Dyspnea

Stain zitta, troia, puoi portarmi! (shut up, bitch, you can take me!)

POW!, POW!...POW! That's the devastating sound the bed creates; the eerie creaking back and forth from the pure force he makes terrifies me. I feel as if I will break; it hurts; everything hurts. My body is numb, but my mind and sight are still alive. Why me? I only just turned sixteen. I haven't even had my first kiss yet, and that got stolen from me with my purity.

Dio, perché mi hai abbandonato? (God, why have you forsaken me?). As I endure this death sentence, a lone salted crystal descends from my emerald orbs. A sea of sweat bathes me. The heat encasing us is melded with the scent of alcohol and his cheap cologne. It is sickening to inhale. I wonder how much longer this will last because I cannot take any more. I am about to pass out from shock when this brute of a man finally detaches from me and breathlessly says.

"Dolce gattino mio, ti sei comportato così bene per papà." (my sweet little kitty, you behaved so well for daddy) - creepy Italian solid accent.

He swings his legs over the lice-infested, exposed mattress and gets up from the termite-bitten wooden bedframe that's barely holding my weight. I lay there eyeing the cracked, discoloured ceiling and daydream about the life I could be experiencing now if moi padre did not sell me off to pay his gambling debts. How many friends would I have made at school? Would boys my age be cute? Any reality would be better than this because I would have still maintained my innocence.

Death embodied returns to the scene of the crime; Baccara Brugmansia is the man that inflicts pain and suffering to my mind, body and soul. Unfortunately, this middle-aged man is not only my warden but, sadly, my newly wedded husband. He ruthlessly slaps me out of my thoughts, demanding why I have not cleaned myself after our 'lovemaking'. My head flies to the other side of the bed, and my speech comes out strained.

"fare l'amore!?"

I whisper yell. Thankfully, my voice is barely audible and unrecognisable because I cannot live through another violent spree. I am confused as to why he used the word lovemaking; is he truly that delusional? That was far from lovemaking. That was a massacre, a fucking genocide. Rest in peace to the versions of me who were sacrificed. I am trapped in my subconscious once more when I hear his words break through the maze that is my mind.

"Guarda quanto sei sporca, troia, ti piace che la mia figa sia sporca!!" (look how dirty you are, slut, you like my pussy to be dirty!!)

I struggle to direct my head towards the bloodbath between my legs, knowing what lies beneath. I muster up the tiny amount of courage I somehow have and stare. Moments pass by; unshed tears swell in my sore eyes because all I want is to die. The dark crimson blood spots scattered across the white bedsheets make everything too real. This is actually my existence, being beaten with an inch of my life and abused as if I were a wild animal.

This is my death day, the winter of 1993, in the town of Campania in Italy; it's the day I lost my sanity.

Two years have flown by, but the pain is never-ending from when I was a young girl with no troubles to call mine. The summer breeze whisks away the echo of my childhood whilst the sun's rays play with my golden locks and warm my olive skin. I find peace in the birds singing their morning song as I prepare breakfast in this shabby kitchen and allow myself to forget. Forget who I am and who I am with, but it is childish thinking. The luxury of serenity is cut short when Baccara Brugmansia, my husband, returns from work.

Surprisingly, Baccara is in a great mood. He is happy, but why? This rare emotion is shown in the way he gently kisses my temple and stoops down to the nape of my neck, where he continues his assault. He rests his defined jaw on my exposed shoulder while caressing my wavy hair. These loving actions are foreign to me, so I cannot help but become stiff, expecting a blow to my skull.

We stay in that position for some time. I cautiously allow myself to relax in his hold, never knowing when he will touch me like this again, engraining the memory in my mind.

"Amore mio."

He calls me sweetly, but I cannot stop my body's reaction from stiffening. Fear cages me. I do not understand why he called me my love; he never, and I mean never, referred to me as that. It is usually slut, bitch or some patronising remark, so if he is calling me my love, it must be excellent news. Baccara does not notice my change in body language. Instead, he turns me around to be face-to-face with him, and unexpectedly, I am being kissed by the same beast that physically violated me. Bile forms in my throat, but I swallow it down. He pulls back, grinning from ear to ear, and says.

"Preparate le valigie ci transferiamo in Toscana." (pack your bags we're moving to Tuscany)

I enter the run-down Fiat Punto and settle in the small vehicle. I wait for Baccara to adjust himself in the driver's seat. He started the tried engine, and we set off to Tuscany. During the five-hour drive, Baccara explains how he inherited his bereaved uncle's vineyard and additional properties, but that's not where his sudden excitement stems from; it is the fact that Baccara's uncle stated in his will that my husband would be solely in charge of a profitable wine company called Sapore di Paradiso—Taste of Heaven.

