by JB Salsbury
Her hands freeze on a white ceremony robe before she starts back up. “A long time.” She keeps her voice soft, and I wonder if Papa has instructed her not to communicate with me.
“Do you remember how old you were—”
“Please.” Her chin drops to her chest so far her head practically disappears from my view. “I’ve already said too much.”
“Hm.” I chew and swallow a couple bites of eggs before I take a different tactic. “I don’t remember coming here. I believe I was raised here from infancy.” I take another bite, hoping it comes across as casual while my insides are jumping with nerves. “I left for just over a year.”
What I said captures her attention, and she peeks at me from the corner of her eye.
“I was just wondering if you’d ever been outside.”
She nods. “I have been outside.” She hangs a robe. “But not very often.”
“I can see that.” I nod at her pasty white arm. “You’re starting to look like me.”
She doesn’t smile.
“Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
“I couldn’t take food meant for you.” With nothing else to rearrange, she moves to the bookshelf, keeping her back toward me.
“Do you like to read?”
“I don’t read. I’ve never learned.”
The factual way she speaks about how she’s been treated, being deprived of any sort of an education when I was at least given that, sends guilt through my chest. I watch her closely as she moves around the room. Her faded green dress is shapeless on her slender frame, and her heels hang off the backs of worn-out slippers. Her brown hair is long and stringy and looks as though it could use a wash, and her skin looks as though it should be naturally darker than it is. All the times I thought back to this place, feeling as though I’d been abused, and I only now realize there were others here who were treated much worse. I push my food away, choking on the weight of my shame.
“Finished?” She keeps her head bowed.
I no longer desire the company. “Yes, thank you.” She scurries to remove the tray of food, and when her thin fingers grip the edges, I ask, “What is your name?”
Her eyes finally meet mine, and they look dead on the inside. “Everyone calls me girl.”
The lump in my throat thickens—not with sadness but with fury. “You’re so much more than just a girl.”
Her face lights up as if she’d never been given a compliment. I realize I’m not an angel, that I have no supernatural powers, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make a difference in a person’s life.
I push out from my chair, and she recoils. I approach her slowly to keep from scaring her. I lean in to get a closer look at her face. Her lips are full but dry, her cheeks sunken in, and her eyes are the color of dull chocolate but lack the sparkle of a life well lived.
“May I show you something?”
Her gaze darts to the door, and rather than give her time to answer, I move to the bookshelf. I pull down the appropriate book and flip through the pages as I walk back to the table.
I find what I’m looking for easily enough and splay open the pages to point at the image. “You look just like St. Philomena.”
The girl peers over to study the page, her feet absently bring her closer.
“She was young and very beautiful, just like you.”
A flash of color rises in the girl’s cheeks.
“She was a Greek princess who took a vow of celibacy, a promise to God to remain pure for her entire life.” I stop talking and watch as she studies the page, her hands still firmly gripping the tray of food as her eyes move rapidly over the words even though she can’t comprehend what they say.
“She is nothing . . .” She clears her throat, and sadness drips from her every word. “Nothing like me.”
I gaze at the pages, barely able to make out the words from this distance, but it doesn’t matter. I remember the tragic story. I read it many times while being confined in this room, and its disturbing details stuck with me. “She was thirteen when a Roman emperor fell in love with her.”
Those dead eyes of hers stay fixed on the book.
“She refused him, and because of that, he had her tortured.”
“Tortured?” she whispers.
“She was whipped, shot with arrows, even had an anchor tied to her and was drowned, but after each attack, angels came to her aid and healed her.”
“So she lived?”
“No. Finally the emperor had her decapitated.”
Her face scrunches up, and she takes a few steps back. “That’s a terrible story.”
I run my hand along the soft, worn pages, thinking of the many times I read the same stories over and over, all of them about strength and sacrifice and honor. They brought me peace until I was able to find my own. “Philomena showed unwavering strength in the face of unfathomable evil. She could’ve easily broken her vows and had them spare her life, but she remained steadfast.” I fix my eyes on her. “One day you’ll be free of all this, Philomena.”
She shudders at my calling her that name, but her shoulders straighten and she becomes taller.
“You are brave, you will persevere, and your reward will be your freedom.”
“And if I don’t? If I die instead, like the woman in the story?”
“Then you die with honor, and still, in death you get your freedo—”
The door swings open and startles Philomena so much she drops the tray of food, following quickly behind it to clean up.
“What is going on in here?” Papa’s voice is harsh and full of reprimand.
I close the book as the girl stumbles all over herself in apology. I bend down and help to gather the pieces of my mostly uneaten meal.
“I’m sorry, sir. I was just here to gather the dishes. I was leaving.” Her hands move frantically and are hidden from Papa’s eyes.
I grab one and hold it firmly then whisper, “Strength, my sister.”
She sucks in a shaky breath and seems to calm before standing tall and bustling out the door.
“Girl!”
I cringe at the way he says her name as if she’s an object and not a breathing human being of worth.
“Give me your keys.”
