Sold to the mafia

Katia

I can practically hear the clock ticking as I go about my daily routine. Tick. Tick. Tick. It’s a quarter past five and I’m running behind schedule. I’m usually on time, but I had difficult time sleeping last night, tossing and turning for most of the night. I frown at the memory as I pull on my faded wash jeans over my hips, and tug down my cozy red sweater.

I haven’t had a night that bad in a while. I cover my mouth with a yawn and try to ignore the unsettling feelings as I make my way to the bathroom sink. But I’m hoping it’s just a fluke. It is just a fluke. I won’t let things get back to the way they were.

Pushing the unpleasant memory away, I swipe on my favorite lipstick in a shade reminiscent of crushed rose petals, and smoosh my lips together. Then I peer critically at myself in the mirror. The quick ponytail I coax my hair into is going a long way to hide my disheveled blonde hair, but when you’re the owner of Paws Apartments, a doggy day care and shelter, your hair doesn’t need to be pretty. You just need to show up and be there.

I’ve found dogs only care about two things. Well, three. Food, exploration and companionship. I love it actually. Working and caring for these dogs fills me with purpose and gives my life meaning. It’s the one thing I look forward to every day. Just thinking about the excitement on their fuzzy little faces when I walk in to greet them warms my chest and brings a small smile to my lips as I reach for the small tube of thick concealer.

Another part of my routine.

My smile slowly vanishes as I run my fingertips along the scars littering my neck. No matter how much time passes, they barely seem to fade. It’s been four long years, but they’re still there, reminding me of a darker time in my life. As I stare at my neck in the mirror, a weight presses down on my chest, but after a moment I push it away in defiance.

I survived all that, I think to myself, dotting the concealer on my neck and right shoulder and then reaching for my foundation. And I’m stronger now.

He didn’t ruin me. I won’t let him hold any power over me anymore.

Straightening my back, I swallow thickly and square my shoulders as I delicately press the foundation onto my skin and smooth the concealer on the scars on my neck until they’re all gone. After I’m done with my face, I toss the foundation into the decorative velvet-lined box where I keep my makeup, the memories already fading. Coffee is the next thing on my agenda.

Tick, tick, tick. The small ticks echo in my head, reminding me how far I’m behind already. I grit my teeth. Crap.

I almost call out, “I’m coming, Roxy!” as I make my way to the kitchen, but then I catch myself, a feeling of sadness coursing through me. I take a deep breath and rub under my tired eyes. It’s a habit I have yet to break. I’m so used to Roxy being there every time I turn around that I still haven’t gotten over the fact that she’s gone.

Tears prick my eyes as my bare feet pad on the linoleum and I start the coffee maker. Two clicks, and it’s brewing. I should grab something to eat, but instead I find myself lost in thought as the sounds of the water heating fill the empty space. The quiet space. Quiet because she’s not here anymore.

Roxy, my Golden Retriever, was such a lovable dog. She was always there for me whenever I needed her. She was so happy. I swear dogs can smile, and she was always smiling. We were practically inseparable. And she didn’t give a rat’s ass that I had scars all over my back or that I was scared of things I couldn’t see, of dark memories that I desperately wanted to leave in the past.

She just loved me unconditionally and only wanted to comfort me. I clung to that love, fostering it. She was my therapy, and I came to depend on her for so much. I can’t count how many times I woke up out of a night terror, frightened out of my mind, only to find Roxy sitting right there, nuzzling against me and whining with true pain from worrying over me. Her calming presence would almost always soothe my anxiety. It’s times like last night, when I’d been plagued by a particularly dark terror, where I miss her the most.

It hurts so badly to think that she’s never going to lay with me in bed again. To think I can no longer hold her close and pet her with long strokes as I whisper, thank you into her thick fur. She’d done so much for me, more than anyone else has: loving me, healing me, that even if she were here now, I’d never be able to repay her for it.

I try to lean against the counter and my elbow knocks the plastic travel mug off the counter. I try to grab it but miss, the plastic hitting the tips of my fingers before falling onto the floor with a loud clatter. I wince from the loud noise and wait for it to settle before picking it up.

“I guess it’s just going to be one of those days,” I mutter out loud to myself, wiping at the tears in the corner of my eyes with the back of my hand. At least it’s not broken. I bend down, scooping the mug up and finally resting against the counter as the smell of coffee fills the room. Since Roxy’s death, some days have been harder than others, with me nearly overcome with emotion. Unfortunately, this was shaping up to be one of those days. I suppose that’s just how grief works.

It’s even worse considering Roxy was the first pet I’ve ever had, and that she was the only companionship I had when I first came back home. I pause as I pour cream and sugar into my coffee cup. Maybe it’s not right to call this place home. I’m still hours away from what used to be home. The small suburbs of New York will never be home again. I just can’t face the constant reminders. I feel guilty about distancing myself from my family and the life I used to have, but it’s for the better. It’s the only way I’ll find happiness after everything that happened.

