Page 21 of Do It For Me
I was never enough. Nothing I’ve ever done has ever been enough. Being flirty like he wanted me to be at dinners. Being submissive and obedient. Keeping secrets from my mum. None of it was enough.
He said it was. He said it was enough to make him happy. He said watching me while I showered was enough to make him happy. He said lying next to me, checking how my body was growing, was enough to make him happy. He said my kisses were enough. My touch was enough.
Was it not enough because I never wanted it? Because I cried the first times? Because I was supposed to be married? Why? Why wasn’t it enough? Why am I not enough? Why can’t he love me like he loved Tara or my brothers? Why are my mum and I the only ones he ever hurt? What did we do?
Even the men who kidnapped me said he didn’t care about me. If I died, if I was sold as a piece of meat, who cared? He let them do whatever they wanted, however they wanted, because he wouldn’t pay what they asked for. They broke me because he didn’t care about me.
I hoped for a shred of love after my rescue, but I got nothing. The doctors were kind—so kind I almost beg for them to let me stay. But then I saw my mum. She looked as broken as I felt, and I knew I couldn’t leave her. She needed me. I needed her.
I thought my father would show me even a bit of love after what happened, like my mum. Instead, he just told me to stop crying. A few nights later, he came into my room, and when I screamed and begged for him to leave me alone, he beat me until I passed out.
It doesn’t matter what I do, how I behave, or what I say, I’ll never be worthy of his love because I’m neither a man nor my sister.
I’ve never hated her for being his favourite. I’ve never hated anyone. Just him. Always him.
A knock at the door makes my hair stand on end. I quickly rub my sleeve against my eyes, turn around, and try to adjust my ripped shirt in a desperate attempt to cover myself.
Mum stands in the doorway, her eyes red, a cut on her lip, bruises scattered across her body. I don’t even care about the bouquet of roses she’s holding. Her face is a wreck, and it’s my fault.
It’s my fault because I dared to feel a flicker of happiness. My fucking fault.
“Are you okay, pet?” she asks softly.
Am I okay? Really?
I force a smile. “Yeah, don’t worry.”
She sighs and places the bouquet on the bed. “Dante brought these.”
Something stirs in my stomach. Maybe it’s the faintest flutter of hope. Or maybe it’s nausea. Or fear.
“Was he here?” I ask.
“This morning. But neither your father nor I saw him.”
Luckily.
He has no idea what happened last night. Great. He doesn’t need to know. Ever. I’ll forget about it in a few days, as I always do.
I pick up the bouquet, and a small card slips onto my pillow.
“See you tonight. Remember to keep your windows open.
—Dante.”
“What’s it say,a stór?” Mum asks.
I shake my head and force a smile. Right now, I’m glad she doesn’t know how to read. “He says he’s excited for our next date.”
She sits on the bed, her bruised face softening with a smile. “What’d you two get up to? Did you give him a wee kiss?”
“He didn’t even try.”
Her smile widens. “Ah, that’s grand altogether. Did he say when your next date is?”
I blush, leaning close to her ear to whisper, “Tonight. Don’t tell him, please. I’ll be back before the sun sets, I promise. I—”
“Oh,mo chroí,” she interrupts gently, “you can take all the time you want. I’ll sort yer father.”