She rearranges the tray in her arms to hand him the keys then slides past him and out the door. He closes it and turns toward me.
“Forgive me, Papa.” I drop my chin, kneel, and bow my head until my forehead hovers over the floor, although it takes all my strength to do so. “I was lonely. I just wanted someone to talk to.”
He doesn’t answer me, but the thump of his footsteps grows closer. I think about Philomena and pray I demonstrate her strength. The scrape of chair legs on tile sounds just before wood creaks, signaling he’s taken the seat close to the table.
“I’ve thought about your offer, and I’ve decided to extend your privileges as long as you agree to willingly work with me.”
I could cry with the rush of excitement and victory that floods my veins, but instead I sink lower at his feet. “Thank you, Papa.”
“You’re still forbidden from going outside and your door will remain locked, but I’ll allow you to eat your meals in the dining room.”
“I would like company for my meals.”
“Excuse me?” He’s not asking a real question. Offense weighs heavy in his tone.
I push on anyway because I must. “The girl. May I share meals with her?”
“No, absolutely not.”
I rise to my knees and think of how to word my next sentence gently and respectfully. “I will go crazy without interaction, and for healings, I need to be calm and in control.” When he doesn’t comment, I continue. “It would be in the best interest of our mutual goals if I were not constantly walking the edge of sanity.”
“Fine,” he growls. “But only one meal a day, and not if she’s in the middle of her duties.”
What kind of duties?
He stands quickly and walks toward the door. I assume he’s leaving until h
e waves for me to follow. “Come on. I’ll show you the dining room.”
As calmly as I can, I rise to my feet. The small victory might seem insignificant, but if I managed to use my leverage to convince Papa of this, it’s possible I might be able to convince him of more.
I’m coming home to you, Milo. Eventually, we’ll be together again.
Mercy
I STEP OUTSIDE of my room and into the hallway that I remember from when Papa brought me here days ago. The light is dim, the walls painted a deep red, and the air is stagnant like there’s no outlet to fresh air.
“Are you coming?” Papa’s voice is gentle. The difference grabs my attention as I stand frozen in the open doorway.
This one step is the difference between captivity and freedom. How many times I cried and dreamed of being able to walk out of here of my own free will. How many times I longed to pass through this door and keep walking.
“Angel!”
I jolt from Papa’s firm command and race to his side. We walk down the hallway that has a few closed doors, each one with multiple locks. I wonder what could possibly be behind each one—or rather, who.
The others like you.
Philomena’s words come rushing back and cause my feet to falter in front of one of the many doors. “What’s behind these doors?”
He sets his gaze on the door in front of me. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” He continues down the hallway, and I have no choice but to follow.
“Where do you sleep?”
His feet slam to a halt, and he spins around to face me. “You forget your place, Angel. I’m allowing you this sliver of freedom, but that doesn’t mean you are free. We are not equal, you don’t get to ask questions. Is that understood?” When I don’t answer right away, he snaps, “Is it!”
I bow my head in fake submission. “Yes, Papa. Forgive me.”
He grips my elbow and drags me to the end of the hall, where he unlocks a door that leads to another locked door. I wonder why he’s taken such precautions to keep me locked away. Mikkel’s evil smirk comes to mind. He was so freely allowed access to me, but I always sensed Papa’s discomfort. I want to ask but fear doing so will lose me the small privilege I’ve managed to get.
“This is where you’re permitted to eat.” He motions to a large room with a table and chairs—a dining room, I now know after my brief time in the world. Esteban had a large one Maria would host private dinners in, the kind I was never invited to. “Come on.”
I follow him through another door that leads to a large kitchen. The scent of cooked food hangs in the air, and I wonder how many people live and work on this property. There are no windows in either room, and although the space feels lived in, there’s not a single soul around. I wonder if Papa planned it this way to ensure I understand my freedom to take meals in the dining room won’t cure my loneliness and dependence on him. The illusion of freedom is worse than no freedom at all because it makes me hope for things that can never be.
He steps in front of me with his arms crossed. “This is where we’ll start.”
I nod and walk around the space. I run my hand along the sleek tile countertops and stop when I see a collection of knives near the sink. Casually, I tilt my head back to study the ceiling and catch a glimpse of Papa watching everything I do, no matter how minute.
“I’m hungry.”
“Well then, you should’ve eaten your breakfast.”
“Yes, you’re right. My stomach hasn’t been well since . . .” I let the words trail off, knowing he’ll understand my meaning. The night he found me only seconds before I was to be brutally violated.
His eyebrows pinch together, and he seems to think something over before heading to the large refrigerator. With his back toward me, I take a knife and hide it behind my back. He turns around with a couple plastic bags in his hand. The image is strange. The simple act of preparing a snack makes him look more human than I’ve ever seen him before.
“It might take some time for you to get your strength and appetite back after all you’ve been through.” He removes some meat and cheese from the bags and places them on a paper towel before wrapping them in a bundle. “You can take this back to your room with you.”
A chime comes from his pocket, and he reaches for it while shaking my snack at me impatiently. I grab the food, hoping he doesn’t notice my left hand still safely tucked behind my body.
