Saved: a dark romance

by DD Prince

  There’s a knock.

  “Come!” he shouts.

  Esmerelda comes in, in a yellow terrycloth robe, a pair of black flip flops on her feet. Her dark shoulder-length curly hair, which is usually in an efficient bun, is loose. She looks younger like this. I had her pegged at around forty but she looks barely thirty like this. She’s pale and looks stunned when she sees what she’s walked in on.

  “Look who found their way out of their room. Do you know why?”

  Horror washes over her features. A flurry of Spanish comes out of her mouth.

  He answers quietly, also in Spanish, not looking at her, his eyes still on me. I’m still against the wall and his hand is an inch from my face, palm against the wall again.

  She looks at me with horror. And remorse, I think.

  She speaks quickly in Spanish but says a whole bunch of things that then ends with, “Por favor. Por favor.”

  He backs off and then leans over, into his night table drawer and pulls a gun out.

  I gasp.

  He points it at her forehead. And then it’s touching her forehead.

  I’m frozen. I can’t form a single word. He wouldn’t.

  He cocks it, looks at me, I look at her horrified eyes, and then at his cold and angry eyes. And with his eyes on me, my eyes on her, he pulls the trigger. The sound makes my ears ring.

  She drops.

  I scream. I scream and scream and scream.

  He’s on me. He’s pinned me, on my back, on his bed, the gun still in his hand. He looks down at me with crazy, scary eyes.

  Tears are pooling so fast that I can barely see. His hand covers my mouth.

  “Her stupidity could have cost me everything that matters. She deserved that.”

  I’m hyperventilating. He lifts his hand.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! She didn’t tell me your name. It wasn’t her.” It’s too late, but I’m shouting it anyway.

  “Shhh,” he covers my mouth with his free hand. He still has the gun. I can hardly breathe; my heart is about to burst out of my chest.

  He runs his nose along my cheek and then his lips are on mine just for a beat in a soft closed-mouth kiss.

  He leaves the gun on his bed as he scoops me up into his arms. He steps over Esmerelda’s body and carries me back to my bedroom.

  He pulls the blankets over me and tucks me in. And then he softly, sweetly, kisses my forehead, his lips lingering for forever.

  I’m shaking. I’m crying. And I’m feeling like my fragile and messed up world is crumbling.

  “Sweet dreams, baby. Your birthday is soon. I look forward to it.”

  ***

  The next morning, I’m in bed, I haven’t slept I don’t think, and there’s a knock on the door, and then an older lady, maybe in her late fifties or early sixties with graying dark hair comes in. She’s dressed in a dark blue maid’s uniform and black running shoes. She brings a breakfast tray. She doesn’t make eye contact with me. She puts the tray on my desk and leaves. I don’t hear the lock turn. But, I don’t check the door. I may never touch that doorknob again.

  Instead, I swing my legs off the side of my bed and sit, facing that mirror. I see myself. Big blue eyes that are red and swollen. Long blonde hair a tangled mess. It’s my fault that he killed Esmerelda. She was my friend. Or, the closest thing to a friend I’ve had in two years.

  She tried to cheer me up last night because I’d been sad. She’s been nothing but kind to me and he killed her to punish her for leaving my door unlocked, me for leaving my room, and also decided to kill her to show me who he is. A murderer. A murderer who is saving me to ruin me. Like a farmer saving a prized pig until it’s fat enough, for a special occasion.

  That’s what I am. His prized little pig.

  I start to weep again and get back under the blankets and pull the covers over my head. I don’t eat my breakfast. I don’t eat the lunch the lady brings me. I don’t get out of bed all day other than to go to the bathroom twice.

  That night, I dream of home.

  ***

  Before Mom turned bitter and fell off the wagon again, she loved Christmas.

  Angels, cherubs, mistletoe. Everything Christmas. She named me Holly Noelle, after Christmas, and since I was born on the day after Christmas she told me, when I was little, that it made her so happy, that I was the best Christmas gift ever. She said she prayed I’d be born on Christmas and that was when she’d gone into labor. She had me just after midnight, so technically December 26th, but I was still her Christmas baby.

