Bartered (The Encounter #1)(44)

My depressing train of thought had to take a backseat when the cab driver stopped right outside the house, giving me cold dread as I paid him before getting out of the car. From afar, the house looked great, but if you paid attention to close detail, it was apparent that the paint was chipped and cracked, the lawn in the garden was overgrown and in dire need of trimming, the once gorgeous rows of beautiful rose bushes were chaotic and in need of clipping.

Looking away from the disheartening surroundings, I pulled out my house keys from my purse before stepping inside the home. I wasn’t sure what I had expected to see when I came home, but I certainly wasn’t expecting complete, eerie silence. Mother was sick, wasn’t she? And knowing how my father weaved his evil spell, he’d never want to spend a dime on my mother by taking her to the hospital to have her checked over by a doctor.

I’d once asked him why he was so cruel, and he had merely shrugged and given me a look I won’t ever forget. “There’s no need to waste money when your mother isn’t dying. She’ll sleep it off. She’ll be good as new tomorrow.”

His selfishness knew no bounds.

It was right after he said those words when I fully understood that he was a monster. Before then, there was a part of me which hoped that he’d change. When I was young, gullible, and the optimism ran rampant, I thought that my father would eventually be enlightened, and he’d change to become a better man—a better husband to my mother, and a supportive father to Yannis and I. However, after he’d uttered those lines, there was surely no hope for him. What kind of man would say something like that about his sick wife?

On top of that, it was his fault my mother was sick, because she’d found out that he had been having an affair, and then my mother had refused to eat anything for days on end. She had been heartbroken, while my father mocked it as if it was a nuisance.

The memories flooded in the moment the stale, stagnant air of the house hit my nostrils. The fading décor and the surroundings that had seen better days made me feel like I had gone into a time capsule and was young again, feeling helpless each time mother had fallen ill.

Automatically, I headed straight to my mother’s bedroom. And just as I had predicted, she was there, seeming like she was sleeping with her faded, knitted, blue blanket held close to her stomach. The picture of her in this position was eerily familiar. The last time this had happened, my father had aimed at her stomach, punishing her for a useless uterus, as he’d so vehemently accused her. He was a heel, the worst kind of man, and we were just unfortunate to be his family.

“Mum?” I whispered shakily as I slowly crept deeper into the dark bedroom. My small steps made the floorboards creek as I moved closer to her. “Mum?” I asked again. This time, I saw her blink her eyes wide open before searching for the source the voice had come from. Then, when our eyes met, the usual, tender mixed with immense sadness that reminded me of a miserable, lost puppy, greeted me once more. “What happened this time, Mum?”

My heart broke for her—for us. This was a hopeless case and wouldn’t ever stop until she walked away. Her undying love for my father made her stay, even though there was nothing left in their marriage besides their marriage certificate. Other than that, they were practically mere strangers. Him living in his own fantasy while my mother pined for him to come home. A decade and a half of never-ending repetition.

When would it end? When she was dead? Was that what she was waiting for? This very thought made me feel volatile, frustrated that my own flesh and blood—my own mother—couldn’t stand her ground and grow a backbone for once.

She gave me a weak smile before I reached for her hand and gave it a light squeeze, letting her know that I was there for her.

“Mum…please…” I sobbed, needing her to see and understand that there was still a way out—that it was never too late to start over again and live the life she had once longed for. “You have to leave him and go back to England. He’s never going to stop hurting you—he’s that cruel.”

Her eyes moistened, agony etched on her face, before she brought my hand that held hers towards her chest, where her heart rested. She placed my palm over it, making me aware that she was still alive, before she looked away just as her tears started to slide down the side of her face.

The gesture was her way of telling me that she was okay, that she was in love with my father and would never leave him. It was discouraging. The pattern hadn’t really changed over the years. She needed to see that—know that there was no hope for him.

“He’s a monster, Mum. Don’t you see that?” I begged as my tears streamed from my face. “He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t love any of us. He’s selfish and only cares for himself. You know this! Why can’t you just accept it and stop forgiving him for all the atrocious things he’s done to you?”

Again, she merely gave me a look that told me she would never do that.

My father had done this to her, made her lose her voice—her ability to freely speak her mind without fearing anything bad would happen to her. When things had started to spiral out of control, her voice had gone the opposite way, hiding from the world, as if preventing herself from speaking the truth would hide what my father was. Or maybe it was because she was living in her own heart brokenness to the point that she couldn’t comprehend speaking in fear that she’d be ashamed. This notion had been brought up by my very own grandmother, accompanied with a pitying look that stated she saw my mother as a weak, pathetic fool.