Killing Sarai

16

I swallow, rounding my chin. “Maybe I have. Somewhat. But what does that have to do with me calling you by your name?” What he accuses me of is spot on, but what I’ve been through is none of his business. Not unless he intends to help me, which we’ve already established as being nothing more than wishful thinking. “And why do you care?”

“I never said I did.”

“Then don’t probe,” I snap.

The mere fact that he won’t even look at me half the time when he’s speaking to me, makes me angry. And the more he does it, acts as if I’m not worth looking in the eye, the more it infuriates me. And when I get mad, I always cry. It’s how I’ve been for as long as I can remember. And I hate it. I never shout or curse or hit things or people. I cry. Every damn time.

As the tears start to well up in my eyes, I turn my back to him and march quickly toward the restroom. But I stop and turn around to face him once more, my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands down at my sides. “Go to hell!” is all I can say, my poor attempt at lashing out with words instead of tears.

—

It seems like forever since I’ve had a hot shower like this. I had showers on occasion at the compound—I was the only girl given that luxury—but never one like this. They were always lukewarm at best, but never so hot the water could burn the skin off my back. I don’t even turn the cold on at first, allowing myself to bask in the heat until it becomes too much and I’m forced to. I want to stay in here forever and not think about what is waiting for me on the other side of that door, but the reality of it all wins out and it’s all I think about. I sit down on the floor of the tub and draw my knees toward my chest, wrapping my arms loosely around them and let the water stream down on me from above.

I think a lot about Lydia, wondering if she’s OK or if Izel beat her for a much longer time than usual, all because of me. I know she did. And although there was nothing I could do to stop it, I made a promise to Lydia that I fully intend to fulfill. I won’t let it go on forever.

But if they find out that she knew I was leaving….

After what seems like an hour, the hot water starts to run cold and I get out, wrapping my hair in a towel folded neatly on the back of the toilet. I wish I had a clean set of clothes, panties at least—lost my pillowcase of clothes in Victor’s car when we left it behind. I slip my filthy running shorts on over my panties and then pull the light blue tank top down over my br**sts. Javier forbade me ever to wear a bra.

When I step out of the restroom, Victor is still sitting in the same spot he was in as before. But the suitcase is no longer on the foot of the bed.

As I walk toward the bed where the suitcase had been and start to sit down, Victor looks up and catches my eyes. He doesn’t say a word, but I can sense that something is different about him. For a moment, I’m unsettled by his unusual demeanor, but that quiet look in his eyes which I somehow doubt he knows I can see right away, completely catches my interest. It feels almost…tragic.

“Tell me about your mother,” he says.

He turns on the chair to face me, giving me his full attention, resting his arms over the length of the chair arms and letting his fingers dangle casually over the ends. His white dress sleeves have been pushed up just below his elbows.

Completely taken aback by his question, I just stare across the room at him blankly.

“Why?” I ask simply, unsure of his intentions with the information. I go ahead and sit down on the foot of the bed, working the towel in my hair with both hands to dry it. But it’s all just for show; every fiber of my consciousness is focused on Victor and every move he makes.

He doesn’t elaborate. And in case he decides to change his mind and go back to not giving a damn, I speak up before it’s too late:

“What do you want to know?”

I squeeze one last section of hair with the towel and then drop it on the floor.

Victor tilts his head gently to one side and then interlocks his hands in front of him, his elbows still resting on the chair arms.

“How did she meet Javier?”

I think back on it for a moment. “I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, I know it had to do with drugs and sex. The same way she met every man she brought into our home. My mother and I didn’t talk much.”

He tilts his head to the other side reflectively. What’s he waiting for? I study him for a moment, trying to get some idea of what brought his interest in my mother on and finally I choose to tell him whatever I can. Maybe because I’ve needed someone to listen for the longest time. Lydia and the other girls were too traumatized by their own abductions and experiences within the compound for me to confide in them. And their lives were much more chaotic than mine, much more…unfair. I could never bring myself to talk to the other girls about my insignificant problems while they were being beaten and raped and mentally and emotionally tortured.

I was in paradise compared to them.

I shake off the imagery and look back over at Victor.