4. Camellia
4
Camellia
I don’t know how long I sit on the bed before I decide to move. Without a doubt, I’m sure there’s someone on the other side of the door waiting to see if I will break the rules.
I’m not sure I want to deal with the consequences.
Very little is in the room, showing hardly any life. There is a dresser with four empty drawers. The room has an attached bathroom containing a few folded-up white towels, but the shower lacks shampoo or soap. One look at the knobs tempts me to clean up. I feel disgusting.
Catching a glimpse of my appearance in the mirror, my breath catches.
Eliza put so much effort into making me look good, but her hard work has gone to waste. My mascara stains my lower eyelids, and my eyeliner mixes well with the black specks.
My eyes lower, and I look at the dark mark left on my skin. As I graze my throat with my fingertips, I feel the heat emanating from the wound Santino inflicted. It’s more than just a hickey; he has left a dark bruise just above my collarbone. My eyes linger longer than they should, and I apply a slight pressure and wince as the pain radiates against my skin.
Getting too distracted by taking in the mix of dark colors, I jump when there is a knock on the door.
Santino doesn’t seem like a man who knocks and waits for permission to come inside. Rather, I’m sure if he were the one on the other side, he’d barge right in without any warning.
Completely in the unknown, I drift toward the opening of the bathroom door and hover behind it, just in case whoever it is is someone I don’t want to see. I stand a chance at locking myself into the bathroom before they can get to me.
However, with its flimsy appearance, I highly doubt that this flimsy door can withstand any force. Its lightweight structure and worn hinges make it far too vulnerable to provide any real resistance.
I don’t tell them to come in, because I don’t want them to. If I am forced to be here against my will, then I’d rather be alone.
Unfortunately, the person turning the handle is not on the same page as I am. The door opens, and a woman appears. Her brows knit together, and her lips curve into a thin line, revealing the frustration etched into her weathered face. Rather than feeling bothered by me, she’s pausing to say something to her right. Probably a guard. The sound of another voice, much deeper than her own all but confirms my suspicion.
“If Santino has a problem with this, he can tell me himself.” She clicks her tongue before looking my way.
She tries to offer a warm smile, but even her best efforts at politeness can’t mask the grimace that spreads across her face as she takes in my appearance more closely.
As the woman steps deeper into the room, the person she was talking to appears at the doorway. He is just another angry-looking grunt, this one with a gun in his hands. A full machine gun. As if she needs an audience, he watches me carefully, expecting me to do something dangerous here.
I wouldn’t harm a butterfly, much less an elderly woman.
Unlike the man with the gun, she carries herself with no hint of fear. Her chin is held high, her shoulders squared. In her arms, she has clothes and a few things on top. I can’t tell with the distance separating us.
For a moment, she glances at the mattress, and her nose scrunches. Can she tell what we’d done?
No, I don’t want to know.
She continues to move, claiming a seat on the edge of the mattress. For a solid five seconds, we stare at each other in pure, uncomfortable silence. When I don’t move, she pats the seat next to her.
“Let me see you, child.” She hooks her finger in my direction, demanding feeling back into my legs.
I am hardly a kid, but I guess in comparison, there must be a good fifty or so years between us.
Emerging cautiously from the bathroom, I step forward. To my knowledge, no one here cares about my safety. For all I know, she might be hiding a blade under that heap of clothes, planning to use it against me.
“Sit,” she orders once more when I’m within reach. As soon as I’m settled next to her, her hand is already on my face, tilting my jaw around as she examines me. From the squint of her eyes and the knit of her brow, I can’t imagine what she is thinking about. “My son has never been known to play with his victims. The fact that you’re here, moving with free will, is nothing shy of a miracle. Though, I know I raised him to be more gentle than this.”
Her son? Miracle? Either I’ve gone mad, or this woman has.
I’m back on my feet, pulling away from her warm touch. Unlike Santino, she doesn’t chase after me when I put distance between us. My heart thunders against my chest, and I jerk when she brings attention to the clothing in her grip.
“You two made quite the scene. I had to see for myself to see what is so special about you.” She sets the clothes down next to her hip. “Why don’t you get cleaned up, and we can get you fed, hm?”
Her offer is crazy enough to leave me bewildered and confused.
Is this some sort of test? Did Santino send his mother my way to lower my guard? Is this his first wave of trying to make me break?
I try to convince myself that to be the truth. However, the warmth behind her gaze, a look only a mother can give, makes me want to believe her.
