The Bride He couldn't break

ELODIE VALORE

“How is it with Zacaria? Is he still getting on dad’s skin?" I smile as I and Jazmin walk out of our classroom.

“Yes. He fought with a boy recently, but that was warranted. The idiot was bullying a girl. The girl ran to Zacaria. One thing led to another, and they fought. Mum was proud in this case, dad not so much” Jazmin explains, and I imagine tiny little Zacaria protecting a little girl.

My mind travels to mum and how much I want to grow up and protect her so much. Goosebumps grow on my skin as events at home flash in my head. My heart race increases, and I hold onto the book on my shoulder.

“You good?”Jazmin touches me and etches her face in concern. I fake a smile and nod, but we both know she doesn’t believe it.

“Dad?” she asks, and I am silent.

“Elodie” my little sister Priscilla runs to me like she does every day. I bend a bit and hug her. They always wait at the playground just by the high school block.

“Take” she hands me a stick sweet, and I take it from her.

“Thank you” I smile at her.

I look at my ten years old sister. Her black hair with strands of her natural white hair hanging out happens to be generic because we took it from mum. Her brown innocent eyes, which i try to protect from seeing vile images, but I fail woofly. I wonder if mum and dad tried for a male child because they gave birth to her after seven years of my birth. I can help but pity her, wondering why God didn’t stop her birth from happening, so she doesn’t have to witness what she has.

“There they are”Jazmin utters excitedly, and I look up at Zacaria, who is seven years old, and Aldo, a four years old cutie. Zacaria is always on a frown, but when he smiles, his smiles brighten one day. And my own little boy, Aldo, he is one chubby pumpkin who I always want to steal and keep at home, until I remember my home isn’t the safest for such innocence.

Yeah, I know what you are thinking, I am better than Jazmin. Her case is different. She had an elder brother who died from a hole in the heart when Jazmin and I were six years old, and her parents grieved for four years before they had Zacaria.

I squat and wave to the boys. Aldo runs into my arms, and I hug him tight. I gave him the sweet Priscilla gave to me earlier. He does a happy dance before jumping in excitement. My eyes meet Zacaria.

“Come here, you big head” I instruct, and he walks to me sluggishly.

I push his head before hugging him, “Fighting isn’t good. Don’t do that again, understood”

“He attacked her, and - “ his bright eyes look at me, and he looks away. He wraps his hands on my neck and hugs me. He does this. Whenever I scold him, he hugs me and silly me, I fall for it every time.

I hug him, “Silly Zac”

I smile and squeeze his tiny body. I squeeze him so tight he chuckles and tries to break free but can’t. I release him and ruffle his hair. He hits my hand off while laughing, and two of his deep dimples become visible.

“My driver is here” Jazmin nudges me. I hold Aldo’s and Priscilla's hand while Jazmin holds Zacaria’s hand.

That silly Zac keeps turning back and smiling at me. If I didn’t know Zacaria, I would have thought he adores me more than he does with anyone else. Maybe he does, I am just another big sister of his.

<<>>

As we approach my house, my heart races faster than it should, faster than it does every day. I turn my neck to my little sister, and she curls herself and how her little head. I can’t stop the fear or the dread. It is too late for that. I can only make sure the blows never reach her.

Zacaria holds Priscilla's hand, who smiles at her little crush. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he pushes her head away while whispering to her. He points at his laps. She rests her head on his lap, and I smile. I don’t blame Priscy for falling for a younger man when the best possible figure is a horrible example.

They parked right in front of our house. I help Priscy carry her lunch bag while we wave to the Malakar as their car drives home. I and Priscy I twirl to the house ready to face our harsh reality. I pull her to my right hand so I can protect her from whatever happens at my left hand side.

I twist the door knob and am welcome by mum’s horrendous screams. I close the door so her cry for help doesn’t leave the house. Dad is so intentional that he has our house noise proof, so no matter how many times we pleaded or cried for help, we never had any.

Mum is curled up on the ground, running around in circles like a dog chasing after her own tail. Dad in question squeezes his face like he planned on leaving a memory scar, something he does over something silly or unnecessary.

Priscy and I ignored it and walked down the hallways toward our room. Priscy’s eyes are closed while I squeeze onto her shoulder. This is a normal event in my wonderful household. I open Priscy’s room and gently push her in. I close her door and walk straight into my room just down the hall. I rest my back against the wall and take in deep breath. I look down at my trembling hands.

I walk to my high bed and fall on my back. I look at my lovely chandelier as the light radiates from it. How beautiful it is to shine so bright and so perfectly. I wish I would shine brighter than this, so bright and so high. Dad will never reach me.

I close my eyes and drift to sleep.

<<>>

I open my eyes and stand up. I take a shower and dress up. I leave my room for the kitchen. Dad does this. Whenever he beats mum, he leaves the house for a while like his short-lived conscience is chasing after him but never catches up to him. I stand by the door frame and rest my arms there. I stare at mum and wonder why she stayed trapped in like some generational heirloom.

This is how my granddad from both my parents' side beat and abused my grand mothers while they were younger. They inflicted so much fear that it became their new norm. They became so timid and broken. I fear I’d end up like her, sad and unloved.

I walk behind her and wrap my hands around her. She chuckles. Mum’s white strands of hair are on the two sides of her head while mine is on the right side of my head, the middle of my head and under my hair. The hair color is the only good thing that passed from generation to generation, that I’d hope to give my kids. Only the hair and nothing else.

“Elo”

“So Zacaria held Priscy’s hands, and she was all giggles and sunshine” I rest my back on the counter and stare at mum.

Dad makes sure to beat her on parts of her body that are never visible. What an intentional husband he is. Black scars from his whips are visible. The good thing about Mr. Valor is the fact that he doesn’t hit us the way he hits mum. Yes, the slaps and kicks us every now and then, but that is it.

“That little boy has my baby on a choke-hold” Mums smiles.

“Young love. You wouldn’t blame her, though. Zacaria is a protector and an adorable cutie. He has a charm to him” I shake my head as I picture them together.

“Sadly your dad would never approve of him”

“Why? Because he isn’t an abuser?” I murmur, and mum’s smile fades.

“No because he isn’t Italian like us”

“Spanish’s aren’t that bad. At least let our little princess be happy. Since neither you and I can”I murmur and mum turn her face to me.

“Italian or nothing, that has been like that for generations.” she reminds me like dad hasn’t drilled it into my head enough.

“We want our mum. Do you want us to suffer like y-”

“Stop it” Mum cautions me as she grits her teeth.

“Dad wants you to go out with Ignazio on an errand” The moment that names rolls down her lips, I roll my eyes in disgust.

“Errands that both of us can run individually. Plus, why such a dangerous name. Why didn’t his father think of lovely names like Bruno or Vincenzo or Dante? They went for a more bone gripping name” I complain, and mum laughs.

“Yeah, I agree Ignazio is a deadly name” she utters in between laughter, and I smile at her.

“Laughter suits you” I utter audibly.

“Wash the plates Priscy took to school and stop leaving her lunch bag in your room.” Mum kicks me playfully.

I wrap my hands around her from behind and peck her lips. I turn to the sink, and Priscy’s plates are washed. I held her tight and refused to let go.

Oh, how I love my mum.