by Mj Fields
I don’t owe him another minute of my time, not even a fleeting thought.
All these feelings together are causing me to feel a lot like I did right before the monsters tugged that leash a little too hard and I lost control.
I throw the covers off of me, slide out of bed, walk to the bathroom, and splash some water on my face.
Maybe a shower, I think as I walk over and start the shower, twisting the silver lever all the way to hot.
I pull my nightshirt over my head and toss it to the floor, slip out of my underwear, and realize my hands are shaking a bit because my body is so fucking tired from not sleeping more than an hour at a time this past month.
It’s a shame my brain hasn’t gotten the memo.
Shame, I think as I look into the mirror at my naked form, one I once proudly displayed because I thought I was beautiful.
He told you that you were beautiful.
He’s a liar, and you’re disgusting.
My throat tightens as I force myself to continue staring, yanking the proverbial leash to call my monsters down. I’m thankful when the steam begins to fog the glass. But I’m not thankful that every good thing today is now undone.
I’m also grateful that my parents are asleep because, if they saw this—me—they would know that I wasn’t taking the pills that make me feel like a fucking zombie, pills that are meant to “help me” but make me just want to sleep, but I fucking can’t.
“Fuck this,” I say to myself as I grab the plush white hotel robe off the hook, wrap it around my body, and then quietly, so quietly, make my way from my room to the mini bar.
Three times while at parties back in Jersey, I got so drunk that I don’t remember anything, from where I was, to where I ended up. Every one of those times, I had someone in my face when I realized where I was. It was either Amias, Brisa, or Max. Sometimes, all three. I hated it, and my little red monster rage always accompanied my moment of clarity, that moment when I realized something was really not okay with me, and I lashed out at them.
Sitting at the bar, I am alone. Well, except for the five others gawking at me. I mean, why wouldn’t they? I’m in a robe. But whatever. Fuck it.
The bartender, who obviously has seen some shit in his days, didn’t even bat an eye when I sat down. He didn’t hesitate when I ordered my first drink. And, as he sets the second in front of me, all he says is, “Would you like that on your room tab?”
I nod and hold up my glass. “Get everyone gathered here in the lonely-hearts club a drink.”
“Of course.”
When the chair beside me is pulled away from the bar, I don’t bother looking. “I’m not interested.”
“Estás borracho. ¿Dónde está tu padre?”
My back stiffens immediately at the sound of the all-too-familiar voice, and I can’t move.
His voice, gruffer now, and with a bit too much insistence in his tone, he says, “Tris Steel, ¿dónde está tu papá?”
I am annoyed by the use of “father” in not one but two languages, as if I didn’t get it the first time.
My insides moan when I see his dark hair is damp, fresh from a shower, I assume, and he’s dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved tee-shirt that fits like it’s intended to showcase his chiseled chest, shoulders, and no doubt flat, toned abs. I bet, if I leaned in and smelled him, he would reek of euros, lots and lots of euros.
Why that pisses me off is beyond me, but it does.
“Father,” he states, his eyes narrowed.
And now three languages. Fuck. That.
“Padre? Papa? Father? That’s not you.” I push away from the bar and stand, using my hand to mimic someone annoying talking. “How about you and your”—sexy—“stupid accent go screw yourself?” I sidestep him and feel a draft. A big draft.
“Hijode puta.” He reaches over his shoulder and pulls his shirt off, and I step back, but he grabs my shoulder firmly but gently.
No one has put their hands on me in any way since Marcello. I have kissed at least twenty boys, but none grabbed me in a way that reminded me of the one thing I missed.
My body responds with a physical shutter. Internally, I swear I feel my soul sob, and then everything goes black.
I wake to quiet whispers and open my eyes to see Dad, Mom, Tricks, Uncle Xavier, and Ranger hovering over me.
I look around the room, confused, wondering if I just took a step closer to the edge of sanity and imagined everything that had just occurred. But when I smell the scent of clay, leather, and musk, I sit up and look around for Matteo.
“You can’t do that shit, Tris.” Tricks is pissed. “You can’t hang out in your robe in a bar and not expect to end up all over social media.”
“Fuck,” I mutter as I look down and see I’m clothed in a dark gray shirt that smells like him, because it is his. I smile as I roll to my side.
“Tris, we need to talk about this,” Dad says sternly.
“It can wait until morning.”
Uncle Xavier pulls back the room-blackening curtains and light fills the room. “Morning, Trouble. Let’s chat.”
“Why couldn’t we fly with everyone else?” I grumble as I try to get comfortable in the vehicle with a damn seat belt on.
“Road trips bring people closer and …” Dad says as he reaches across the console and takes Mom’s hands. “Did I ever tell you about your parents first date?”
“Did it involve whips and chains?” I ask, hoping it cuts the conversation to the quick.
“Nope.” He pops his P. “I knew from the moment I saw your mother—”
“I’ve heard this story at least a million times in my almost eighteen years.”
“You’ll hear it ten million more, because it’s how you came to be, and how you came to be means more to me than anything in this world.”