I take a deep breath, setting the mug on the counter and inhaling the smell of fresh hot French vanilla coffee, doing everything I can to let go of the painful reminder. Losing Roxy was very difficult, but I can’t keep going on like this. I’ll always love her, but she wouldn’t want me living with this constant negativity. I just know in my heart she wouldn’t.

Closing my eyes, I take a small sip of the coffee and let the warmth fill me, comfort me. When I open them a moment later, they focus like a laser onto the clock on the microwave.

5:45

Shit, now I’m really running late. Sighing, I take another sip of my coffee, trying to relax. I’m only behind by fifteen minutes, but the dogs are there and waiting. I don’t want to disrupt our routine. They need it just as much as I do.

A low ding from my phone draws my eyes over to the kitchen table where my laptop is sitting open from the previous night, and I see my cell screen lit up on the edge of the lap top with a text. I let out a sigh and quickly grab it off the side of the table, hitting the keypad and waking the laptop to life. I don’t really have time for this, but I can’t not answer it. Before I can check my message, I see a notification pop up in the lower right corner on my laptop screen.

Darlinggirl86 has come online.

My phone dings again, but I ignore it as my last DM with Kiersten lights up with a message. I smile as I read what she’s typed.

Darlinggirl86: Smiling, I type a response while huffing out a small chuckle.

Katty93: It always makes me feel good to talk to Kiersten. I consider her to be one of my best friends, even though we’ve never met. I’ve never even seen her face. We’ve spent the last four years bonding over this support group message board, engaging in conversations about how messed up our lives were, sharing our dreams, hopes and aspirations. And most importantly, moving forward.

I wait for a response, but after almost a minute passes, I type in that I have to go. I really hate being late. I don’t like making the pups wait for me. I finally take a look at my phone and let out a heavy sigh when I see who it is. Mom.

Katia, I miss you honey! When are you going to come home?

Seeing the message gives me mixed emotions. I’m lucky to have my mother, to have a loving family. But they’re a part of my past I just can’t come to terms with. In this new city, with a new life, the past doesn’t matter. I can be anyone. But with them, I’ll always be Katia, their daughter who was taken for four years. And worse, when I look at them, I see how the years changed them.

Maybe it’s wrong of me, but when I think of her, I want to see the mother I knew. Seeing her reminds me of the time I was away. All the times I missed. When I last saw her, before they took me, she was happy, young and vibrant. That was over eight years ago.

I want to see her blonde hair that looks just like mine, not the silver shade that’s taken its place. Her gorgeous smile that I always envied, and blue eyes that sparkled with laughter. She tries, but the pain is still there. And it hurts me too much to see it.

When I was gone she never stopped looking for me, never once gave up on finding her precious daughter. I hate that I caused her so much stress, so much pain. Even if it wasn’t intentional, I still feel responsible. I still feel fucking guilty. I hate that she had to worry about me night after night, hoping, praying that she would one day find me alive.

But she couldn’t save me. No one could. I had to save myself.

And looking at her only reminds me of that.

I really can’t deal with this today, I think to myself, tearing my glassed-over eyes away from the screen and not bothering to look at the five other messages she’s sent.

I love my mother dearly. But it’s better this way. I don’t want her tainted any more by what happened to me. That’s not to say that I’m not better now. I’m a survivor.

I suck in a deep, trembling breath. I don’t want to tell her that I’m not coming home. I’m trying to get over everything. And despite my trepidation about dealing with my mother, I do want to see my family again. But I can’t right now. I’m just not ready. It’s been four years of recovery, only nine months out here on my own, and I know I’m a stronger, better person for it. Yet, deep down I still feel like I’m… not whole. I’m still healing. And that’s okay. But being away from home makes everything easier. It hurts me to admit it, but I just want to be alone.

Well not alone, alone.

My fingers find the dip of my throat as my heart pounds in my chest as I think back to my previous conversation with Kiersten before she abruptly logged off. I’d finally confessed what I’d been thinking for some time. Something that I knew I deeply wanted, but was afraid to admit; my need for a Master.

I shake my head at the memory, still not believing I admitted this, to me or to her. After everything I went through, how more fucked up in the head could I get?

Tick, tick, tick. Fuck, I need to get my shit together and get going.

My eyes stray back to my cell’s screen and I read my mother’s first text again, my heart feeling like it’s being tugged down by an anchor. I want to answer her and soothe her worry. I want to reassure her that I’ll be there soon. But deep down, I know that’s not enough.Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

Taking a deep breath, I let my fingers fly across the touch screen keys.

I love you mom. I promise I’ll come home soon.

I stare at the text for a moment, debating on whether I should delete it. I don’t want to make a promise I know I can’t keep. Yet at the same time, I don’t want to cause her any more pain or guilt. I want her to feel better, just like I want to feel better.

After what seems like an eternity, I close my eyes and hit send, hoping desperately that I don’t regret it.