As he pulled into the large estate, I am amazed by how gorgeous the house is. Baccara parks the car quickly and sprints to the mansion, not bothering to escort me inside. Using my body weight to pry open the heavy car door, I soak in the refreshing Tuscan country air, and I exhale; I ascend the marble steps and enter through the slit of the grand Fargo wooden doors. I am rendered speechless at the view in front of me. There is so much open space. Gold and carefully placed pastel colours are feathered around the house, creating a welcoming atmosphere for all. But the ceiling in the entry is my favourite; it is a masterpiece that depicts the birth of Venus.

My husband running down the white-marbled stairs like a child in a candy store sickens me. He stands right before me and says, without skipping a beat.

"La nostra vita inizia ora amore mio" (our life beings now my love)

He gives me a bone-crashing hug, picks me up bridal style and ascends the white marble steps once more, guiding us to the master bedroom where he lays me gently on the bed and seductively says.

"Amore mio, creiamo una famiglia" (my love, let's start a family)

He plants sensual kisses on the nape of my neck down to my lower abdomen; his kindness takes me aback because, typically, he is more forceful when having sexual relations, not giving. An hour has gone by, and I can weirdly confess that I enjoyed the act for the first time. When he released inside me, I even astonishingly moaned his name more than once. Baccara comes back with a towel to clean me up. I shot up, stopping his movement with my hand; instead, I vocalised my confusion in a mousey voice.

"Cosa stai facendo? Non ti preoccupi mai di me in nessun modo." (What are you doing? You never care about me in any way)

We look at each other eyes. I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of regret in his vantablack pupils. His mouth opens and closes, clearly finding it difficult to express his emotions with his head hung low. One word escapes his mouth.

"Scusa."

Stunned by his apology, all I do is gape. The shock soon subsides, and I become silent, not returning one care word to him. At that moment, I made up my mind that I would never forgive Baccara Brugmasia in this life or the next. I greatly despise this man; the torment he forced me to endure has been cemented. I will bear his offspring, hide my hate and display insincere love, equally using and abusing him as he did to me for years. My performance begins in 3...2...1 action.

I plaster a phoney smile and kiss him with the love he thinks I harbour for him. Men are sad, weak, pathetic puppets that can easily be controlled by one kiss. The naive girl is gone. Now, I rise like a phoenix from ashes, claiming my womanhood.

It is a day before I turn 18, and I constantly feel unwell. I busy myself with household chores but stopped halfway due to nausea. An extreme feeling of fatigue drowns me. My eyelids are weighty, and I can barely walk, so I lay on the couch downstairs and drifted into a deep slumber. When I woke, it was my birthday, and the 24th of December had finally arrived.

Through the window, I witness snow falling from the foggy sky above while I sip green tea and snuggle further in my warm, cosy blanket, but the nauseous feeling from yesterday has not left me. I lap off the couch and beeline to the bathroom, where I throw up my breakfast. As I kneeled over the toilet seat, heaving rapidly, a thought crossed my mind. Could I be pregnant? Immediately, I anxiously look for the pregnancy test I stowed away a week in advance due to a missed period. I sit impatiently in the lavatory, bouncing my knee continuously as I wait for the results. I hear the front door shut and already know who it is. Baccara Brugmansia is back from working in the fields.

I announce that I am in the lavatory; he comes right outside the door, his presence apparent by the snow-covered boots he sports as it enters my field of vision. He explained his day to me as if I had asked, but there is a pause, now inquiring why I was taking so long in the bathroom. I contemplate whether to speak the truth or not. I go with the ladder. With the door dividing us, I confidently tell him I am pregnant. All I hear is the dripping of the copper faucet, then bang.

BANG!BANG!BANG!

The door shakes. Baccara demands the door be opened, and I obey him without hesitation. He grips my tiny waist and spins me around until I am dizzy. When he is done with his child-like antics, I am placed back down on the ground, and he kisses the top of my head with so much love that I almost feel bad that my heart is iced.

It is the year 1996, and today, September 24th, my heart has thawed, beating to the pleasant tune of my baby's cries. Joining my slander fingers with his chubby knobs, tears of enjoyment spring from my emerald eyes as my expression are reflected in his glassy green orbs. I cannot contain my emotional turmoil, and I do not want to because today, my light is born, and he shall be known as Joseph Brugmansia.

I whisper in little Jo's ear, declaring that I will die and kill for him regardless of who the person is; little Jo belongs to me and no one else. My sweet baby, I pray you have a life full of love. We both sleep soundly, baby Jo against my skin and I on the hospital bed ensuite. The last thing I think about is his father and how I can get away with murdering him.