  She loved the holidays so much that when I was little, before my daddy died, she had the house decorated for Christmas as soon as Halloween was over and didn’t take the decorations down until the end of January when she would decorate for Valentine’s Day. She had Christmas tea towels, a Christmas set of dishes, Santa bathmat, the list went on. She loved it. Until she didn’t. And then she really didn’t.

  My dad died on Christmas Eve when I was little, though I remember him vividly and remember how happy he made her. And me. He was a big lumberjack of a man with blond hair and arms the size of tree trunks. He loved us both like crazy. He called me his little dimpled dumpling.

  After he died in a hunting accident, she could barely look at me.

  She told me, during a drunken stupor at the funeral home, that I looked like him and she couldn’t bear to look at me. She said she’d see all the hope and subsequent disappointment in my eyes.

  I had his blonde hair, but I had her eyes. He left her, even though it wasn’t his fault, and she acted like he’d abandoned us. His sudden death turned her into an angry, bitter, drunk.

  She was drunk from that moment on, for weeks. Longer. The only time she wasn’t drunk was when she was looking for a way to get drunk. And miserable. Always miserable.

  Little did I know that she’d been an angry drunk before she met him, so her descent into that state of mind wasn’t slow and gradual. That was why it was almost instantaneous.

  I later found out that Dad had gotten Mom clean, off booze and pills. Dad had set her on the right path. And she’d held on so tight that when she lost him, she shattered. And life changed. She stopped even putting up a tree after that. Stopped putting any effort into her appearance, our home, me.

  I watched her circle the drain for over a year. The house didn’t get cleaned. She hardly even bought groceries. The lady next door often came in quietly with a plate of food at night for me after Mom went to sleep.

  I got sick and Mom didn’t even take me to the doctor. At school, they had me admitted into the hospital due to my being sick and my mother talked them into giving me back. She was about to lose me to Child Protective Services when my sister came.

  Until Ang came, I didn’t even know I had a sister. Mom hadn’t mentioned her. Mom’s ex-husband, Angelica’s dad, had died in an accident at work. They lived in South Carolina. And because she had no other family and her Dad hadn’t expected to die in his 30’s, he hadn’t made all the sorts of arrangements you make in the event of your death. So, Angie was sent to us.

  I think Mom pulled herself together enough to get Angie so she could have Angie’s dad’s life insurance money. It didn’t take long for her to start circling the drain again. But this time, at least I wasn’t alone.

  Angie. Angelica Elizabeth. Ang. My angel of mercy. Her father won sole custody when divorcing Mom for being an alcoholic who was abusive and neglectful to their daughter, and Mom reacted by moving far away, to Alaska to find a new husband. She’d heard that there was a shortage of women to men in Alaska and that was empowering. She met my dad, he got her clean, and she got pregnant with me. Life was good until he died. She pretended that she didn’t even have another family before me and Dad.

  As sad as I was that my sister had lost her dad, too, losing him was what brought her to me. Despite being devastated about her dad dying and about having to move to what Ang called “The Frigid Frozen Tundra”, she stepped up immediately and appointed herself my
caretaker.

  She kept Mom at arm’s length and shielded me. This slowed her verbal assaults of me because she was too busy hurling insults at my sister. I heard Mom say, “Fuck off, Angelica,” at least a dozen times a week. At least once a month she’d say, “I wish I’d aborted you.” Or “Shoulda had that abortion your father paid for. Drank the money. Then poor Dave had to marry me once his daddy found out I had you in the oven. Poor sonofabitch, right? Right? Poor dead sonofabitch. Any poor sonofabitch that falls for Felicia ends up dead.”

  Angie was strong. She didn’t let Mom get to her. She was like Teflon with Mom’s insults. I was in awe of her.

  Mom didn’t take long to burn through that insurance money and things were rough. Really rough. Angie worked a part-time job as soon as someone would hire her and went to high school, cleaned the house as best as she could, cooked for me, helped me with homework, and did her best to shield me from Mom. I tried, too. I learned how to cook and clean and we just really didn’t need Mom. She kept a roof over our head but that was all she did. It was the two of us against the world.

