Chapter Ten
Julie's Point of View
The woman in her forties peered from behind the door, her features frozen and unreadable, dragging a silver food trolley whose wheels emitted a sharp screeching sound in the silence of the shattered room.
She entered with a coldness as if she did not see the piles of torn silk spread across the floor, nor smell the scent of anger still lingering in the air.
With monotonous and dull movements, she replaced the new trolley with the one she had left yesterday, then turned and exited without uttering a single word, as if I were merely another piece of furniture in this room.
I approached the trolley with cautious steps, as if I expected it to explode in my face, but what I saw made my stomach contract with an irresistible hunger.
There were fried eggs smelling of butter, pieces of carefully seasoned grilled meat, and small dishes containing every type of olive imaginable, alongside a glass of fresh juice.
I took a step back, and my desire for food suddenly vanished, replaced by a cold shiver.
I looked at the tin of caviar and the grilled meat with lethal suspicion; after I had screamed in Robert's face, struck his desk, and sworn that I would never wear the clothes of whores even if I tore off my own skin... could it be possible that he was rewarding me with this banquet?
This stillness is unnatural; it is a silence that swallows the breath.
Does he want to poison me to find relief from my stubbornness? Or does this food contain some kind of sedative, so they can do to me while I am unconscious what they failed to do while I was awake?
I remembered the nurse's threat with the needle, and I felt that every bite on this trolley might be the price I would pay for the dignity I had squandered before them.
In my eyes, the caviar began to look like snake eggs, and the delicious scent of meat turned in my nostrils into the smell of treachery.
I surrendered to the call of my intestines, which had become louder than the voice of my fears, and I said to myself with bitter sarcasm:
"Julie... at least you will die full, and it will be a quick and painless death compared to what they might do to you while you are alive."
I rushed toward the trolley and began to devour the fried eggs and grilled meat with the greed of someone lost in the desert.
Then I reached that golden tin; I took a spoonful of caviar and put it in my mouth with anticipation, but as soon as it touched my tongue with its salty and strange taste, I spat it out immediately with disgust! Damn them and their taste... how do they eat this disgusting thing? It tasted worse than the smell of disinfectants in that clinic.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and felt a strange strength flowing through my body; a strength born of satiety, and from the fact that I was still breathing despite all those dark suspicions.
I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling as if my stomach would burst from how much I had eaten. The minutes passed slowly, and nothing happened; no cramps, no nausea, and no quick death as I had wished.
It seems I have started imagining many things since I entered this cursed place, to the point where I have begun to see poison in honey and treachery in every dish.
I looked at the wreckage of the room around me, and at the caviar I had spat on the ground, and felt the insignificance of all this extravagance in the face of the feeling of siege that suffocates me.
My eyes became fixed on that pink dress lying amidst the wreckage, and the wall of time collapsed.
I found myself a child of eight, standing amidst the noise of a school party, with all eyes directed toward the strawberry cake stain that marred my dress.
At that moment, I did not see the laughing faces of my classmates, but rather my father's stern face as he waved his finger warningly:
"Don't you dare stain it, I will return it to the store as soon as you are finished."
From the sheer terror that froze the blood in my veins, I felt that warm and humiliating wetness seeping down my legs; my body had betrayed me and I had urinated on myself in front of everyone.
Teacher Silva came over crying out with concern:
"Julie... what is wrong, dear?",
but I did not answer; the words were stuck in my throat like piercing thorns. I knew for certain that I would not return home in peace, and that my father would kill me because I had ruined the "trust."
I saw my father "Stuart Michael" storming into the hall; he was smiling at Teacher Silva with a fake smile dripping with hypocrisy, while his eyes, when they met mine, burned with a fire that would consume me later.
He gritted his teeth as he whispered with perfect acting:
"Come on, Julie dear... let's go home."
Teacher Silva stopped him with concern as she stroked my hand:
"Mr. Michael, Julie is not well, she just urinated on herself and this has never happened before!"
He didn't even blink; instead, he pulled my hand with a force that hurt my small wrist and said coldly:
"Just nerves from the party, I'll take her to change her clothes."
At that moment, my feet were moving backward; I wished the earth would swallow me and I wouldn't get into that car with him.
As soon as the car door closed on us, the mask of the affectionate father vanished, and the lurking wolf within him appeared; he screamed in my face as he pulled my hair:
"You bitch! You stained it and urinated on it too? Today I will hold you accountable for every cent you ruined!"
In that moment, I wished I had died before we reached that house.
As soon as the car stopped in front of the house, my father did not wait for me to step out; he opened the door and pulled me by my hand with a force that made my scream choke in my chest.
He pushed me inside violently and I fell onto the hard floor, and while I was trying to catch my breath, I heard that terrifying sound... the screech of the door as it was locked firmly behind us, and the sound of the bolt that announced the end of the outside world.
My father stood before me like an angry demon, and with a monotonous and terrifying movement, he began to pull his leather belt from his waist. I looked at the belt in shock; this belt had always been Steve's portion alone, it was his inheritance of pain and fear, and now... I realized with bitterness that I would share this cursed inheritance with him.
The air in the room was growing heavy, and the trembling of my body was no longer from the cold, but from the sound of the footsteps approaching me to announce the beginning of the torture session.
My father raised the belt high, and the screech of the leather as it stretched in the air produced a terrifying ring that froze the blood in my veins.
I closed my eyes tightly, curled up on myself, and waited for the blow that would tear my back... but it did not come. The belt struck the floor with a force that shook my very being, so I opened my eyes to find my father panting with rage, his eyes sparking fire as he whispered in a disgusting tone:
"Pray to God that you are a girl, and that I cannot disfigure your body!"
I did not understand his words then; I wondered with childhood innocence: What is the difference between me and Steve? Do we not possess the same skin that feels pain?
But I realize now, in the middle of this luxurious palace, that I was not his daughter; I was his investment, and he feared its price would drop because of a (scar).
At that moment, Steve entered the house. My eyes met his while I was lying on the floor, and I saw terror etched on his face.
My father did not give him a chance to understand; he pulled him by his hair violently as if uprooting a tree, picked up the belt from the floor, and began to pour the brunt of his anger onto Steve's thin body.
He was striking him with all the strength he possessed, as if Steve were the scapegoat who must pay the price for my stained dress, and the price for being a male who brings in no money when sold.
Steve's screams were piercing my ears and settling in my heart like poisoned daggers.
The pain agonizing me was not just because of him, but because of that lethal feeling that I was the guilty one, I was the one who caused this hell for him. My mind was screaming a question with no answer:
"Why him and not me?!"
I no longer cared about my terror; I stood on my trembling feet and rushed toward my father, clinging to his trousers with all the childhood strength I possessed. I screamed, tears choking my voice:
"Enough! Hit him—he is not to blame... hit me! I am the one who ruined the dress!"
But my screaming was lost in the air; my father did not hear me; he was like a madman, like a beast that had finally found its prey.
Steve's thunderous screams swallowed my pleas, and the rhythmic strikes of the belt composed a tempo for death in that room, while I stood helpless, realizing for the first time that silence is sometimes more merciful than the voice of truth.