by Dani René
Tears rushed from my eyes, and I was filled with terror as my son climbed down from the bed, train clutched in his little hand. “No, Seth!” I screamed, “No! Go back to bed.”
The child was focused, and it was wasn’t on my words.
Staring at the moldy ceiling, not daring to watch the unthinkable happen, I screamed, wanting to be heard so terribly it felt like my heart was being held so it could not beat. Maybe I was begging it to stop pumping blood, so I could die before my son touched me—before I would be altered, becoming a woman that would be riddled with such anguish she would never completely recover.
As it had happened my whole life, once my mother was gone, no one came to help me or listened to what I had to say. The tip of the train banged against my core and heart, simultaneously. Madly, I kept screaming, so loud I could barely hear them all laughing and encouraging my son to touch his mother. I screamed… as little fingers did.
Chapter Three
The Mad One
Some actions by others can be too much from which to recover…
When Seth touched me that night, I learned what caused true nightmares. I kept screaming, no matter what was said or done by any father of mine. Even when the train was removed from between my thighs, it was too late. All the years of mistreatment had violently risen from my heart and damaged spirit. There’d been no story my mother read or told me where a child should view his mother in such a manner. The fundamental part of my being recognized this tainted violation, therefore having me doubt all I had believed to be true.
As my belief system discovered cracks in its foundation—that all of what my fathers had been doing to me might be wrong—the obedient part of me they had created started to crumble.
Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.
And replacing what had once been, was… rage.
This caged animal went rabid. I hit. I swung at any father within my reach.
Seth didn’t cry as his mother lost all sense of her human traits. He just stayed behind a father who was trying to shield him from my madness, as they all fled my bedroom.
Alone, my fury did not simmer. It strengthened.
What few items I had were shredded. My mattress—the ultimate symbol of my being raped, not a place to sleep—was tossed on its side in a different corner. My one window shattered against my wrath. That’s when the fathers rushed back in, my son no longer with them, and tied me up.
Sure to stay far from my mouth, which was trying to bite anyone close to me, they rolled me to my side and picked me up like a log.
Stranger’s eyes—children and women—watched as the fathers carried me through the house I hadn’t seen in years and dragged me down wooden steps into a cold basement. I didn’t care. I kept roaring, unable to communicate the injustice my life had been since I was born because no one taught me how.
Even with what my son had done, I knew he was innocent. I desperately wanted to hold him and forgive him. I wanted to see the little boy in him, not the monster his fathers were making him. Once thrown in the empty room, the door slammed shut and locked, I banged on it, fiercely wanting them to return my child to me.
I was refused, and the fathers only visited when they were up for a challenge.
A snarl burned in my throat as I heard their heavy steps. The aged wooden stairs had become my alarm to danger. As the door swung open, with the rusty hinges announcing the unwanted arrival, I faced the pack of seven and smiled with a vengeance. I knew it may not be mine that day, nor the next, but as I glared at the men ready to take me, I knew someday, somehow, their deaths would be mine.
One of my possible fathers cooed with pleasure, “Oh, Scar is ready to play, boys.”
My toes gripped the cold floor, my knees bent. My hands widened, ready to scratch and claw all the skin I could find until they bound me. “Let me see my child.”
Yes, if the fathers wished to fuck, it was a fight like they had never seen in me. I didn’t even know that courage existed, but there it was. A lioness in the girl who looked like Snow White. I battled them with all my might, even if only weaponed with my hands.
Unfortunately, even those would be taken away. They would cheer and mock my pain, tying my wrists together, then string me up from the ceiling. The rope strangling my wrists was looped through rings attached to the ceiling. The end of the rope tied to a hook by the basement door so that they could release me from afar.
With my feet tied apart, I would stare up at my bound hands that felt as if I had none due to the lack of circulation. Below, my body was savaged at their will.
It may be believed that tears are only made of water… but I can assure you, they are made of so much more. Grief, loss, heartache, and pain is what the magic fluid is made of. And that agony dripped from my face and my spirit that somehow still fought to live.
Months later…
At the entrance to the basement, the last father to leave me stood there, untying the end of the rope. “Got any fight left in you, Scar?”
Hanging from the ceiling, my legs now untied but barely functional, I refused to dignify him with an answer. I only let out a growl to remind him of the beast they had awakened in me, even though I was physically drained from the gang rape.
He sighed. “I do miss that mouth on my dick.”
Once I had become an uncontrollable animal, none of the fathers dared to stick anything of value into my mouth.
Wise choice.
There was no reservation left in me. My teeth would have happily severed anything, bloody or not.
When the rope loosened, I fell to the ground.
The overhead lights were turned off and the door closed. Only the light from the bathroom shined on me.
With hands still bound, I was relieved to no longer be hanging from the ceiling. More tears dripped to the cold floor as I stared at my bleeding wrists, the present rope giving no reprieve to the stinging injuries. The rest of my skin was drenched with semen, making the cold cement floor even more unbearable. Loneliness seeped deep into my heart, one that was begging for an ounce of kindness.
