Page 18 of Delivered to the Devil

I felt free when they tied me up and whipped me until I screamed. But I never allowed it to go further than loose, impersonal connections confined to the clubs. I simply couldn’t risk my family finding out the nature of such a relationship if I were to bring such a man home. Hell would break loose.

It did anyway when my mother decided to snoop around on my laptop and found an open tab with a porn video of a staged rape. Two days later, the entire town knew how sick I was. First, my mom told my dad, who dragged me—a twenty-eight-year-old woman—to the local priest. Then she told her bible study group—an act she justified by saying she needed their support in such a difficult time.

Thus, my life became swamped in ridicule, disgust, and pitying looks.

I thought those last few weeks before I left would be the most humiliating time of my life.

How wrong was I?

Now, I dearly regret leaving, and I hate myself for that.

I want to reach my hand into the back of my childhood closet and take out my music box—feel the soft, purple velvet as I unwrap the glittering piece of glass that used to be a mirror in the lid. I would slide my finger from the smooth center to the unforgiving edge. I pull in a sharp breath as I remember the searing burn as I pressed it to my arm. Deep red blood would trickle forth around the glass and slide down my milky skin. It was beautiful, really—freeing.

But no matter how much I miss the feeling, I can’t make myself bang my hand on the counter or take out a knife. The recklessness, or maybe the courage, has faded over time. All I can do is return to bed and pull the comforter over my head, hoping everything will fade away.

***

Nothing fades away as I lie there, curled up under the silky soft covers.

Images and sensations come rushing in a frontal assault of deafening sounds and blinding neon colors. I can’t escape it. Icover my ears, squeeze my eyes shut, open my eyes, and scream into the pillow. Nothing helps.

The echo of my wails rings through my head, and the vision of Gabor forcing himself upon me is as vivid as if he was here. Shame burns in my chest when I remember my body betraying me, and I scream again, trying to expel the horrid memory.

Then I pace back and forth. Take a cold bath. A warm bath. Still no change. I feel like I’m about to lose my mind in this small place that keeps throwing horrible memories at me. So I slip into some clothes and hurry out the door, headed for the river.

Budapest has never failed to live up to the romantic dream of the postcard. At least not when I walk along the river. The people here can be cold and indifferent, the inner city dirty and hostile, but here by the water, I have always found the same sort of peace I felt when staring at the postcard picture after one of my mother’s cruel verbal castigations.

I stop a few hundred feet from the Chain Bridge to admire the construction. Long, sloping lines of iron chains connect the stone gates that rise tall and proud above the water.

A rush of excitement fills me as I step past the stone lions guarding the bridge and sense the blue depth beneath me. My breaths come a little faster and my hands quiver with anticipation as I stop in the middle of the bridge and lean over the rail to get a better look. The water is dark. It could easily swallow me up—drag me into its emptiness and let me flow around, calm and weightless.

I need to get closer, so I step onto the rail and lean out. My lips tip up in a hint of a smile for the first time in days as I stare into the enticing darkness. I’m so close. Just a little farther and I’ll trip and merge with the water.

A hand grabs my arm, pulling me onto solid concrete, and I realize I was leaning half my weight over the rail. I turn my head to stare into the outraged face of a middle-aged man.

“Do you have a death wish?” he says with an angry shake of his head.

I yank my arm free even though I should probably thank him, then continue down the bridge and back again.

I spend an hour trotting back and forth between Buda and Pest—the new and the old part of the capital, which combined give name to the city—until I have to go home and get ready for work. Though I’m not sure I still have a job. My absence yesterday might be reason enough for Izsák to fire me. He’d love to give me the boot. But then again, he’d hate to lose the opportunity of ridiculing me every day.

I’m at the restaurant fifteen minutes early, hoping showing up before time might do a bit of damage control, but Izsák’s angry scowl tells me nothing can make up for my absence. He’s at the bar, his dingy cap backward, crooking an angry finger at me.

“Where the hell were you last night?” he snarls as he backs me into a secluded corner.

“I’m sorry. I was sick.” I try to keep my voice even, but I can’t hide the slight tremor.

“So sick you couldn’t pick up your phone and fucking call?”

“I lost my phone.” It’s not even a lie. My phone was in the plastic tray with my laptop, passport, and money, and I’m sure I’ll never see any of it again.

“You Westerners have so many goddamn excuses.” He looks me up and down with scornful eyes. “You better be on your absolute best, or you’re done here.” He practically spits the words into my face as he points at the exit.

I’m far from at my best during the day. My limbs are weak, my mind the same, and when my stomach starts growling, I realize I haven’t eaten all day. It takes everything to hold myself up until my break five hours later. Whenever I walk past amirror, I shudder at my reflection. I look as hollow as I feel—pale and tired, lifeless eyes and slumped shoulders.

As if my weary state isn’t bad enough, my injured hand gives me trouble. I try to do the dishes with one hand, but it takes twice as long, and Elek steps in, asking me to stir the food while he washes the pans. I give him a grateful yet discouraged smile.

“What’s going on with you, Rebecca?” he asks. “You’ve been looking tired for days. And what’s about that pepper spray?”

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