Loved (House of Night Other World #1)(68)

Aphrodite crumpled at the feet of the goddess. She covered her face and wept inconsolably—wept for her dead father; wept for her hateful, absentee mother who would soon be dead; wept for her lost childhood; and finally, wept for herself. Scenes she hadn’t thought about for years flooded her memory.

She remembered when she was six and so glad to see her father come home from work that she’d climbed up on his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him sweetly on the mouth. Her mother had grabbed her by the arm and yanked her painfully from him, tossing her to the floor, saying she was too old to kiss men on the mouth—that only certain kinds of girls did that to certain kinds of men—said it like she thought her daughter was dirty and disgusting. After that day Aphrodite didn’t remember her father ever kissing her hello or goodbye again.

She didn’t try to remember her mother kissing her. She had no memory of that happening. Ever.

Aphrodite remembered when she was eight and had put on her first two-piece swimsuit. It’d been white and yellow, dotted with daisies. She’d run out to their pool where her mother had been sunning to show off her “big girl suit,” as young Aphrodite had called it. Her mother had given her a disdainful sideways glance and said, “If you’re old enough to wear a two-piece suit, you’re old enough to start holding in that gut of yours.”

She’d been eight. She hadn’t been fat, or even chubby. But from that day forward she’d worried about her weight and skipped meals.

Aphrodite remembered when she was eleven. A boy from down the street had stopped by to ask if she could play kickball with him and some of the other neighborhood kids. Her mother had said no and told their maid to close the door in his face. Aphrodite had cried. Her mother had slapped her. Hard. And called her a little slut.

She hadn’t known what slut meant until that day. She’d googled it, but had still not really understood. She’d never even kissed a boy—never even held a boy’s hand. But her mother had told her she was a slut. So, she believed it. How could she not?

Over and over the memories deluged her, and as they played across her mind’s eye, her tears dried. Her sobs quieted to hiccups. She lifted her face from the marble floor and sat, looking up at the serene goddess, and it was as if the scales fell from her eyes, her mind, her heart—and she was finally able to understand the truth.

“I’m not the problem.”

Aphrodite spoke to the statue of her goddess. At first her voice was trembly, choked with tears and emotion, but as she kept speaking, kept reasoning through a past that had kept her shackled to self-loathing, her words became clearer, stronger, and wiser. Much, much wiser.

“It’s not that I’m not good enough for my mother to love. No one—no child, no husband, no job—would ever be good enough for her because she wasn’t ever good enough for herself. Her life disappointed her over and over again, because it was broken. It was broken because she was broken. She is broken.” Aphrodite brushed her damp hair from her face and wiped her nose. “I can’t fix her. I can’t make her love me. I can only fix myself—love myself. And I have to let Mother go, and let the pain she created in my life go with her, or I will become her. I have to let her go.”

She put her face in her hands and began to weep again, but this time her tears were an outpouring of relief and release because it was at that moment Aphrodite LaFont truly began to live her own life.

“Daughter, I have been waiting to see if you would choose healing or self-destruction. I am infinitely pleased that you have chosen wisely.”

Aphrodite lifted her head from her hands to look up at the statue—which was no more. Instead of a marble replica of Nyx, the goddess herself stood before her, wrapped in gossamer silver and gold. Her dark hair cascaded around her waist, and over it was Nyx’s headdress of stars that glistened so brightly Aphrodite had to lower her eyes, which she did immediately, pressing her forehead to the cool marble in supplication.

“Forgive me, Nyx. I’ve been vain and selfish and cruel—to myself and to the people who love me. I don’t deserve it, but please forgive me.”

Aphrodite felt the goddess’ touch on her head and she was filled with love so complete, so unconditional, that she gasped aloud.

“I do not require your supplication, daughter. I understand you. I’ve understood you from the moment you were Marked. I was simply waiting for you to understand yourself. Rise, Prophetess! Behold your future!”

At Nyx’s command a bolt of pain splintered Aphrodite’s forehead sending shards of white-hot agony across her face. But in the span of a breath, the pain was gone.

Aphrodite lifted her head to see the goddess smiling down on her. Nyx made a graceful, sweeping motion with her hand, and a silver-framed mirror appeared before her, catching Aphrodite’s reflection. Feeling as if she was moving through a fantastical dream, Aphrodite lifted her hand. With trembling fingers she watched her reflection trace the incredibly beautiful tattoo pattern of exploding blue and red fireworks that framed her eyes in a perfect mask.

“W-what is this? I don’t understand.” Her voice trembled with so much emotion she could hardly speak.

“This is the part of my prophetic gift to you that had to wait until you were wise enough to wield it.”

“Forgive me, Nyx, but I still don’t understand.”

“Daughter, you have no need to continue to ask for my forgiveness. You have no way of understanding without my explanation.”