He snaps into his phone in Spanish. His eyes widen and dart to a door on the far end of the room while he rattles on about needing to be somewhere. I can’t make out the exact details, only the urgency.
He looks from his phone to me. “Do you think you can find your way back?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good.” He throws an arm toward the door we came through. “Go quickly. Do not stop, go straight to your room, and close yourself inside. I’ll send someone up to lock the door.” He presses the phone to his ear. “Si.” He glares at me then jerks his chin toward the door. “Do not disappoint me.”
Another fierce jerk of his chin and I hop to, moving around him and gathering the knife to my stomach to wrap it in the slack of my white dress. My heart pounds as I picture how he would respond if he caught me carrying a knife. I don’t even know what I’ll do with it, but having it close makes me hopeful that I might have a chance of getting out of here.
I weave through the series of unlocked doors until I’m at the mouth of the long hallway that houses my room. I silently pass each door, straining to listen, searching for any sign of life. At one point I stop, and after making sure I’m alone, I tuck my stolen knife into the waistband of my underwear before I press my ear against the solid wood. I tap twice with my knuckles. When there’s no answer, I tap again. Nothing. I grip the handle and twist, but it’s locked.
Storage maybe.
I peer behind me and move to another door across the hall. Papa could show up at any minute, and if I get caught, he’ll never trust me out of my room again. Adrenaline floods my veins when I consider all I’m risking, but I press my ear against the door anyway. I tap, but just like the last, there’s no reply. Why are all these doors locked if there’s no one—
“Hello?” a soft voice comes from the other side.
I reel forward with my palms pressed to the wood as icy fear floods my veins. “Hello, is someone there?”
Seconds pass without a sound. I frantically search the hallway, hoping beyond hope that Papa doesn’t appear.
“Please, talk to me.” I press my ear to the wood. “Tell me your name?”
There’s a brushing against the door, and my pulse throbs in my neck. Whoever is on the other side is pressed against the wood too.
“I am called . . .” The last word fades off in the tiny voice.
A child.
I press my palm over my other ear and strain to listen. “What is it? I can’t hear you.”
“I am called Angel—”
“You shouldn’t be here!” The voice booms from the end of the hallway, but I’m helpless to move.
Angel.
Like me.
A firm grip cinches my upper arm, and I’m dragged down the hallway. I feel nothing except the cry from my soul for the child behind that door.
When I am thrown into my room, it’s only then I look into the furious eyes of Papa. His brown gaze glitters with barely restrained rage as he raises his hand. I move to cover my face, but I’m not fast enough. The blow sends me hard to the floor. I moan as a sharp pain rips through my thigh. The knife nicked my flesh with the force of my fall.
“I trusted you!”
I hold one hand up, hoping it will cushion the next blow. “Forgive me. I thought I heard a voice. I’m sorry, Papa.” Tears flow from my eyes as I anticipate another hit, and I try to think fast. “There was no one there, I promise. I just imagined it.”
“You’re a foolish girl!”
“Yes.” I sniff and choke on my tears. “I am, Papa. Forgive me, please.”
“You
cannot be trusted. You’ve been tainted by the outside world. You are useless to me!”
“No! I’m not, I can still help you, please.” I keep one hand on my thigh, pressing down, as I turn over to a kneeling position. I press my face to the floor. “I made a mistake—”
“You cannot follow simple directions.”
“Please, give me another chance.” My palm feels wet pinched between my thigh and torso, and the knife has slipped free and rests against my stomach. If I’m forced to stand, he’ll see me bleeding. He’ll find the knife.
“Angel, you are my pride, yet you continue to disappoint me.”
“I know, I am sorry.”
“Would you like it if I take you back to the men I saved you from?”
I sob into the cold floor and shake my head. “Please, no. Forgive me.”
“Your will is too strong now. You must be broken.” His footsteps sound.
I fear he’s going to pull me to my feet when instead I hear the slamming of my door followed by the click of the locks. Cautiously, I peek up and find I’m alone. My body is overcome with relief and I sag to the floor like dead weight. I palm the knife.
Break me? I’d like to see him try.
Milo
“SANCHO NEEDS YOU to meet him at—”
“I’m not going.” I shovel a forkful of carnitas into my mouth.
I’ve stopped taking meals in my room since I lost Mercy. I can’t stand the constant reminders. Everything in there carries the essence of her, and I’m never going to find her if all I want to do is curl up and die.
Esteban gives Maria a look that has her walking away from the dishes in the sink and leaving us alone in the kitchen. Once he’s sure she’s gone, he takes the seat next to me and props his feet on the table near my plate, crossing them at the ankles.
Asshole.
“You meet Sancho like you’re told, or you get the fuck out of my house.”
I finish chewing my food and drop my fork, then I lean back and glare at the guy. He’s dressed up, freshly showered and shaved, most likely going out for a night of boozing and God knows what else, while his men and I risk our lives and freedom for him.
“I can’t tonight.” There’s a full moon. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”
