Chapter 15

LEILA

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The person who always kept it so meticulously nice and clean despite her own failing health was currently confined to her bed, or maybe just  maybe she wasn’t even here anymore.

I walked faster towards the front door, not even waiting for anyone to open it.

No need to knock, the door was always unlocked, a pathetic testament to my father’s apathy and the general lawlessness that seemed to permeate the place.

Just as I thought, it creaked open easily, I moved further inside, revealing the familiar, yet somehow more depressing, living room.

An ashtray on the coffee table overflowed with extinguished cigarette butts, some only half-smoked, and no one.

 Empty bottles, mostly cheap whisky, lay scattered on the worn carpet, a familiar sight that always made my stomach clench. The worn couches that had once made the place feel somewhat homey now looked unkempt and stained, smelling faintly of smoke.

The floor was sticky and dirty, and the smell emanating from the place was stale and off-putting, a suffocating mix of dust, cigarettes, and something vaguely medicinal.

 I heard a heavy footstep behind me and turned to see Damien standing in the doorway, his expensive boots looking ridiculously out of place on the grimy floor. He looked like he was heading for war in his dark jeans and perfectly fitted leather jacket.

“God, this place stinks,” he said, wrinkling his nose in disgust as I walked further inside, the familiar weight of sadness settling over me. He followed, his imposing presence filling the small, depressing space, making it feel even more cramped.

I walked straight to my mother’s room, my heart pounding in my chest, tears welling in my eyes at the sight of her.

She looked even worse than I had imagined, her frail body even thinner, almost translucent under the thin dress she wore. She looked like a train had hit her, leaving her broken and battered.

 She hadn’t even registered that someone was inside.

She sat in her worn armchair by the window, her back to the door, her gaze fixed on something unseen outside, lost in her own world of pain.

I used the back of my hand to wipe away the tears that had started to fall as I looked at her, my heart aching with a grief that felt too heavy to bear.

“Mom?” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion, barely audible above the silence of the room.

She turned immediately, her eyes widening with a mixture of surprise and a flicker of the old excitement at seeing me.

 I walked further towards her, standing behind her chair, my hand resting lightly on her frail shoulder.

“Leila?” Her voice was weak, barely a breath.

She stood up, almost losing her balance and I rushed forward, trying to hold her steady as she threw her arms around me, her hug fragile but fierce a desperate clinging.

 She released me, her eyes scanning my face, my body, as if to assure herself I was real, not just a figment of her fading memory, before pulling me in for another tight, heartbreaking hug.

“Where have you been, baby? I heard… I heard you were taken away.” Her voice was filled with a heartbreaking mix of fear and concern, laced with a confusion that made my stomach clench.

God, I wished I could kill that man, my father.

How could he even tell her that, twisting the truth to make himself the victim?

He had sold me, for Christ’s sake.

I wished I could tell her the truth, lay bare the ugly reality of what had happened, but I knew she wouldn’t believe it, not seeing how much she still loved that pathetic excuse for a husband, clinging to the ghost of the man he used to be.

I wished he had never been my father.

“We have few minutes,” Damien’s voice cut through, I turned to see him, he leaned his broad shoulder against the doorframe, his presence filling the small room, cocking his head slightly towards us, his  grey eyes devoid of any warmth or emotion, observing us like specimens under a microscope.

I gently pulled away from my mother, my heart heavy, and walked towards him, grabbing his hand and pulling him out of the room, not caring what it looked like to my mother.

She have to hear what I was about to say.

“She needs care, Damien,” I said, my voice urgent, pleading.

“She can get it from whosoever stays here with her,” he replied, his tone indifferent, his gaze still fixed on something beyond me.

“Damien, her health is deteriorating. Look at her!” I gestured back towards her room, the sight of her frail figure still vivid in my mind, a constant ache in my chest  “If the person that was here was actually taking care of her, she wouldn’t be like this.” I pointed towards her door, the sight of my mother’s suffering a physical weight on my shoulders.

“Please.” My eyes locked with his, holding a desperate, pleading glare, begging him for something, anything.

“I… I just don’t have anything to offer except my obedience right now, Damien,” I whispered, the tears falling freely, hot and heavy on my cheeks, as I dropped to my knees in front of him, the expensive fabric of my dress pooling around me on the dirty, stained floor.

I was begging.

 Me. Begging this cold-hearted man, my ex-stepbrother, for mercy for my dying mother, who was once his mom.

Knowing exactly what this amounted to, the price I would inevitably have to pay.

He shifted slightly, his gaze flickering down to me for a brief moment, a light  of something unreadable in his eyes, before returning to the door, his expression still impassive, seemingly unmoved by my tears and my desperate plea.

“We have a few minutes,” he repeated, his voice softening ever so slightly, a hint of something that might have been pity in his tone. “I’ll send someone. I’ll make that call. Get what you need, say your goodbyes, and meet me in the car.”

I stood up, my legs shaky and weak, and walked straight back to my mother’s room, the weight on my heart slightly lighter.

Knowing that she would be taken care of, that Damien had given his word, was enough for now.

I knew Damien’s word was always his word, even if it came with a heavy price, a price I was increasingly afraid I would have to pay in full.