  But then, when I was 15, Ang 20, almost 21, she announced she had been offered the job she’d applied for in Thailand.

  Angie didn’t want to leave me alone with Mom. But, the job offer was for a specific window of time. She was adventurous and she wanted to travel. It was a great opportunity and I didn’t want her to give up her dreams for her kid sister.

  Mom overheard us talking, heard Ang and me mulling over my going to Charleston to stay with friends of Angie’s dad until she got back.

  Mom lost it and threatened to have her arrested if she tried to take me out of the state.

  Ang toyed with turning the job down, waiting and re-applying until I could get out of there, but I wouldn’t let her do that.

  She then went on a mission and found my Dad’s mom, my Gran, who I’d met only a few times before Daddy died, and we hopped a ferry, then bus and train to get to Anchorage to visit her for a long weekend. Gran, a real spitfire, told me I was welcome to come stay with her and that she’d have no problem fighting to keep me if Mom raised a stink.

  So, that’s what we came up with as a way to keep me from Mom’s craziness. I’d stay until I graduated high school and then I’d join Angie in South Carolina, on the farm her dad left in capable hands until she turned 21. At least he’d made that provision, if nothing else.

  We were going to get far away from Alaska and Mom as soon as possible.

  But it didn’t happen the way we planned.

  I enjoyed just a few months with my Gran. She was nice, nurturing, not an addict. She told me stories about my Dad and it helped me feel closer to him.

  But, she got very sick and then while in the hospital, she had a stroke. And I, as a minor, was sent back to Mom in Juneau before she got out of the hospital.

  It makes me sick that Angie would probably never, ever know what happened to me. At first, after being kidnapped, I figured I was doomed because Mom wouldn’t deliver on ransom demands.

  It didn’t take long for me to figure out that they’d never planned to ransom me at all. I figured I was just unlucky --- in the wrong place at a very wrong time. Some nasty bikers who partied with my mom had planned to do it. They grabbed me and threw me in a van and life changed.

  For all this time, I’ve been kept in my gilded cage, in an ivory tower, of sorts, like Rapunzel awaiting her prince, growing her hair. But I don’t need my prince to rescue me. He already did. I want to rescue him.

  I want the prince that runs this place, the prince who protects me. I thought he wanted me too. I thought maybe he was keeping me safe because he knew I was way too young, but instead of sending me away, maybe… it sounds stupid but I thought maybe, the way he looks at me, the way he rescued me from that fire, he really wants me: when I’m old enough… which will be soon.

  I am a foolish little girl.

  ***

  A week goes by, during which time I don’t get to leave my room. The new housekeeper points to herself the second morning and says, “Me Maria” and she hands me a notepad and a pen and I’m guessing it means I should write down anything I need.

  I write down

  Spanish translation book or Spanish lessons (audio or video)

  Haircut

  Thank you.

  I hand it to her.

  A week after Esmerelda died, Dr. Jimena knocks and enters. She’s been coming to my room for a while, rather than me go to her office.

  She comes to my room with a cart filled with medical stuff and puts a bathroom scale on the floor.

  She points to it. I step on.

  She looks at me with worry in her eyes.

  “You lost almost six pounds in just a few weeks. You’re already too slender. Why’re you losing weight? Maria says you barely eat.”

  I shrug.

  “You’re upset about things. I know this. I understand this. But you have to eat.” She touches my cheek sweetly and I break down and the tears start to flow.

  She’s never been sweet and nurturing like Esmerelda has. Esmerelda wasn’t overly physical until near the end but she was affectionate, almost maternal, in her way. Dr. Jimena usually only shows me what she thinks with her eyes.

  He’s here, in my room suddenly, and I gasp in fear when I see him. I jump behind her and grab at her lab coat. She stands there, doesn’t move. But then I’m suddenly afraid that he’s going to kill her, too, so I jump in front of her and block her like I’m protecting her. She takes me into a hug and strokes my hair.

