Saving Ella (2 page)
My mother was
blinded by her love for Marcus, or more appropriately, her love for Marcus’ money. Marcus kept her well dressed in Prada and Gucci, sent her on exotic vacations with her friends, paid for her new boobs, full lips and Brazilian wax. Mother barely noticed my desperate acts of self-harm and self-loathing. If she noticed Marcus’ violence towards me, she either didn’t care or was too afraid to say anything. Her eyes were indifferent and unconcerned, blinded and Marcus was a damn good sweet talker. My life had become some sort of sick, twisted game and the winner would be the best player. Marcus playing the part of an anxious concerned parent and I playing the part of an indifferent and sullen teenager. He and I were the only players in this game and for a while, he had defeated me. I was ready to give up and he would have won. That was a moment of true clarity for me. If my life was to be a game, then I’d be damned if I would let Marcus Fairmont win! He played my mother like a finely tuned instrument in the hands of a musical genius. His brow would furrow with appropriate worry when my name was bought up. He threw thousands of dollars at Dr. Fuckwad Theo who was supposed to ‘fix’ me. Dr. Fuckwad was exactly as his name suggested and knew Marcus had no intention of seeing me overcome my so called ‘problems’, he knew Marcus would continue to try and break me, and he didn’t care. He was handsomely paid to play a small part in this game. God how I wished I could hate my mother for bringing this into our lives. God knows I tried too, but hate was perhaps too strong a word for my mother. Disappointment was definitely something that came to mind.
After I
turned sixteen, I decided to run. This was the only time I fought for my freedom and tried to escape the abuse my body had become far too accustomed to. In the middle of the night I packed a bag and left, sneaking out like a thief into the night. Henry, my drug dealer slash boyfriend slash only friend gave me a ride and helped me put five-hundred and twenty-six miles of beautiful bitumen between my step-father and I. Henry knew what went down with Marcus and I, he knew the bruises went further than skin deep and in his own sick twisted way he did what he could to spare me that pain. He gave me the blissful escape of drugs, alcohol and sex…he helped me escape. Three days after my escape, fucking Tom Brennan, Marcus’s right hand man and coincidentally local law enforcement found us at a motel. Henry just stood there and watched him drag me away. Henry wasn’t prepared to go to jail for me and though I understood why, it pissed me off. Tom delivered me back to Marcus, hand delivered right to his door like a fucking gift wrapped present. Instead of beating me Marcus’ cruelty found a new low. Marcus offered me a glass of scotch and yeah, I found that strange, but being completely naive I drank it. To this day I don’t know what he put in the liquor but it rendered my body completely useless. Through a hazy memory I can still recall what happened and how I felt, my limbs non-responsive as he knelt by my side, his eyes filled with vulgar, unspeakable hate. He whispered in my ear, his breath hot and laced with alcohol.
“I could fuck you right now so easily Ella. That’s what you want isn’t it? To be fucked by a man rather than a boy? That’s why you’re whoring your way through this to
wn isn’t it? I’m not going to give you what you want Ella. You’re too fucking ugly, too thin and bony, too shallow and empty. A real man doesn’t want this; a real man would never want a whore like you, but I am going to show you just how in control of this body I truly am.” Then I noticed the knife. Surprisingly it wasn’t very big, but fuck was it sharp. “You like to cut yourself, mark your skin? I’m going to leave my own mark on you Ella, and every time you look at it you will think of me and how I own you. I control you Ella.”
One deep
slice across each wrist which hurt like a bitch at first, but quickly became a numb throbbing sensation as my blood pumped from my body. I thought I was going to die and I clearly remember smiling. I was going to see daddy again, then the darkness pulled me under. I woke in a room where bright unmerciful lights glared down on me from the ceiling while doctors and nurses hovered over my bed. The looks on their faces as my bleary eyes took them in was heart wrenching pity. Everyone looked at me with pity now. Poor little Ella whose daddy died and now she’s all rich and has everything and hates it. Poor little whoring, drug addicted Ella tried to kill herself. Teachers, friends, parents, doctors, they all looked at me the same. I felt like screaming, like bellowing till my throat was raw and stripped of the inequity of being accused of such a thing. Whore, yes. Drug addict? Perhaps. Self-harmer? Uh-huh. But killing myself? Slitting my wrists and letting my life simply drain from my body? Fuck no.
