Distilled

It was a Wednesday like any other. Like any other day of any other week. The days are meaningless when you do what I have to do. I know I just met you, but I'll tell you my story. Let's start at the beginning then. I don't remember exactly when my family fell apart, much less I can understand how my mother managed for so many years to be with a person like my father. When I was 13, my mother got very sick. Cancer... the disease of the moment, as my father kept saying. My mom always protected me from my dad when he was rude, but with her sick, things at home got really bad and really fast. I spent a few years watching my mother struggling with the disease and with each passing day she was fading more and more. When she died, after, I must say, a lot of struggle on her part, she left me in the world with my father. And he turned out to be one of the cruelest people I had ever met in my entire life. He always used to call me babydoll, and I was a doll indeed. He made a point of dressing me up like a porcelain doll. A luxury doll, if you can call it that. An object in the hands of rich, powerful, disgusting old men. Not as much as my father, but almost. That Wednesday I woke up and got ready. I had school and when I returned, I would have a meeting with a businessman who was the son of an old friend of my father's. It should just be another pig I should give myself to. I went to school and classes went by too fast. The whole day passed quickly and the worst moments dragged on. I got home and my clothes were on the bed. A 3/4 sock and a flared dress with ruffles. More theatrical impossible. I should play the innocent, lifeless doll present just to satisfy barbaric desires. My father was an ironic man. At 4 pm he arrived. I was supposed to wait for him in the room so I sat down and waited. He was looking at the floor and when I looked up I was startled. The man in front of me couldn't have been more than 25 years old. He was white and his hair was black, his eyes were a surreal blue. I looked away and thought "why was a man like that around?". My father only brought people he wanted something with. And almost always these people were heads of something and therefore very old. I remained seated and waited for him to approach. He sat on the bed and looked at me. He looked away, looked at me again and looked at the floor. He ran his hands through his hair and his shocked face made me speak. -What is your name? -Michael, Michael Benacci. -It is a beautiful name. Are you Italian? -Yea. But I've lived in London since I was 5. -Nice. I once met an Italian boy when I was a kid. We played together and then out of nowhere he disappeared. - For a brief moment I allowed myself to have a memory playing when I was a child. Everything seemed a blur, but I knew that back then I had been very happy. I forced myself back to the present before the boy said anything about it to my dad, which wouldn't be nice at all. -What is your name? - Alice Claire. -It's not possible. He didn't do this to you. I thought it was coincidence. I was trying to convince myself that it was just a coincidence. It can't be you. I will kill that bastard. - Michael got up angrily and went to the door but he stopped inches from the handle when I whispered a "no" choking and hurt. -Why not? He deserves a good sura for what he's doing to you here. -Who are you? You are cop? -It's me, Alice. Michael. I was your Italian friend. Don't you remember? -I remember you, but that won't change anything. You can't just go down, hit him and walk away. If you come down now, it means you didn't like what I did, or should have been doing to you. And if you didn't like it he didn't like it and when he doesn't like it it hurts me. -So what should I do? I can't stand to see you in this situation. -Tell me about you, I was very sad when you disappeared that time. - We talked for about thirty minutes and then Michael left, not before promising to come back and get me out of there. And for a single moment since my mother's passing, I allowed myself to feel hope again.