Tanya

If my mother were still alive, none of this would be happening.

I wouldn't be living under the same roof as the man who looked at me like I was prey.

I wouldn't jump at the sight of a man who was supposed to be family nor bolt my door every night for fear of him coming in.

If my mother were still alive, I wouldn't live in fear.

I wouldn't live with a man who slammed his fists on the table or slapped me whenever I said "no."

I wouldn't be forced to choose between my dignity and a roof over my head.

She wouldn't let that happen to me, her daughter.

But she isn't aware, is she?

She isn't aware that the man making my life a living hell was her own brother. That serpent named Gerald.

Uncle Gerald wasn't just cruel. He was dangerous and now, with mom buried 6 feet under, he was the devil at my door every night.

He'd refuse to give me food when I slapped his hand away from my thighs. He'd slap me when I told him I didn't want him. He'd cup his hand over my mouth and I'd scream and fight and run.

Everytime I ran. And each time I ran, I'd come back because hey, I don't know where I'd go.

I have no friends. No family. No one to defend me. Not even my so-called neighbours who pretended to like me.

Every night, I'd pray he'd come home drunk and wasted and not notice me at all. Every night, I'd wish he'd not see me at all. Every night, I’d wish I’d stopped existing.

I was tired of living like this.

I wasn't going to live the rest of my life scared of what would happen next. Flinching at the sight of Gerald's shadow or crying when I hear his voice. I was done.

Tonight, I was going to run.

And I ran.

The smell of cheap beer and cigarette smoke clung to the air in the rundown bar I found myself in.

I didn't care if anyone was looking at me.

I didn't care if they whispered.

All I wanted was to drown everything : the pain, the memories, the regrets. I wanted them all gone, especially the biggest one : never knowing who my real father was.

Mom wasn't big on sharing when she was alive. Every now and then, I'd ask her who dad was and she'd always say : “When you're old enough, I'll tell you.” I asked her again and she won't say anything. Eventually, I stopped asking when she got sick. She'd barely say a word and would just cling to my arm like it was her last hope. She'd sob in my arms wishing she had more time. And I did too.

But time didn't give her a chance.

She was gone by the time I turned 12.

And for the past 7 years, I've spent my time going to school, avoiding Uncle Gerald’s advances, and focusing on living.

I downed another shot feeling the bitter liquid burn my throat and slammed the glass down harder than I meant to.

"Rough night?"

The voice was smooth, almost too smooth. I turned to the man beside me. Tall, clean-cut, dressed like he didn't belong in a place like this. Sharp grey suit and a million-dollar smile. His eyes, green, curious and intense, searched mine and for a second, I almost bolted. Then I surprised myself and answered.

"Every night is rough," I muttered.

He smiled faintly. "Want to talk about it?"

Something about his voice made my walls crack. I hadn't talked to anyone in weeks. I don't talk to anyone. Not like this. But somehow words started pouring out of me.

I told him about mom and how I lost her when I was just a kid. I even told him about Uncle Gerald and how he'd tried to rape me on multiple occasions. I revealed how broken I felt and how miserable I was about my current situation.

I told him I was tired and he said he felt the same way.

I was stunned. I'd been open to a stranger.

He placed a hand over mine and I slipped away.

“I… I'm sorry.” I shook my head, my voice cracking.

I had made a mistake. I shouldn't have told him everything. He was giving me that look. The one look I hated. The look of pity.

I rose from my seat to walk away but his hand caught my wrist.

“Don't go, Tanya.”

Three words. And I found myself melting into his embrace.

Three words and I let him hold me.

Three words and I let go. Of the pain, of the hurt and the anger. Of the things that gnawed away at my dreams in the form of nightmares.

I let him console me, cuddle me, treat me like I mattered.

No one had ever talked to me or held me or tried to make me laugh like he did.

I didn't know his name. Just his warmth mattered.

I looked at him, sitting close to him on his sofa.

He'd been kind enough to bring me to his penthouse in upstate New York. It was the first time I felt safe in the arms of a stranger. I wasn't terrified. Instead, I wanted to know more about him.

Why did his touch make my head swim?

Why does his whisper of my name sound like sweet caresses?

Why did his touch make my skin burn?

He leaned in and I didn't pull away. I couldn't.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was all a dream. But I wanted him.

I wanted him to make me forget about the past.

I wanted him to make me feel wanted. So I gave him what was left of me.

But morning came like a slap.

Sunlight spilled across the sheets and the realization of what I'd done hit me like ice water.

I dressed quickly, my heart racing in my chest like I'd run a mile, and slipped out while he was still asleep.

It hurt that I was leaving without a word.

But we both knew he deserved better than a broken girl like me.