It doesn’t help that the only thing I’ve consumed in the last two hours is that disgusting alcohol. Who knows when I’ll get another chance to eat? I might as well take it before Santino makes everything worse.
“Go on, take these and clean up. You look like a mess.” She’s brutally honest, hardly holding back. Even if it’s the truth, it doesn’t feel good to hear it out loud. “I’ll be right here, make sure no one will bother you. Not even my son.”
Hesitantly, I grab the clothes and take in the small bottle of shampoo and bar of soap. I don’t know who these belong to, or why she’s going out of her way to make me feel a little more comfortable, but I don’t linger long enough to ask.
Rushing to the bathroom, I lock the door behind me without question. Turning on the shower, steam fills the room quickly. Before it completely covers the mirror, I take in my reflection once more. Wetting my fingers, I reach toward my eyes and pinch the contacts that are agitating them. The color brown moves with my fingers, leaving a pale blue behind.
Rocco has always hated my eyes. Said they made looking at me even more painful.
Throwing the contacts into the toilet, I flush them down so I don’t have a reason to hide something that makes me, me .
I’m also excited to peel the dress off my body. If I had a blade, I would shred it in strips so I would never have to wear it again. Everything about my appearance all feels wrong, and even if I’m in an awful situation, maybe if I can look a little more like myself, I’ll feel better.
I want to cling to that feeling for as long as I can, even if it gets taken away in no time at all.
I waste little time in the shower. Once my skin is pink and scrubbed raw, I change into the clothes waiting for me: a pair of sweatpants that need to be tied into a tight knot and the legs rolled up to my ankles, and a matching top with enough room to leave me feeling comfy. Even better, a pair of socks slide nicely against my sore soles.
Walking in heels is one thing, but wearing a pair that hasn’t been broken in inflicts nothing but excruciating pain and severe damage to my feet. They were left in his office, and I hope he tosses them. I never want to see them again.
When I leave the bathroom, I find the woman chatting with the man with the gun, calling him Tommy. No point in learning their names, not when there are so many of them.
“You never told me your name. I should thank you.” For showing me the first act of kindness sent my way in what feels like weeks.
She turns to look my way, her brows lifting up toward the wrinkles on her forehead.
“Well now, isn’t this an interesting change?” Distracted by my appearance, she holds her hand up to pause their conversation. Going as far as stepping toward me to get a closer look, her eyes squint as if she’s in disbelief. “Are you really the daughter of Elio?”
The mention of my father’s name makes a knot the size of a fist form in my throat. I try not to show the look of surprise on my face, but I can’t help but feel it.
Since the day I found my father on the day of his death, his body stiff from rigor mortis with scratches at his throat and foam on his lips, I haven’t heard his name spoken. Not once. Rocco never spoke of him, not really. Eliza tries to avoid bringing him up around me to save my feelings.
The muscles in my jaw tighten as I nod to her question.
If you ask others, they’ll disagree. For me, my father was my true caregiver. Despite my mother’s affair, resulting in my existence, he treated me like his own children, even though we’re not related by blood.
Her smile returns, and she nods. “How can such a worn man create such beautiful daughters? You must’ve gotten your looks from your mother.” Reaching out, she grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “You can call me Bia, dear. Now, I believe I have had enough of this stuffy room. Are you hungry?”
I nod without thinking twice. The longer I go without food, the lower my guard becomes.
I should be wondering what my family is doing at this moment. Are they waiting around, expecting a call? Or could they be hunting down an alibi to help cover their tracks?
“Thank you for everything.” Squeezing her hand, I hate to have to let it go.
She nods with a soft sigh. Lowering her voice, she leans in toward me. “Four children, and yet, all I have is one daughter who never visits. Shame, isn’t it? Even now, all these men roam about without a single woman to talk about things that don’t include death or injury. You, my dear, are going to be the breath of fresh air this place needs. I see it, and I think my son may have as well. That’s the only explanation I have for why you’re still breathing.”
Her words are supposed to be a compliment, I’m sure of it. If only they didn’t leave a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach.
“Now then, let’s find something quickly. There’s nothing better than a late-night snack.” She leads me toward the door, and a chance of escaping appears before my eyes. As soon as I’m past the doorway, I’m sure I can prove Santino wrong, and run like my life depends on it.
Unfortunately for me, Tommy follows closely behind. I guess Santino didn’t order him to guard the door. He gave the order to stop me from escaping.
While I can’t slip away now, I’ll simply have to wait a little longer until the next moment arises.