“Zandor, she needs to rest. She has a show,” Mom whispers.
“It’s cool. I’ll just focus on the sound of the wheels turning and shut him out.”
“Never seen a woman so stunning in my life. She had me tripping from day one.”
“Day one was when she lied about being a tattoo artist and had fake tattoos on her body?” I try to fluff the travel pillow again.
“She was an artist. Hell, she was a hustler, too.”
“I get it. Mom was the yang to your yin. Soul mates. You both slept around, sowed your wild oats, and then finally found your one true love,” I say in a tone that’s just as boring as this story has become.
“Yeah, but she didn’t come easy. I—”
“Okay, yeah, it’s bad enough I know about the sex club wedding, I don’t need to know how hard it was to make her—”
Mom’s gasp cuts me off. “Oh, Lord, Tris, that’s not what he’s saying. He’s saying I was adamant that I would never date him. He’s saying that—”
Dad chuckles. “I pulled the plugs on her car so she had no choice but to let me drive her down south to see your grandfather. I knew—”
“Cute story, but you’re my parents. And, seriously, I’m not a kid who found a safe while snooping, and you’re not the parents who hid the key in plain sight anymore. I found an album, while hiding under your bed when too many people were around. He found me because he always knew where I was hiding.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Mom’s whisper sounds a lot like a prayer.
Not all prayers are answered. In fact, none of mine ever have been.
“Just be happy it was an album and not a gun, or I would probably be dead by now.”
“Tris!” Mom gasps.
I ignore her shock because, seriously, how shocked can she be by anything at this point?
“Marcello image-searched the picture, because surely it couldn’t be our parents, and boom! BDSM.” I make an explosion with my hands. “Hormones woke way too young, and we got caught up in all the dirty little things we found online.”
“Okay, Tris, that wasn’t the point,” Dad says in a soft, gentle tone.
I ignore h
im, too. He thinks it’s to be disrespectful, but it’s not. The more I say it, the more the blade dulls, and I hope, someday, I will stop bleeding.
“We moved. Things weren’t okay. He said he felt like I left him behind. Reality? He missed the physical feeling of intimacy.” So did I. “I slept with him, got knocked up, was afraid and withdrawn.” The monsters woke up. “He believes I betrayed him, so he did it back. I found out I was pregnant two weeks before that, and I took care of it. He doesn’t know. I hope he never does.”
I was fifteen, and alone.
“And none of those situations were your fault.” Dad tries to remain calm, but he’s not.
They don’t think I know the hell he is raising with any lawmaker who will listen to him tell the story about a fifteen-year-old girl whose life was drastically altered because a law allows them to make a choice like that at an age when their brain isn’t even developed, without ensuring they get help. He rants about the system failing her.
Her? Me.
He tells them how she almost took her life because of how badly things spiraled out of control after that. He also threatens to find the right judge so that no other father will physically have to reach his hand down his daughter’s throat to make her throw up a bottle of pills she took.
Some days, I agree. Others, I think about the fight women have had to fight for years to get to make that choice and wish he would stop.
“At least I had the choice.”
Silence.
Storytime over.
I often wonder about what would have happened if that book were a gun. Would I have accidentally shot myself? But then I realize, in a way, it was. In a way, I was that jackass who missed the target, and now, for the rest of my life, I will be living with a traumatic brain injury.
I guess I should be happy that the damage is on the inside. If it wasn’t, the world would see how ugly I truly am.
I glance up in the rearview mirror and have another moment like the one I had that night in the looney bin, but this time, I don’t want to make them suffer.
“I love you both. Now, please, let me sleep.”
London, England
Matteo
Between the concierge level bar and the point where I stepped off the elevator to her floor, handing her off would have forever haunted me … had I not seen the deep concern for her as her father, mother, manager, and the long-haired man, whom I assume is her bodyguard, rushed toward me as I carried her to the door that was held open by another man and woman. Again, I assume they are related.
I know enough English to have answered the plethora of questions tossed at me, and what I didn’t, the hotel security officer, who had been alerted that she was missing, accompanied me, because she clung to my neck and wouldn’t let me pass her to him.
I would have seen to her safe return regardless, because I had caught her when she seemingly blacked out for a brief time.
I feel a bit at ease because none of them seemed shocked at her state, yet she still consumes my thoughts.
I wonder if they know she believes herself a horrible person, a mess with monsters and dark thoughts that consume her. The most heartbreaking uttering was when she said, “I’m ruining their lives, and I just wish they’d leave me alone so I don’t hurt them anymore.”
Their concern, obvious. Their anguish, clear. Their love, undeniable.
She is loved.
“Uncle Matteo,” Catalina calls my name, drawing my attention to her from our seats at the 02 Arena in London, which I secured at my nieces’—all three—requests. “No kissy-kissy tonight.”