Marcus’ clear psychosis meant it was
time for a new tactic and I obediently heeled. It felt like giving in and that pissed me off, but I wasn’t really giving in. I was surviving. I did what I had to do to stay safe. Bide my time until I reached that golden mark, eighteen. Then I was free to leave, they couldn’t force me to stay, they couldn’t pay me enough to stay. Lately though I found myself wondering if I would reach that mile stone only a short week away. Even though Marcus’ violence had lately lost its sting, the way he looked at me now filled me with a new fear. I had finally begun to develop a woman’s body. Over the last year my small, spindly form had developed the curves I once yearned for. Now Marcus’s eyes watched me with sickening lust, and I thought I had just maybe, finally reached breaking point.
My hand instinctively danced across the blank page before me, leaving elegant charcoal lines in its wake. Sketching came naturally. It was a talent my daddy had discovered I had when I was nine and he found me sketching a portrait of our dog Twisty with Crayola crayons. Apparently it was amazing and I truly loved doing it. Art was where my mind was free to escape; it actually felt as though I was no longer in my own body, I could be somewhere else, anywhere else. Free. Within a few long lines and some simple shading, a face took shape. Beautiful and graceful, the picture of Mrs. Flannery was for my art teacher Mr. Flannery. He had given me the photo last week, asking me if I would mind sketching a charcoal of his wife, a gift for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. He was actually going to pay me for it, my first commission. A light tap on my door broke my concentration. I knew it was mother, Marcus never knocked.
“Yes,” I said in a low irritated voice, my thoughts wishing her away. Our relationship was splintered and delicate, in fact, it was probably more appropriate to say we didn’t have a relationship, more an acquaintance. The door pushed open and my mother entered. She was elegantly dressed in a tight fitting dress, heels that were much too high, her hair styled into an artful twist at the back of her head. She was pretty my mom, high cheek bones, sharp green eyes and blonde hair that she paid a fortune for. That was the problem though; my mom was an expensively manufactured lie, attractive on the outside but bland and ugly on the inside.
“Ella, I’m leaving now. Marcus is in the den, could you grab his dinner from the oven? It will be ready in fifteen minutes.” I felt her watching me expectantly; my eyes though never left the page before me.
“Where are you going?” I finally asked. However disillusioned I was with my mother, I still hated it when she was gone. I absolutely hated being alone with Marcus.
“I’m having dinner with Kate, then a movie after. I will be home late.” I still refused to meet her gaze.
“After I’ve fixed Marcus’ dinner, could I slip down to the mall?” Mother immediately went for her purse, she had no problem throwing money at me for shopping, hell she encouraged it. It was her favorite past time after all. I didn’t spend her money the way she would have preferred me too though. Jeans, sweaters and sneakers were the extent of my wardrobe; I didn’t own a single dress or skirt. Art supplies were a must too. Sketch books, canvases, charcoal, sometimes I indulged with paint, though charcoal was my favorite medium. But as long as I was shopping, mother was satisfied.
“I don’t think that will be a problem, but check with Marcus before you leave. Here,” she handed me a credit card.
“You remember the PIN?” I nodded. It was a card that accessed money from her personal account. Marcus kept a close watch on their spendings, but somehow mother still managed to keep a little tucked away to accommodate her outrageous shopping demands. She knew Marcus didn’t like me spending
his
money. As I reached out to take the card, my sleeve slipped up revealing the ugly scar on my wrist. I knew the moment she spotted it, her lips drawing tight with disappointment. Surely the woman who had nurtured me in her womb, given birth to me, fed me, clothed me, surely my own
mother
would know better. I tugged down the cuff of my sleeve, gripping it tightly over the raised scar.
“Thank you,” I murmured trying desperately to hide the bitterness I felt. No, mother wouldn’t know better, because she preferred to live with her head in the sand, her tucked and nicked Victoria’s Secret draped ass in the air. No, I wouldn’t kill myself. I wouldn’t give Marcus that satisfaction.
