Translucent (12 page)

Driving up to his office, I was so excited to surprise Ish with the news I was pregnant. Sure, I was young—just turned eighteen—but I knew I loved him dearly, and he was the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Six months after we started dating, he proposed to me, and the day I graduated from high school, I moved into his upscale downtown apartment with him, despite the warnings from my mom. It was him who’d insisted we have sex without protection, claiming he couldn’t wait to put little Ishs inside of me. I knew he was going to be elated; I’d hoped I could talk him into leaving work early to come home and celebrate with me.

I’d only been to his office one other time with him, the only time I’d met his father and uncle. Surprised to find out they were Italian and not Brazilian like his mom, I found them both to be charming and friendly as they complimented me and said how happy they were Ish had found someone as lovely as me. I also found it odd I wasn’t allowed in the back garage area of the shop when Ish ran back there to grab his phone he’d left, only in the front show room where they displayed the high-end, after-market car accessories they designed and manufactured, but never thought about it again to ask him why. I was too interested in the story of why he had a different last name as his dad, which is when I found out his parents were never actually married. I wanted to ask why he still didn’t get his dad’s last name, but he’d made it clear the conversation was over.

The parking lot was quite full for the middle of a weekday afternoon, and after I finally found a parking space, I hopped out of my car and rushed up to the glass door. Surprisingly, the front area of the store was empty, not a soul in sight.

“Hello? Is there anyone here?” I called out. “Hello?”

After no answer, I assumed everyone was probably out back, so I quietly meandered my way through the shop. Just before reaching the backdoor, muffled voices caught my attention, so as anyone would do, I went looking for them, unknowingly stumbling upon a scene that would change my life forever.

A door off to the left of the hallway was left barely cracked open. Instincts kicked in, and I silently tiptoed to where I could see through the small gap by the door hinges, not wanting to be seen or heard. There were probably six or seven men standing around watching the commotion taking place in the middle of the room. A young guy was sitting in a wooden chair, tied up by his hands and feet, battered and bruised, pleading for his life as Ish held a knife to the side of his face, both of them staring at my soon-to-be father-in-law, Vincent Ricci.

“I’m going to ask you one last time, boy. What did you tell them?” Mr. Ricci questioned the captured man.

“I swear to you, boss, I didn’t say a word. They already knew everything when they approached me. Please. I’m telling you the truth,” the poor guy begged. “I would never cross you; I know better.”

Ricci paced back and forth several times in front of him deep in thought as Ish stood with the knife cocked at his cheek.

“He did know better. Kill him. Slowly,” the older man instructed Ish, his voice as calm as if he was ordering dinner at a restaurant.

I’m not sure what was more sickening at that point—what Ish actually did to the man, or the joyful smile he had on his face as he did it. He carved him up like a pumpkin—first, cutting off his tongue and lips, then slicing off his nose, and finally, gouging out each of his eyes, all before slitting his throat. I’d never seen anything so gruesome before, not even in movies. There was so much blood…all over the floor, all over the victim, all over Ish. Holding my breath, terrified of what I was witnessing, my hands covered my mouth, keeping me from making a sound or vomiting on the floor. I wanted to look away, but I was frozen in shock…fear…I couldn’t move. As everything came back into focus out of the fog I seemed to be trapped in, I could hear the men talking and moving around the room; I knew I had to get out of there before I was next in the chair.

As quietly as I’d let myself into the shop, I let myself out. I then sprinted to my car and drove faster than a bat out of hell back to our apartment. When I got there, my thoughts were a jumbled mess. I didn’t know what to do; I wanted to leave, but was practically scared to death. I began to hyperventilate, still unable to completely process what I’d witnessed. I’d all but forgotten about the reason I showed up at his workplace to begin with. I needed to get the fuck out of there, but knew I had to be careful and cautious. In the span of less than an hour, my entire world crumbled around me. The man I thought I loved—a devoted, tender, giving, compassionate man—wasn’t any of those things; he was a fraud, a cruel, cold-blooded, merciless killer. The reality of his long hours at work and the mysteriousness surrounding his dad all began to make sense, and the more of the puzzle I began to piece together, the more terrified I became. I was in bed with the mafia.

Fearful he would hunt me down and kill me if I tried to run away, I knew I had to wait to devise a well thought out plan for escape, so I stayed home and waited for him to return that evening. When he finally came home, he was in clean clothes—the same ones he left that morning in—and acted like his usual loving self. It took everything in me to act like I knew nothing, but somehow I pulled it off, pretending, just like he did every day of his life. That night, I had my first nightmare since I was a young child; the sights and sounds of my fiancé torturing and murdering that man played over and over in my head. When I woke in the middle of the night to horrendous, excruciating pain and a pool of blood on my sheets, my first thought was he knew that I knew. However, when I saw him sleeping soundly next to me, I realized I was losing the baby, and I was overwhelmingly relieved.

Shooting straight up in the bed, I struggle to breathe as I take in my surroundings, my conscience retreating from the nightmare. At first, the strange setting I find myself in frightens me terribly, but my memory swiftly kicks in and I realize I’m in Madden’s room, in his bed. Inhaling deeply through my nose and out through my mouth, my body gradually stops trembling and my heart rate slows to a normal pace. Hopeful I didn’t scream out during the dream and wake Madden, I wait silently a few minutes to make sure he’s not about to barge into the room. After it appears I’m safe, I crawl out of the bed to go to the bathroom. I really would like a drink of water, but I don’t want to chance making noise and waking him up in the process.

