"opening up to people is a scam, don't do it"
Sophie smith
I was twenty three, and small for my age but had all the curves in the right places.
My arms were twisted behind me, wrists bound together with rough yellow nylon rope. My legs were spread apart, my right foot tied tight to the leg of the heavy coffee table, the left to the wooden frame of the couch. The rope cut deep into my ankles, and blood trickled down my legs, mixing with the sweat and dirt that was poured on my skin.
My face throbbed, swollen from the blows, one eye bulging and shut, the other barely open. Through the haze, I could see my father lounging in the armchair, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers. I didn't look at the man on top of me. He was breathing hard, sweating, cursing under his breath. He was hurting me.
When he finished, he slapped me so hard my head snapped to the side. He laughed, and my father laughed too.
Then they laughed harder, doubling over like it was the funniest thing in the world. I turned my face away and let the tears fall silently. The last time I cried out loud, I got slapped again. They had promised to kill me if I didn't stay quiet.
Their laughter faded, and they settled back into the couch and armchair. Willard grabbed the hem of my dress—what was left of it—and wiped himself off before tossing it to the floor. My father reached into the cooler, pulled out another beer, and mumbled something about the heat. They watched me as I sobbed, my chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths.
Willard took a swig, then frowned. His beer wasn't cold anymore. He hurled the bottle at me. The glass struck my stomach, and foam splashed across my bare skin. It rolled off and landed near the others—empty and half-empty bottles littering the floor. For the past two six-packs, they had been throwing their leftover beer at me, laughing as it hit me, watching the foam spread across my body.
The sticky liquid mixed with blood, soaking into the carpet beneath me. I didn't move.
"Think she's dead?" Willard asked.
My father took another sip, then smirked. "Nah. She won't don't die from a little beatin' and rapin'. Takes more than that. A knife. A gun. A rope." He spoke like he knew. "she is used to it"
Willard nodded like that made sense.
Then he asked, "So what now?"
My father dragged from his cigarette, chased it with more beer, then grinned. "Ain't done yet."
He pushed himself up from the couch, stumbling toward me. He cursed, told me to wake up, then poured cold beer over my face, laughing like a crazy man.
I turned my head and squeezed my eyes shut. He was hurting me again.
I looked past him, past the mess of bottles and ashtrays, and saw movement—a man running toward me, his arms outstretched, his mouth open in a yell— my Orion. He was coming. He was here.
I tried to call for him. But then—he was gone.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
---
When I woke, one of them was passed out in the armchair, the other sprawled on the floor. My arms and legs were numb. The blood, the beer, the urine had soaked into the carpet, creating a sticky mess that clung to my skin. I tried to move, to free myself, but my body barely shifted.
I turned my head toward the doorway. "mama" I whispered.
No answer.
I waited. Then I slept again.
I waited in that position until my father's guest left the house, and I recognised him as one of the mourners in the house when Orion died.
I could only wonder how many of such 'friends' the man had. Upon getting to my room, I started packing my bags.
I just wanted to leave.
"You're going back?" my father asked mockly.
I ignored, and he said nothing in response.
It was almost like he'd been expecting it, maybe even hoping for it.
At the crack of dawn the next day, I was on the first bus to the train Station, from where I got a train to America since that was what I could afford.
Although the journey will be long, that was what I needed for my wounds to heal before I arrived at the minister's house.
The excited way the guards at the gate greeted me when the taxi got to the ranch made me know I hadn't made a mistake coming back, after four long months away.
My heart jumped at the sight of my garden and the peacocks strutting around. This was definitely home for me.
I was surprised to see the minister standing outside the main door, hand in hand with Amanda.
Not only because it was unlike him to be home so late in the morning on a weekday, but because he was still with her. He hadn't been exclusive with any of his concubines, and it looked like this was different from all the other dalliances. In turn, they both stared in equal surprise as I alighted from the car, all my luggage in tow.
"Zeynep!" Amanda exclaimed.
"You're back," the minister half-stated, half-asked.
That was when I realised I might have also lost my place in the ranch after all. What if Amanda, ugly as she was, had taken my place? Moved into my bedroom? Assumed my responsibilities as the minister's wife?
"Yes, I am," I answered, looking the man in the face, daring him to ask me to leave.
But he didn't. "Very well. Your room is waiting for you," he said with a nonchalant shrug.
"You should have given us notice, so the maids would have cleaned it up for you."
Ignoring him, and with my head held high, I dragged my boxes in as they both watched me. I had gone past the stage of caring.
"Let me get someone to help you with those," the minister finally said, walking past me into the house.
"assalam! Welcome home, our wife!" Amanda said, her words dripping with sarcasm.
I didn't even spare her another glance, her mockery having no effect on me. I was back home, and that was what mattered