“Don’t stay out long, you know how Marcus gets,” warned mother. I ignored her. If anyone around here truly knew how Marcus got it was me, she didn’t have a fucking clue. As she turned for the door, she glanced back over her shoulder. “It’s beautiful Ella, Mr. Flannery will love it.” I peeked up through my veil of dark hair. For a split second I thought I saw something in my mother’s eyes that I had never noticed before…pride. If it were there, it was gone already, hidden behind a heavily caked mask of makeup and indifference.
Once the door was shut again, I breathed out a sigh of relief, sliding the plastic card into my back pocket. Carefully I placed the sketch down and made for the adjoined bathroom to wash the charcoal from the tips of my fingers. Under the harsh white light of the small room I studied my reflection in the mirror. Marcus always told me I was a sad excuse for a girl, a worthless whore that only abject, drug addicted boys would dare fuck and right at this moment I had to admit I felt pitiful. My face was okay, I guess. My dark brown eyes hinted the distant Asian ancestry, a throw back on my daddy’s side. My hair was dead straight and parted perfectly down the center in a rich chestnut brown that apparently women paid top dollar for. My cheek bones were high, my nose slight and in proportion, my heart shaped lips full. If it weren’t for the sullen expression that had become my permanent trade mark look, I might have caught the attention of nice boys. Even though I hadn’t used drugs in two years I still looked like a beaten junkie. My skin was pale, too pale. The marks under my eyes so dark they looked like bruises. A bruise on my cheek had faded to an ugly yellow. A white scar about an inch long from where I hit the kitchen table after one of Marcus’
s
hefty blows marred the skin beside my right eye. I didn’t even bother to try and hide it under makeup anymore. I just pulled my hair forward like the protective cloak it had become, hiding my scar, the bruises and the misery. At least the other scars could be hidden under clothes. I might never wear a strapless dress or bathing suit, but that was a small price to pay for my life. One more week and I would be free. I was so close; the anticipation sent my heart into a tail spin.
With my hands now clean
I grabbed my favorite camo jacket and house keys from the dresser. With a deep resounding sigh, I left my room. The house was quiet, it was always quiet. Not like our old home, before Marcus. That house was small and noisy. The floor boards creaked, the doors groaned, the faucets spluttered and I loved it. Marcus’ home was enormous, perfectly orderly and perfectly silent. In the kitchen I quickly pulled the chicken mignon out of the oven and dished a plate for Marcus. Pouring a glass of his favorite red I made sure the table was neat and presentable before heading for his den. At the closed door I stood a moment, the low dulcet tones of an Italian operetta seeped through the heavy oak. My mind was screaming at me to leave. Just turn and walk away, screw waiting to be eighteen, I was close enough. But he had found me so easily last time. I shuddered at the memory of what had awaited me on my return. One more week, I’d made it this far. Shoulders back and head held high, I knocked.
“Come in.” No hesitation, his voice calm and confident as always. I pushed open the door. The room was subdued, the lights low. Hideous pictures of women in compromising positions decorated the walls. I hated them.
Photographic art my ass
. Marcus was a sadistic prick. The room stunk of cigars and it almost made me want to gag. The man himself sat at his desk, his fingers steepled under his chin. His perfect dark hair was cut as stylish as a model from GQ magazine, his suit jacket thrown over the back of a chair. As always his nondescript hazel eyes were cold and calculating as they leisurely examined my body. When Marcus first started dating my mother, for a split second I had considered him handsome, for an older man. Not anymore. I don’t think I had ever met or seen a more revolting human being.
“Dinner is ready, chicken mignon.” I quickly cut to the chase. Marcus frowned, clearly disturbed by something. Shit, what had I done now? He nodded in the direction of something over my shoulder. I glanced around.
Fuck.
Tom Brennan sat in the leather chase at the back of the room. He was still in his police uniform drinking a tall neck so I assumed he was not on duty. He was a tall, lean man with a nose too big for his narrow face. He reminded me of a bird, and not the pretty colorful kind. More like an ugly vulture. He made my skin crawl. Police should make you feel safe. Tom scared me almost as much as Marcus did.