And… I missed my son. I missed holding him. I missed giving his cheek kisses. I missed feeling his warmth, even as he would eventually pull from all my embraces.
With my hands tied, I pushed to my weak legs, stumbling into the bathroom, the long rope dragging behind me.
“Scarlett?” my mother’s past voice haunted me. “Would you please start the water?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Once the water in the shower ran wonderfully warm, I stepped under the stream and tilted my head back, letting it cleanse me like I used to cleanse my mother. More tears fell as I imagined myself being that beautiful mermaid, basking in the moonlight, my mother’s hands gently pouring warm water from my cup over my head.
Slowly, I turned to the water and opened my mouth, drinking until the warm soup filled my empty and depleted belly.
After the shower, I did my best to dry the ropes around my wrists. The pain would always slip away faster if I could keep the injuries dry. I made my way back into the basement and laid on the cold floor. I stared at the door, hoping to see my son being returned to me, but that wouldn’t happen.
He was theirs now.
The visits became fewer, the rapes farther apart.
The mad struggle that I refused to end when they were near me ultimately became my own hero. I guess they didn’t possess the dedication I did. They only wanted a hole to degrade and belittle.
With my hands always tied to a rope, I stayed locked away in that basement for so long I witnessed myself age...
The basement is where I was to stay until my death angel came for me.
Years later…
The basement door creaked open, and a package was thrown in. “Shave and clean yourself up. We’re finally selling your stupid ass.”
Sold…
My heart lit up. This is what my mother had always hoped for. Feeling my first glimpse of hope, ever, I took the items and rushed into th
e bathroom. I was so desperate to be free of the basement, I was willing to clean or shave any part of myself for the chance to leave.
Seth.
As I shampooed my hair, I wondered what he looked like now. I wondered if I could convince the one who was to buy me, to buy him, too. My eyes filled with happy tears as I pictured Seth and I out in the field by the swing set. I couldn’t imagine beyond that because I had never been anywhere.
As I brushed my teeth, with toothpaste this time since it was finally offered, I wondered if Seth had a beautiful smile.
Dry and naked, I stood in the basement, waiting. I looked around, wondering if this would be my last day in the lonely and wretched room. Then I quickly rushed forward and put the end of my rope in the hook by the door so my fathers would know I wouldn’t fight this sale. That I would behave.
I had even turned on the light so they could see I was clean and presentable.
Then I waited… for what seemed like days…
Laughter echoed down the stairs before I heard footfalls on the steps. A father was telling someone, “She is a little bit on the wild side, but definitely unworldly like you’re looking for. I hear you have been searching for some time?”
My Angel of Death’s voice was mature, steady, and with a faint hint of an accent that I somehow recognized. “So far, there has not been what I… need.” The determination he voiced in one word made me pray he would be the answer my mother had hoped for.
“For the price you’re willing to spend, I sure hope Scar is the one for you.”
The stranger sounded frustrated. “I am hungry to return home with the prize that has been most elusive so far.”
Not knowing what elusive meant, my head fell forward. I was sure I wasn’t that. I believed I was nothing of value. My only chance may come and go… without me.
When the door finally opened, I sucked air and unmanageable hope into my lungs. With my head still hanging forward, my long hair drifted in front of me, dancing in my heavy breaths of nerves.
Without looking up, I listened as my father noticed my rope, waiting as eagerly as me. “Hmm. How about that. It seems someone’s ready to behave today.”
Staring at the cold floor beneath me, hoping to know warmth once again, I let my tied wrists be lifted above me.
“You have to keep her restrained like this?” asked the Mature One.
“Eh, only if you like to keep your dick attached.”
“I will approach her alone. Thank you.” The Mature One spoke with a discipline I had never known. He was refined and in charge without demanding a damn thing. His voice carried a warning that I was too naïve to recognize. The newfound animal in me decided her best line of defense was to do as he wished.
So, I did.
As his dress shoes clicked on the floor, he asked, “Your name,” without making the words sound like a question. Only another demand.
Yet to have the strength to lift my head, due to being afraid I would waste away in the basement, I spoke through my curtain of black hair. “Scarlett.” I studied the dark dress slacks that appeared in my line of sight.
Even though the Mature One had been warned about my previous actions, the bold man confidently reached out and touched the tips of my very long hair. He had a gold ring on his right hand that shined in the light as the tips of his fingers caressed my hair as if inspecting. “Do you like the name Scar?”
“My mother did not call me that name.”
His ringed hand released my hair then reached up under it, slowly coming toward my hidden face. It was as if he knew not to spook the animal on display. When the backside of his hand finally touched my chin, his thumb came to my mouth. Testing me, it gently rubbed over my open lips, my nervous breath caressing his skin.
He smelled of soap and the cleanest water. It made me think of the waterfall I imagined when I needed to escape. He also had another scent I couldn’t place, but instantly appreciated. I hoped it was the scent of the magical moon I was sure was somewhere close, shining down on me.