Padding lightly across the room, I enter the bathroom and stop dead in my tracks when I see my reflection. Blood. Quite a bit of it. All over his shirt.
Fuck!
Gingerly, I peel the white t-shirt off of the open lacerations and drag it over my head. Gasping, I step closer to the mirror and examine the old slashes mixed with the new ones. I cringe as I see I’ve really done a number on myself this time. Deep claw marks from my nails—which I keep short for this reason—trail from my upper ribcage, around to my lower abdomen, most of them dripping with bright red blood. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. I need to wash and treat the area, but I don’t want to alert him, nor do I want to dig through his personal things to find some antiseptic. Even if I can get it cleaned up, there’s the whole issue of what clothes I’ll put on. I’ve already ruined one of his shirts, and the only clothes I have of my own is the dress I wore last night.

Feeling defeated and humiliated, I begin to quietly cry as I stare at my damaged self. I don’t know what I was thinking even entertaining the idea I could live a normal life. Even if Vincent Ricci and his family never come looking for me, I can’t escape myself.

A movement in the mirror that isn’t mine startles me. When I whip around to investigate, Madden is standing in the doorway, mouth agape, and something in-between frantic concern and desperate fury lighting up his eyes.

“Shower. Now. Talk. After.”

N
O
WORDS
. N
O
FUCKING
WORDS
. My brain is having a hard time believing the image that is before me, as if my eyes are lying, and I’m stunned…shocked...speechless. For one of the few times in my life, I’m unsure of what to say or do. Part of me wants to run to the bloody, broken girl standing in my bathroom sobbing as she looks at herself in the mirror and comfort her, tell her everything will be okay and I’ll fix whatever is wrong. The other part of me wants to scream at the top of my lungs, admonishing her for harming herself, and then go kill whoever fucked her up to the point she’d do something like this.

Her cries and grunts are what first alerted me she was up, but after her confession about her busted lip, I knew she suffered with nightmares and was trying to give her some privacy. It was evident on Monday she wasn’t ready to tell me what spurs the terrors or the underlying reason for them, but I didn’t want to push; I’m realizing more and more I have to take my own advice with this girl—slow and steady. The intense fervor she incites inside of me—a feeling so penetrating it’s borderline scary—assures me she’ll be worth it once she’s mine.

When I heard her get out of bed, I came to check on her, assuming she may be a little disoriented waking up in a strange place; however, I never in my wildest dreams expected to see her like this. Overlooking her obvious malnutrition for the moment, the streams of blood oozing from a multitude of slashes and cuts and running down her tiny abdomen is the first thing I need to address. Bringing my hand to my disheveled hair, I thread my fingers through the tangled strands, desperately trying to devise my plan of action. She sees my movement in the mirror and spins around to face me, panic and mortification heavy in her expression.

“Shower. Now. Talk. After,” I bark, the words coming out much gruffer than I intend.

Immediately, she hangs her head to hide her tears and crosses her arms across her chest to cover her boobs. “I’m sorry for this,” she croaks in between her sobs. “I just want to go home.”

Rushing to her side, I’m hesitant to touch her, not wanting to inflict any additional pain. I lift her chin gently, forcing her to look up at me. “Don’t apologize, sweet girl,” I whisper soothingly. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can talk about it. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Tenderly, I kiss each of her tear-stained cheeks before leading her by the hand over to the shower.

“The spray of the shower will sting too badly. It’s better to clean them with a washcloth and then alcohol,” she reasons, obviously having done this before. “I can take care of it, Madden.”

I stop mid-stride and turn to her, knowing damn well my eyes are full of pity—I can’t help it. “Okay, but please let me help you.”

With a slight nod of her head, I open the linen closet, pull out a couple of cloths, and guide her back to the sink. Wetting the first washcloth, I drop to my knees in front of her, putting me eyelevel with the lacerations. She keeps her arms tightly wrapped over her chest as I go to work, carefully cleaning up the red streaks from her bony rib cage and concaved stomach, which I notice aren’t all fresh, thus confirming this is a common occurrence. I bite my tongue to keep myself from commenting on her frailness, because I don’t want to tear her down any more than she already is at this moment. Instead, I make a mental note to feed her every chance I get.

After nearly fifteen silent minutes, all of the blood is wiped away and I grab the bottle of rubbing alcohol from the medicine cabinet. Returning to my kneeling position, I peer up at her, making sure she’s ready for the burning sensation I know is about to come. Her eyes are closed tightly, and she’s chewing nervously on her bottom lip. Her helplessness and fragility affect me in the most profound way. I want—no, scratch that—I
need
to fix her like I need to take my next breath, and I have no fucking clue why. It scares me shitless.

Feeling my stare on her, she gradually opens her eyes and looks down at me with those heartbreaking sapphires. “I’m ready,” she says softly.

“I don’t want to hurt you, sweet girl,” I reply sincerely.

“It’s okay. I’m used to it.” Then, shutting her lids once again, she tilts her head to the ceiling and prepares for the treatment.

As softly as I possibly can, I apply the alcohol to the scratches with soaked cotton balls. Several times, I feel her ab muscles tighten, wincing at the pain of the antiseptic, and I want to stop, but I know it must be done. Once I’ve doctored each and every place on her tattered ivory skin, I gently grab both of her protruding hipbones still covered by a pair of my boxer shorts, and begin to affectionately sweep my lips over the smooth, unmarked areas on her belly. My actions aren’t meant to be sexual in any way; I simply want to soothe and comfort her, to ease the pain and reassure her she hasn’t scared me away.

Hearing her faint sigh, I glance up at her again to find the tears have returned. Scrambling up to my feet, I cup her face in my hands, both thumbs brushing the moisture away from her cheeks. “Don’t cry, Blake. Please don’t cry anymore,” I plead with her, kissing the tip of her nose. “Let’s get you a new shirt and back into bed. Maybe you can get some more rest.”