, and I memorize her joy.
I remember that night even now because it was the first night I fell asleep smiling, remembering the happiness in her voice.
The enthusiasm that one day I'd be her husband.
And I promised myself then that I'd try to be what she would've wanted.
I started smiling more often, telling jokes and laughing, without any hope I'd ever see her again.
Because I never would've dragged a ray of sunshine into the darkness I live in.
But then I saw her in that warehouse a year ago, with blood on her mouth, her hair disheveled, and without that sparkle she had in her eyes back then. With that haunted, lost look, with that wall she built through her jokes and the way it seemed like nothing affected her.
In that moment, I knew I didn't need to drag her into my shadows because she'd already made contact with something evil. And since I wasn't there to protect her when I should've been, I became her shadow, her protector, her husband.
Even though she doesn't remember that she's been mine for over twenty years.