When I didn’t nip as he was told I would, his hand found the side of my face and held me. I had not been touched like this since my mother. Maybe that is why his gentle touch had me obeying and leaning into his palm. Maybe that is why the same thumb that had just stroked my lips now caught the one tear that dripped from me… Please take us with you.
The Mature One spoke to someone else who I wasn’t even aware was in the room. “Sal, move a hundred thousand dollars into his account as good-faith and for him to leave this room.”
A velvety deep voice echoed, “Yes, sir.”
After a pause, a father laughed in astonishment. “You could’ve had a go at her for free, but thanks. It’s already in the account. Hopefully, there will be a million more soon.” The door shut, and then I heard heavy steps moving up the wooden stairs.
None of the talk about ‘accounts’ and ‘million’ made sense to me, so I was afraid these were all bad signs. I wondered if the Mature One could hear the thundering in my chest. I was in such despair, knowing I could take no more of my captivity. Even if I was only trading one for another, at least there was a hope to feel the sun on my skin once more.
The Mature One didn’t move. He only held my cheek. “Scarlett, my next question is a very important one.”
A sob broke from my aching soul as I nodded.
“What was your mother’s name?”
Just thinking about her, my eyes closed and my lungs expanded, almost as if her ghost was with me in spirit. “It was Isabella.”
The other man—Sal’s—dress shoes began to pace at my answer,
The Mature One slowly lifted my chin, having my hair fall from my face. With my head now tilted back, almost between my restrained arms, my face resting in his hands, he spoke, “Scarlett, may I see your eyes for confirmation?”
I didn’t know the meaning of that word either, but so far, he had shown me nothing but kindness. So, I let my last bit of hope carry me through, and I opened my eyes.
As I said before, I can’t recall the details of my fathers’ faces. They were simply… men. The only ones I’d ever known. I didn’t study them. I only survived them. But, when a new face appeared, I soaked in every one of his details and saw he was everything they weren’t. His face was bold. Powerful. Thick cheekbones and a determined chin couldn’t be covered by his short-trimmed beard. His deep, dark eyes full of mystery and retribution widened as they stared down at me. Tightly cut hair as black as mine had me wanting to reach out and touch it.
The Mature One was younger than my fathers, but so much cleaner. His breath wasn’t sharp. His touch wasn’t angry. His trembling smile wasn’t promising punishment. His words weren’t full of cruelty…
“Vita Mia.”
The ringing in my ears was so simultaneous, I was sure someone had hit me across the face, just as my fathers had. I stuttered, “W-What did you say?”
In Italian, he whispered something so beautiful it sounded like a prayer.
I was sad to miss the translation. “I-I don’t understand what you are saying.”
The Mature One said no more. He only stared at me as if I were a ghost, like my mother.
So, loudly, I begged, “Please, tell me—”
“Shh!” The taller man with lighter hair, Sal, reached over my head with a pocketknife and sawed at the rope, whispering, “He said, ‘I thought this day would never come’.”
Chapter Four
The Mature One
Scarlett stole my breath when her blue eyes opened. They were layered with a tragic past, an undetermined present, a waning future. Her soul instantly spoke to mine through the tear still on my thumb, telling me we had found her just in time. This gruesomely tortured being was giving up. She was epically at the end of two ropes. One that had her bound to a life I would no longer let her live, and one that was barely convincing her to hold on mentally.
So many years had passed during the search for our Giordano princess that I could barely comprehend she
was finally standing in front of me. Having no pictures or proof she even existed anymore, I had studied her mother’s portrait to the point that I had become infatuated with a girl I had yet to meet. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, if Scarlett looked even slightly like her mother did by a certain age, I would recognize her by touch alone. From under her magnificent black hair, as soon as I touched her full lips that flared, I knew I had found her.
While that pathetic man was still in the basement, it took much restraint to hide my inner response—my elation that I would soon rescue this Italian treasure from the despicable captivity that was slowly killing her grandfather by way of grief.
Once Sal’s knife cut through the rope attached to the ceiling, Scarlett’s arms fell forward and around my neck. Studying me, she asked, “W-Who are you?”
I am the one who will never fail you. “I am Angelo; Angel.”
Her perfect mouth fell open, then those rosy lips began to tremble. “She said… the angel of the night would come.”
My il Compagno—buddy, Sal Rossi, stopped his nervous examination of Scarlett’s dreary living quarters to study my black suit then quietly spoke in Italian, “I see no cameras, but let us make this quick, no?”
His alarm told me he was well aware of who I had in my hands and that time was of the essence. “Yes,” I kept staring into the eyes of a true angel, so unlike my criminal self, “let us leave with Isabella Giordano’s daughter.”
Scarlett had not told me her mother’s last name, so I let my Italian accent temporarily appear, then waited for her certainty to register.
Water collected and danced in the blues I would never forget, even after death. They were like staring into the galaxy of planets and stars.
“M-My… mother?”
“Yes.” It took me a second or two to respond because I felt as though I was under a spell, losing track of time altogether. “She is alive.”
