Page 22 of Brutal Knight

I have a dream about being on a flight from New York to Boston. I’m young again, just promised to Dmitri, hopeful.

I’m excited to be leaving school. Part of me is sad to leave the few friends I have behind, but I wonder if there’s something in my future. Something greater. And anyway, I’m flying away from my father. Away from the nightmare of my childhood.

I’m worried about marrying a stranger, but hopeful it’ll turn into love. I don’t have much else to hang on to. It might be scary, but it can’t be anything like living with my father. Living with someone who rents me out to his men. I know the man I’m going to meet is in the mafia, so I know he understands this life.

But he has to be different. I feel that in my heart, as young and naïve as I am. I feel like he has to be different, like I’ve finally caught a break. After all the horror I’ve experienced, this must be it.

There’s a wedding dress waiting for me in Boston. I took ages to pick it out. I wanted to be beautiful, and I wanted my new husband to love me. I wanted him to be my escape. I wanted him to be everything I’d ever dreamed of in a man.

The giddy excitement and nerves fade. Maybe it’s the pain in real life that changes the dream, or maybe it’s the other way around.

All I know is that I’m suddenly a girl again, all dressed up for my wedding night. My heels are clicking on the floor. Hours ago, my feet hurt, but we’ve been dancing and partying for so long that I can’t tell anymore. I’m numb to it.

The joy and excitement has blocked out any kind of pain I could feel. I’m on top of the world right now. I’m hand in hand with my new husband, dressed like a princess, and the entire world is celebrating for me today. For my freedom.

Dmitri is leading the way to our bedroom. I’m giddy with excitement, but so nervous my stomach twists.

I’ve experienced things before. I know what to do. But despite all the abuse, my father made sure I would be untouched for my husband in the only way that mattered to him. I’m aware of that, so aware and so afraid—but so excited. I’m so excited for the fairy tale to begin.

Dmitri is drunk. I pretend not to see it, pretend it’s not that bad, but it is.

He’s different like this. Everything about him seems darker now, even the color of his eyes. I try not to think too hard about it or let it feed the worry gathering low in my belly. I can hear my friends’ voices, reminding me that not every man is like my father. Reminding me that maybe I’m just being too judgmental.

Dmitri isn’t my father. There’s no reason for me to think he’ll treat me like my father did. I’ve been hurt before, and it’s made me paranoid and overly cautious. I can’t trust my judgment.

So I shove aside my suspicions and my fears. I push it all down and focus on the feeling of his hand gripping mine, even if it’s tight and he’s walking faster than I can keep up.

I follow him into the bedroom, glancing around as we enter.

The room is dimly lit by the low glow of a few lamps, almost suffocating, the shadows too deep. I can barely see straight. I try to make my way toward the bed, my heart racing. I think about everything I could say, everything he might say to me.

Maybe he’ll tell me that it’s fine to be scared, or maybe he’ll say something that makes my heart race even more. Maybe it’ll be hot. Maybe it will be sweet.

I don’t have time to turn around before I feel him.

Dmitri tears my dress off, and I flinch, but some part of me is still trying to cling to what this could be.

That last bit of hope dies quickly, though.

He’s not kind, not even careful. I try to tell him that it’s my first time, that I’m nervous, but he doesn’t give a shit. All my words fall on deaf ears. He doesn’t stop to listen to me when I say that I’m not ready. He doesn’t listen to my fears. He just takes.

He starts to push me back. I tell him to wait. He ignores me. He flips me around, and I can feel his hand on my neck. I almost can’t breathe.

He doesn’t hold me, doesn’t go slow, doesn’t promise me it’ll be fine. He doesn’t promise he loves me, doesn’t promise it won’t hurt. He doesn’t promise anything. He just takes what he wants from me, forcefully, and doesn’t listen when I beg. He just pushes me farther into the sheets until I stop fighting it.

When he’s done, he leaves me crying and alone in a bed that smells like roses and fresh laundry detergent.

I don’t move from that place for a long time, curled up into a ball as tight as I can get.

Everything before has been survivable. I’ve been able to shut myself off, able to disconnect. This is different.

He was supposed to be different.

I can’t distance myself from this. I had so many hopes, so many dreams, so many fantasies of what my life would be like. They’ve all been shattered in less than a minute, broken like glass that’s stuck in my heart. Every beat, I’m bleeding out, everything I wanted pouring from my body.

I lie in a bed of my own tears, terrified that my husband will come back and ruin me again.

I wake myself up crying. It’s not just tears—it’s deep sobbing, body-wracking, gut-wrenching cries. I can barely see. The dream is still there, still holding me in its grip.

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