CHAPTER 2: THORNS BENEATH THE ROSES
1079 Words
Betty's Glare
I pour coffee into Majid's cup. My hands shake. The porcelain rattles against his saucer like teeth chattering in winter. He doesn't look up from his newspaper. The headlines scream about corporate mergers and political scandals. None mention the poison brewing in his own house.
Betty enters the breakfast room. Her silk robe hangs loose. Too loose. The fabric slides off one shoulder. She doesn't fix it. Her eyes find mine across the mahogany table. Those green eyes that once sparkled with childhood mischief now burn with something darker. Something knowing.
She pours orange juice into a crystal glass. The liquid catches the morning light streaming through our stained-glass windows. Everything in this house looks beautiful from a distance. Everything lies.
"Sleep well, Daddy?" Betty's voice drips honey. But honey can trap flies.
Majid glances up. His smile spreads slow and satisfied. Like a cat who's caught more than one mouse. "Always, princess. Always."
Betty's eyes never leave my face. They say what her mouth cannot. They say: You knew. You've always known. They say: Why didn't you stop him? They say: You're as guilty as he is.
I set down the coffee pot. My wedding ring catches the light. Twenty-three years of marriage. Twenty-three years of looking the other way. Twenty-three years of pretending our family portrait wasn't painted in shame.
The newspaper crinkles as Majid turns the page. Betty takes a sip of juice. Normal sounds. Normal morning. Nothing normal about the hatred burning behind my daughter's eyes.
She knows, I know. And now I know she knows I know.
The guest bedroom smells of lavender and lies. I keep my journals hidden beneath the loose floorboard under the antique writing desk. Grandmother's desk. She would roll in her grave if she knew what words I scratch across these pages.
My pen trembles as I write:
October 15th - Majid's hand on Maria's lower back during family photo. Lasted seven seconds. Too long. Too low.
October 18th - Found Aisha crying in the garden maze. Wouldn't say why. Dirt on her knees. Grass stains on her dress.
October 22nd - Raul watching Betty through the library window. The way wolves watch sheep.
Each entry cuts deeper than the last. I'm documenting the destruction of my children's souls. One date at a time. One violation at a time. The evidence piles up like autumn leaves. Beautiful from far away. Rotting underneath.
I flip to a fresh page. The paper is cream-colored. Expensive. Everything in this house is expensive. Even the paper I use to record our sins costs more than most people's weekly groceries.
October 25th - Betty confronted me with her eyes this morning. She knows I'm keeping track. She knows I'm watching. But watching isn't protecting. Watching isn't acting. Watching is just another word for cowardice.
The pen slips from my fingers. Ink bleeds across the page like a wound. Like tears. Like all the blood I should have spilled to keep my babies safe.
Footsteps echo in the hallway. Heavy and masculine, coming closer.
I slam the journal shut.
The phone rings at midnight. I press my ear against Majid's office door. The wood is thick. Imported from somewhere exotic. Like everything else he touches. He prefers things that come from far away. Things he can control. Things he can corrupt.
His voice carries through the expensive wood. Low and satisfied. The voice he uses when he's drunk on power. When he's won another game, nobody else knew they were playing.
"You should see them dance for me, Malcolm. All of them. Even the boys. Especially the boys."
My blood turns to ice water. Malcolm Peterson. His business partner. The man who helped build this empire of shadows.
"It's an art form, really. Breaking them just enough. Never too much. Too much, and they shatter completely. Not enough, and they still have fights left."
I bite my knuckle to keep from screaming. The taste of my own blood fills my mouth. Salt and copper. The flavour of truth.
"I've tamed them all, even his own."
His own. His own children. My children. Our children.
"The secret is starting early. Very early. Before they know what normal feels like. Before they understand that fathers shouldn't touch daughters like husbands touch wives."
The phone cord stretches as he leans back in his leather chair. I can picture him there. Feet up on his mahogany desk. Cigars and brandy within reach. King of his twisted castle.
"Betty's the masterpiece, though. She actually begs for it now. Can you imagine? My own daughter begging her father to....
I stumble away from the door. My dinner rises in my throat. The hallway spins like a carnival ride. The portraits of dead relatives watch me run. Their painted eyes follow my escape.
Their painted eyes judge my silence.
Maria finds me in the morning. I'm sitting on the kitchen floor. Still in yesterday's clothes. The journal lies open beside me. Pages scattered like broken dreams.
She doesn't speak. Just kneel down and read. Her face stays perfectly calm. No shock. No horror. No surprise. She reads about her father's phone call. About the taming. About Betty begging.
Her fingers turn the pages with surgical precision. She's always been the smartest. The most observant. The most dangerous.
"You're late," she whispers. Her voice could freeze fire. "Too late."
I reach for her hand. She pulls back like I'm infected. Like my touch might contaminate her perfect composure.
"Maria, baby, I'm going to fix this. I'm going to make it stop."
She laughs. The sound echoes off our marble countertops. Cold and hollow. Like wind through a cemetery.
"Fix it? Mother, you think this is broken. This isn't broken. This is working exactly as designed."
She gathers the scattered pages. Neat piles. Perfect corners. Everything in its place. Just like Majid taught her.
"You want to know the real secret? We're not victims, Mother. We're products. Manufactured. Quality-controlled. Ready for market."
My heart stops beating. Or maybe it just stops mattering.
"He didn't break us. He built us. And now we're exactly what he wanted us to become."
She stands up. Smooths her school uniform. Every wrinkle gone. Every hair in place. Perfect little doll. Perfect little victim. Perfect little accomplice.
"The only question left is: what are you going to do about it?"
She walks toward the door and stops. Turns back.
"Because we're done pretending this is an accident."
- Writer
