CHAPTER 7
WILLOW
"I wish." Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she glided out.
I sat there, numbed, barely breathing, barely registering nothing but her words.
The words I told myself every night.
Only if I had died instead of Father, then maybe Mother would have been happy.
Only if I was never born, then Mother wouldn't spend her life caring for me.
Those thoughts haunted me for years, but... I... I never expected her to say it.
I... I never... I...
My insides churned painfully.
I never thought she would say it.
I never imagined...
Tears gushed down my cheeks, dripping onto the black hoodie I wore.
"Sometimes I wished you died with your father." The words echoed in my ears. With each replay, her image twisted into a more painful scene.
I wish you were never born.
I wish you died before I gave birth to you.
I wish you died when you were a kid.
I wish I had abandoned you.
She didn't say that, but that didn't stop my heart from bleeding onto the tile.
It was one thing saying that to yourself; it was another to hear the person you love say the same.
I gripped my chest, like it would stop the pain.
"It hurts! It hurts! It hurts so much!"
I hugged my knees against my body, afraid I might shatter, that I might crumble into a million unfixable pieces, oblivious to the figure who walked in.
I didn't notice him. Still, his thumb wiped away the tears that stained my cheeks. I lifted my gaze to him.
Stepfather?!
I blinked away the tears.
"She doesn't mean it?" He heard our conversation.
I stared at him, numbed.
"Crying doesn't—" I drifted away from his touch and gathered my broken self from the floor.
I didn't talk; I couldn't.
I just left, pushing myself through the hazy stairs. My knees wobbled; my head was heavy. I felt like I wasn't living—like a corpse, a useless, heartless corpse.
Fresh tears rolled down my eyes.
"Stop!" I choked out. "Stop hurting me, stop." I pounded against my aching heart. "Please, stop! Stop! Stop!" My legs gave up, and I fell, aiming face first onto the floor. Swiftly, a hand shot out and pulled me up and into his arms. I crashed against his hold, which felt warm. It felt safe. It felt comforting.
I pressed my face into his torso.
I tried! I tried to hold back the tears, to silence my cries. I tried, but I failed at that too.
A scream erupted from my lips, muffled by his hard abs. "It hurts! It hurts! Make it stop! Please make it stop! Make it stop! I beg you!"
He draped his arms around my waist, pulling me even closer while his other hand patted my hair. "Please, it hurts. It hurts. Stop hurting me." At that point, I didn't know if I was talking about my broken heart or my mother.
Every time I thought we were getting somewhere—that we were above the mood swings, that she loved me, that amidst her anger was her uncanny love for me—she would shatter my hopes with her words.
It was always that I wasn't enough, I wasn't trying, I was lazy, I wasn't working enough, even with painful blisters on my hands.
"Let it out." The honey voice washed over me, and I obeyed, releasing years of pent-up emotions. After what seemed like forever, my cries slowly became low sobs.
I wasn't trembling. I just stayed still in his arms, soaking in comfort. Letting his scent calm me down.
"You are safe."
I felt like I was.
Realization dawned on me. I raised my head, staring at the person in whose arms I had cried comfortably.
My eyes widened.
A... Asher.
He wiped the tears off my face, then shifted the strands of hair that fell into my face. His face was soft, almost like it wasn't him. He didn't look like the one who always found ways to call me out, the one who was cold and unforgiving—the one who cared.
That same Asher.
"Y...you..."
"Are you okay?" he asked, peering at me, checking for a scratch. Thankfully, Mother's nails didn't pierce my skin; the wound was undetectable.
"I am fine." I sniffed as I answered him.
For the first time, I thought I saw the real Asher: not the one who hated his father, not the one who was cold and unforgiving—the one who cared.
"What's going on here?!" The voice barked. We directed our gaze to the angry figure. His eyes hinted at Asher's hands, which were still wrapped around my waist, and my hands, which clung to his shirt.
I drifted back, and Asher rolled his eyes, like he would rather be counting stars than indulging in this conversation.
"I…"
"Answer me, Asher."
"Next time your new daughter wants to cry, she should do it somewhere else." He gazed down at his shirt, which was drenched in my tears, sweat, and probably snot.
"I am sorry," I voiced.
"Sorry won't fix my shirt." Before I could offer to help, he bolted off.
"Go to your room, Willow."
I obeyed, too drained to talk. My room felt more like a cage—a suffocating golden cage—with predators watching, waiting, and ready to tear me to pieces.
Was this how the Kardashians felt?
I made my way back into my room. This time I didn't hop into my bed; I crawled into the bathroom.
Bathing would help me. It didn't, but as I lay in the tub with my eyes closed, I couldn't help but picture his eyes and the look he had on his face. I couldn't help but reminisce about how warm and comforting it was to be in his arms, and how his voice smoothed out the ache that tortured my heart.
How everything about him was what I needed.
I was either mad for wishing I had stayed in the arms of my stepbrother for another minute, or insane for entertaining the thought.
Maybe both.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Ma, it's time for dinner." The maid said.
I didn't want to eat, I didn't feel like it, but saying no to Stepfather was impossible.
I followed suit and stepped into the dining room, trying not to make eye contact with them.
The maid served the food and disappeared into their respective places.
"Sweetheart." I went rigid at the sweetness of her voice. "I heard you cried. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm sorry," Mother said, with a sweet smile.
I didn't know if I should cry or scream in fear or run. It was always her mood swings, like she was two different people.
"I am okay."
"Good," she beamed. "From now on, I promise not to scold you. Together, all of us will live happily." I glanced at Asher, who looked nonchalant, at Stepfather, who had a blank expression, and back at Mum's smiling face.
Uneasiness settled in my gut.
"Yes, like a happy family."
We were far from that. We were twisted, all enslaved to our dark skeletons.
One happy family.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
TWO MONTHS LATER
Mother was right. As long as I sat like a doll and obeyed all their commands, then we were a happy family. And as long as I ignored the CCTV camera, the gut feeling that I was being watched every night, and the cold stare of my stepbrother which made my cheeks flush and my body tremble for all the wrong reasons, then we were fine—the happy family she says we were.
I sighed and hurried to take my night bath. First, I pulled open my wardrobe, picking out my pajamas, then my underwear section, picking out my favorite pair.
I shut it, ready to leave, when something caught my attention. I slid it back open, staring at the panties. I picked them up. There were only five, plus the one I wore.
I vividly remember having seven of these.
I froze at the realization: two were missing.
Someone stole my undies?
What the…?
I never gave them out for laundry.
They were always hand washed by me. Then how?!
I searched the entire wardrobe, and they weren't there.
It didn't make sense. Who on earth would steal underwear and why?