  “Hey, it’s okay.”

  He says something in Spanish to her, sounding cold. She responds and it sounds like she’s snapping at him.

  I bury my face in her lab coat. I’m shaking so hard.

  “Holly!” she exclaims, putting a Kleenex in my hand, “Pull yourself together. Sit.”

  He’s still standing there, in a burgundy suit, black tailored shirt open at his throat. His hair has been cut but it’s still overlong on top. He’s clean shaven today and his grey eyes are sharp and on me.

  I can’t take my eyes off him. I’m in shock that he killed Esmerelda, that he’s standing there looking so put together, so handsome, when he is capable of doing something as awful as that.

  I suddenly try to defend the dead woman. “She was only trying to cheer me up so she forgot to lock the door. It’s my fault. You should have killed me. I was bad, not her. I shouldn’t have left my room. And she didn’t tell me your name, even. I only, uh…heard it.”

  As soon as these words come out of my mouth I wish I could snatch them back.

  He’s glaring at me.

  “I said it,” Jimena says, in a challenging way, guiding me to the chair and touching my shoulder until I sit.

  He blows out a breath and says something softly to Jimena in Spanish. She says something back that sounds snarky to me and he glares at her as hard as he glared at me. She’s not afraid of him. I feel like warning her that she should be.

  She wheels her cart out and leaves, looking back at me for a second and then blowing her hair out of her eyes, looking exasperated.

  “The shot, Mena,” Alessandro says.

  “I’ll give it to her next week,” she snaps and shuts the door saying, “There’s none here.”

  “Bullshit,” he mutters.

  I don’t know what any of that meant. I’m alone with him now and I’m sick to my stomach.

  I was so wrong about him.

  “Tomorrow, I need you to do something.”

  I’m all ears. And nerves.

  “I want you to have lunch with someone. Tessa Ferrano-Michaelson. She’s a young woman who is staying here a few days.”

  I nod slowly, surprised. Suspicious.

  “But you don’t reveal anything about yourself or about me.”

  I’m a little thrown off.

  “You say nothing about me, your situation, your past. None of it. Nothing that has happened here. And you can’t look at this as a means to escape.”


  I blink.

  He moves closer to me and I jolt as he cups my chin in his palm. The touch is so surprising, so disarming. I’m kind of in shock. His eyes are on me. They’re gentle. More gentle than I’ve seen from him so far.

  “You haven’t even thought of escape, have you?” His thumb strokes my face.

  My lips part and I blink some more. Processing what he’s said. He’s right. I haven’t really given escape much thought. It never seemed like an option.

  I’ve always just worried about my sister worrying about me and worried about whether or not our mom was all right. I saw someone raped and I’ve seen people get killed and just tried to keep myself safe, so I didn’t ever consider doing something that might mean I’d fail and get myself raped or killed.

  He leans down and his mouth is on my forehead. He keeps it there and his hand moves from my face to cup the back of my head. The tenderness, it makes me feel faint. I’m not sure how to process it.

  “Do this lunch. Show me that you’re trustworthy. I’ll know if you say anything you shouldn’t.” He looks right into my eyes.

  I nod. But I’m trembling like a leaf.

  Who is he? Is he the cold hard murderer who plans to destroy me?

  Or, is he the man who saved me from the fire, who keeps me safe because maybe deep down, he’s good?

  A good man wouldn’t put Esmerelda to death for forgetting to lock my door. That sobering thought makes me stiffen.

  I’m more confused than ever. And more afraid than I’ve been since I first got here.

  “We’ll talk again after the lunch. I’m trusting that you’ll be a good girl,” he says. “You don’t want to disappoint me, Holly.”

  He leans forward and his lips land on mine. For a moment, we’re frozen that way, his mouth on mine. His lips are soft. He sucks my bottom lip into his mouth for a beat and then has my face in both hands. It makes me dizzy.

  “Soon,” he whispers against my mouth, dips his tongue in to touch the tip of mine, and then pulls back and puts his nose in my hair and takes a deep breath.