My Enemy’s Daughter

AMÉLIA LEAL

I swallow back a sob, trying to control my sobs, ashamed of my state. I don’t know what came over me, this man seems to soften me up like butter.

“Excuse me.” I mutter under my breath, escaping his grip.

With the back of my hand, I wipe away the tears, turning onto my side to escape his watchful gaze. He doesn’t say anything or move as I wipe the water from my eyes.

“You can go now.” I stare at the expressive face, clasping my hands in front of my body, trying to hide the embarrassment creeping through my body.

A smug smile forms at the corner of his lips and the dark irises gleam in defiance, making it clear he won’t let this go unnoticed.

“You know where to find me.” He assures, walking towards the exit. I clench my fists against my sides. Does this bastard think I’ll ever come looking for him? Did he really just imply that I’m going after him?

Never.

“Don’t come back here anymore.” I complain, irritated by his insinuation.

He doesn’t turn to me, but I imagine he’s smiling, being the pretentious one he is.

After a while looking at the door he left through, I compose myself, correct my posture and return to the children. I keep postponing my return home as long as possible, not expecting to meet any blood relatives.

“Lunch.” Dieguinho says, making me check the clock on my cell phone, concluding that he’s right.

What a sync! The children crowd into the big kitchen, sitting by age on the long shared benches, my two little ones sitting together, behaving like two little angels. My heart fills with love with the image, thinking about how many times I wanted to have something like this with Aurora, the complicity and care that one sister should have for the other.

Sigh, frustrated.

I decline the other volunteers’ invitation to lunch the instant I feel my phone vibrate.

“Where are you, young lady?”

Mommy.

I put the phone in my pocket without answering it, feeling it vibrate three more times before it stops.

I don’t want to talk to anyone, that includes her.

I leave the house, saying goodbye to everyone while they are still having lunch, once again declining the invitation to join them. I didn’t expect to see Henrico Zattani today. I feel lost and incomplete in so many ways I just want to forget which family I belong to. Simply forgetting good manners, beautiful dresses and appointments that I never feel like going to, but I want more than anything to forget the weight that the Leal surname carries. It may seem exaggerated or selfish, after all my parents work to give me a good life, but I never asked for any of that.

I skip the taxi and walk through the neighborhood where I should have grown up, not knowing where I’m going. I press my lips together, seeing the bar half a mile away, remembering the feeling I felt the night of my birthday.

The warm liquid trickling down my throat and heating in my veins…

Maybe I just need a little bit of it.

I smile, thinking once more of the figure of the man. Henrico believes that I have some influence in my family, so he chose me.

The weakest link.

I burst out laughing, nearly doubling over with laughter, gaining the attention of everyone on the street.

The only one who cares about me is currently focused on more relevant issues in the political arena. Well, I’m an adult, after all. Who needs them?

I enter the rustic room, encountering strange figures, the kind of people I would never meet at Dad’s parties. No, these people seem more interesting. With firm steps, I make my way to the small balcony, fully aware that I am being watched by prying eyes. A tall man, perhaps the tallest I’ve ever seen, stares at me with a raised eyebrow. I force saliva down my throat, unnerved by his inspection.

He probably thinks I’m lost, and this place isn’t for me.

“What will you want?” he asks, letting a small smile play at the corner of his mouth, showing a surprising dimple.

I meditated, undecided if it was really a good idea to come here. Most of the customers are men, some with beards and plaid jackets, looking like truck drivers. “I don’t know.” I decide to say.

He shakes his head, turning to grab something from his locker. I’d like to take this opportunity to do a quick check on you. He doesn’t have any visible tattoos, nothing that makes him look like a bad boy, other than the piercing in his lower lip.

“Here.” A small glass of clear liquid is placed in front of me.

“What is it?” I ask suspiciously.

The man looks at me in amusement, holding back a smile. “Gin of the finest quality.”

I frown, picking up the glass and bringing it to my nose, breathing in the smell of liquor.

It’s not that strong. I make a move to bring the drink to my mouth, but I’m intercepted by his hand on my wrist, preventing the drink from reaching my lips. Confused eye.

“Identity.” he says, sounding like it makes perfect sense.

Snort.

What’s his problem? The drink is already in my fucking hand.

“I am eighteen years old.”

I say, waiting for him to release me, but instead the drink is taken from my hand and placed back on the bar.

“Identity.” repeat.

Without wanting to prolong the situation any longer, I take the small bag I brought from home and remove the document, handing it to her.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

“Thanks.” I whisper, taking back my ID and the glass in my hands, without wasting any more time, I swallow the liquid in my mouth, feeling the drink burn as it goes down.

Argh!

“Other.” I ask, placing the glass back on the counter, enjoying the bitter taste that gets lost on my tongue.

He looks at me puzzled, his eyes wandering between the glass and me, in disbelief at what I’ve just done.

He is not weak!

He picks up his glass and refills me, no longer seeming to find it amusing. We do the same procedure at least five more times before he gets tired and leaves the bottle beside me.

Excellent!

Within minutes, the bottle is empty and my vision blurred, but the whole world looks infinitely better now. All I feel is a great desire to live and smile. I reach over to get some more gin, but Billy, the man who was serving me who I found to be twenty’eight years old and married is quicker and takes the bottle from my grasp, earning a barrage of protests from me.

“He arrives!” Say, authoritative.

“Don’t be a boring.” I grumble, pouting. “Just a little bit more.”

He looks at me seriously, pushing the glass away from me along with all the drinks nearby.

“No. Go home!”

I click my tongue, raising my middle finger at him as I continue to lie on the cool wood of the bar.

“Fuck girl! You’re trouble, give me your number. I’ll call someone to pick you up.”

Without moving the spy out of the corner of my eye, picking up my phone, cursing under my breath as I realize I have a password, I tell him the numbers needed to unlock the screen and close my eyes, feeling my eyelids heave with drowsiness.

“Tell me a number.” he demands, making my head throb at the booming sound of his voice.

I think about what number to call him, remembering Mom’s advice to never drink to the point where you can’t make it home. Shame and guilt wash over me, dismissing her at first. My father is not an option either.

Aurora wouldn’t even bother.

And I don’t want Peter to see me like that, so I can only think of one person.