My nieces are obsessed with Tris Steel, as are most of the preteens around the globe. I don’t love the name of the band for my twelve-, ten-, and eight-year-old nieces, but I am quite sure they don’t understand it, either. I also hope they don’t realize the artistic representation of the sensual coloring and shape of the band’s branding. Quite honestly, had I looked further into it before purchasing tickets for them to see their favorite singer, Tris Steel, who later apparently formed a band and was joined by three other young women and renamed, I probably would not have purchased them during our now annual uncle/niece holiday in Paris, one that Hugo inserted himself in.
Catalina, Elena, and Martina are the three daughters resulting in three different affairs my brother, Hugo, has had after his wife’s failed fertility treatments. Why she hasn’t left him is obvious—he gave her what she most coveted. She has been the only mother they know because, with Hugo’s allowance, he’s managed to pay off the women who carried his children. I will safely assume that they are better off, and I am content that my three nieces are none the wiser.
Why the insertion after three years? After our mother’s passing, her will revealed that our grandmother had left strict instructions that the family’s fortune would be turned over to the son with the largest amount of assets, and now I am burdened with the responsibility of my older brothers’ allowances.
My grandmother was not a kind woman. In fact, she was as mean as a snake. Even beyond the grave, she was puppeteer to those who she should have wanted to feel comforted in her loss, not tangled up in her hatred.
I shouldn’t know love. I was not raised in its presence. But, when I found my passion at university—sculpting—I was graced with its magnitude.
I fell in love, and when my heart broke, I had to break hers, as well.
“So far from her.” Elena pouts her bottom lip out as she reaches for her like she does the stars in the sky, knowing she can’t reach, yet she still tries.
She still tries.
“Four rows, mi cielito.” I tap her nose, and she grins.
I love them as if they were my own but spending too much time with them exhausts me. I am pleased that they now have Samuel, their niñero, to care for them when they are not away at colegios, their private school.
He is a true and trusted friend, and with an endowment, he’s guaranteed payment as long as he continues to provide the care outlined for them in the agreement that he signed a year ago.
Thankfully, my sobrinas, nieces, also have funds set in place to ensure their father doesn’t spend all their future inheritance on women and worldly travel. I have ensured enough for them to take care of the woman they call mother, the woman who no longer gets out of bed most days because of her crippling depression.
My private lawyer, Andrea, who handles my estate, investments, and the like, found loopholes in the stipulations that our abuela had attempted to ensure held like an iron gate well past her time, and I am at peace with it all.
If things fell apart tomorrow, they would be well taken care of, and the estate that I have believed my entire life to be cursed would eventually bankrupt itself. The mystical blockade that ensures happiness doesn’t penetrate its walls yet manages to entice everyone in its path. A falsity in which people who have never carried the burden nor responsibility of wealth yet hold it to a blinding esteem will one day see that it is all but an illusion.
With the invisible chains no longer being oiled and their strength dwindling at each passing day, it will cease to exist, and the girls will remember times like these and learn to value love and happiness over the burden of wealth and the evil that hides behind walls. They will never know their mother wasn’t by blood, and my final prayer will be that they never realize they were a commodity in a sick ploy to breed power. They will never live without love so long as I can show them what it is. And, as long as I hold the purse straps, I can do just that.
But, one day, I will be gone, and so I must now take the pill, the same one that has poisoned me, in order to ensure they never have to.
The nursery rhymes begin, and I find myself, for once, thinking of my childhood fondly.
You see, Madre never did such things as read bedtime rhymes to her children. When I asked her why she didn’t read to me like other mothers, she told me that she lacked time with all the social engagements she was taxed with. Therefore, I never grew up and wondered why a parent would
share stories of children with posies in their pockets, which represented the Great Plague and death.
A silver lining, I suppose.
As each young woman comes out, the crowd’s cheers eventually grow louder, and when Tris slinks onto stage, the roar begins, as does the screeching of my nieces, who are smiling from ear-to-ear. There is nothing more beautiful.
I look away from them and at the stage when she begins her part of the intro, expecting to see her looking into the light as she was the last show, but something draws her attention toward our direction, and our eyes meet.
Her words stumble a bit and, for a brief moment, I wonder if she has a drinking problem and is intoxicated, but then she does something incredibly beautiful. She points to the three people for whom my heart beats and gives them a big wave.
They begin jumping and yelling, “She sees us! She knows us! Oh my God, she knows us!”
Then Tris holds her hand to her mouth, kisses it, and blows it in our direction.
Through the entire performance, I find myself entranced by her act, namely the times I get a glimpse of shyness, pain, sadness, and even anger.
Emotions, so many emotions, come from her. Emotions are another thing I didn’t understand until meeting Isla at university, and feelings became an addiction, something I craved, until it was also something that caused me extreme pain.
However, Tris Steel’s changes so quickly that, instead of feeling a deep stab when she’s emitting pain, she plays it off as but a scratch, and then she’s expressing anger or happiness, or a veiled sensuality.
When the last song begins, I find myself growing agitated, an emotion that takes me by surprise. As the show nears the end, I’m angry that I didn’t pay fifteen thousand euros for the front row seats that were being scalped online, just so I can be the one her lips touch, knowing that I would be deserving of such privilege because my intentions are not to gain anything but the realization that I am of some comfort to her.
