Page 77 of The Dirty Saint

“I read your diary. I shouldn’t have. I didn’t have the right to, but it was open and I, I just wanted to know.” Guilt wraps around my mother’s throat, nearly choking her. “It was wrong ofme, and I know there isn’t any justification for my actions. It’s just that you’re mychild, and you’ve been through so much—most of which I know nothing about.”

“You don’t wanna know,” I say. “You think you do, but it won’t change anything. All it’ll do is lead you to places you don’t wish to go.Trustme.”

“Did you really feel like you weren’t cherished growing up?” My mother asks, changing the direction of the conversation. “Is that why you desired love from people who didn’t deserve it?”

Her question catches me off guard. I think about it for a moment before sitting down beside her.

It wasn’t necessarily love I was seeking. I just wanted to be…accepted, I guess. I wanted people to care for me the way I hoped they were capable of.

My whole life, I felt like there was something wrong with me. That there was a reason as to why I always felt alone. I had a big family, and you’d think that wasn’t possible, but everyone was preoccupied with their own lives and their own shit.

It wasn’t necessarily affection I was searching for. It was companionship. It was another presence that would be there for me when I needed someone.

Because at some point, I grew tired of simply only having myself.

The men I serviced; I knew they weren’t good for me. Ortome. But they were there, and they existed, and I became comfortable with that. I was already so used to the abuse, but this time it was…different. It wasn’t as predictable in the beginning, and I found that to be…oddly exciting.

“I need you to think long and hard about what you’re asking from me. You want details of the mostexcruciatingchapters in my life story. I just don’t know if you’re ready.”

Tears fill my mother’s eyes, and she brushes them away. “It doesn’t matter if I’m ready or not.”

“But it does,” I say. “Because what I’m about to tell you is not just upsetting or heartbreaking, it’shorrific.Like somesicknightmare you can’t ever forget.”

My mother grabs my hands in her own and kisses them gently. “Please, Ezra Evaline. I ambeggingyou. Ineedto know what that man did to my daughter.”

I yank my hands out of her grasp. She flinches, but I ignore her.

God, how am I supposed to do this?

I start by taking a deep breath.

“Before I learned it was Michael Santo who was in charge, I had spent my days living as a hostage. I wasn’t given much food or water. I was chained up and had to piss in a bucket. The second I would close my eyes, the door would open, and someone would come in ready to beat the shit out of me or rape me.

“Michael didn’t have sex with me until about a week after we had reunited. He barged in one night holding a gun, which was weird because he always used to talk about how much he hated weapons. Said they were unnecessary.

“You ever read the bookHaunting Adelineby H.D. Carlton? You should. It’s one of my favorites. Well, there’s a scene in which Zade, one of the main characters fucks the other main character, Addie, with his gun. It’s a pretty dark part of the book, but then again, the whole book is too. Anyway, that’s what Michael did to me. The only difference is the safety was off in case I didn’t pleasure him enough. Also, he had a knife pressed to my throat the whole time.

“But I think the worst thing he ever did, though, was threaten to take Noah away from me. He said that once he did and my actions were revealed, he was going to finish what he had started.”

I had to survive a lot when I was kidnapped, but I figured out early on how to play the cards in my favor. I learned that the best way to ease the pain of a broken bone was to sharpen a plastic knife on the wall and use it to pry open my own flesh. Just a little. That way, I wasn’t focused on my mangled bones.

But Noah was and will always be off limits. I made thatincrediblyclear. You want to torture me until the sun comes up and goes back down? Fine. You want to rape me into oblivion? I can cry about it when I’m alone. My son, on the other hand, will not get brought into my shit.

Tears are spilling down my mother’s cheeks. When she brushes them away, they come right back.

“Mom, say something,” I whisper.

She gazes up at me, shattered.

“He really did all of that to you?”

I nod.

“Yes.”

Her head falls into her hands. “No, God, please no,” she whimpers. “It can’t be true. Please, God, don’t make it true.”

I place my hand on the small of her back, rubbing it gently. She’s shaking, and it’s like I can feel her coming undone.

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