Page 81 of Delivered to the Devil

My sister does everything she can to be the good sister she strives to be. She has transformed her husband’s home office into a guest room and provided me with a few clothes, toiletries, and a stack of books to get me started.

“Just let me know if you need anything,” she says as she shows me the room. “I’ve cleared three drawers for you.” She points at the tall dresser beside the desk. “You can put your things there once you get them.”

“I have no things coming,” I say tentatively and set the small teddy bear on the nightstand. It’s all I have—the green-eyed teddy, my phone, and the hospital clothes I came in.

My sister reaches for the bear, and I’m quick to snatch it back.

She looks confused, almost offended, and she can’t hold back her accusatory tone. “What happened, Rebecca? I’ve been worried sick.”

I get it. For several weeks before the knife incident, I ignored her calls and texts, feeling too broken to keep up the charade. Then suddenly, I’m hospitalized, and no one tells her anything. All she knows is what the doctor knows: that my body was covered in cuts and I was circling the drain when I arrived at the hospital.

Shaking my head, I look into the teddy’s innocent eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you for real?” Her pitch rises. “I’m letting you stay here, and you won’t even tell me what happened?”

Tears brim in my eyes, and a slight tremble settles in my bones. This is typical of my sister. She wants to do the right thing, and she does succeed on the outside, but always fails miserably on the inside. Her empathy is as wanting as our mother’s—at least toward most people. She showers little Sophie with all the love a child needs, but everyone else has to work hard to gain a little sympathy from her, and for the next two weeks, she keeps raining agitated questions down on me.

I end up telling her I was attacked and can’t remember much, but it’s hard to make up a convincing story when I’m face to face with her.

“Is it one of those men you sought out?” she says with a mix of outrage and horror painted across her taut features. “The ones who beat you?”

Cold ice slithers down my back as my every muscle contracts. I can’t even get an answer out; I just rush back to the guest room and curl up under the covers where I lie trembling for hours.

My sister’s words spread through me like a virus, festering in my body and mind. I’ve never felt sick for craving the warped things I like. Shame has eaten away at me for the way my body betrayed me at the hands of Gabor, but I never truly felt it was my own fault.

But now, things change.

My mind wanders back to the first time I saw Gabor. Our eyes only locked for a moment, but it was enough for Gabor to see the warped desires hidden deep within me. Even more so, the way I cast my eyes down revealed my submissive nature and stirred the beast inside him.

I wonder if things would have turned out differently if I had stopped the reaction and kept my eyes up. Then he might have lost interest and found another girl. Maybe I would still be strolling along the river, watching the old castle and the water. Maybe I’d even have found a nice Hungarian man, who would keep my romantic image of the city intact.

Or what if I had never even left Denmark in the first place—if I had let my parents get me the help I needed? Maybe I’d be cured and have found a way to be happy in the life I was living back then.

I force myself away from the poisonous line of thinking. Deep down, I know as well as I did back then that I’d never have found an ounce of happiness in that soulless existence. And If I hadn’t left, I’d never have met Janos, and if I hadn’t lowered my eyes, I wouldn’t have… the thought trails off as I remember what Janos told me—hewas the one who led Gabor to me.

Clutching the little teddy bear, I stare into its eyes like it holds all the answers.Would Janos have taken me for himself if our eyes had locked that day he saw me outside the restaurant?

My heart pounds so hard it hurts.

And what then? Would I have stirred his protective instincts so much he would keep me, or would he have discarded me after using me?

I don’t know, and I wouldn’t dare to find out even if I had the chance.

I’m not sure I’d change anything if I could.

The thought only makes me feel worse, and thus starts a cruel circle of self-deprecation.

I feel utterly broken, but at least I’m not so broken I can’t recognize that staying at my sister’s is bad for me, so I start looking for my own place.

Not even little Sophie, who I once adored, can make me feel anything but broken.

She often yanks at the hem of my blouse. “Auntie Rebecca, will you take me to the park?” she asks with a huge smile that has a black hole in the middle where a tooth is missing.

I used to love taking her to the park, and I do relent a few times, hoping it will spark some of the joy I experienced back then. But it doesn’t. I can no longer take part in her innocent games. I’ve seen too much to pretend the world is a happy and carefree place.

It’s not just our small trips to the park that are darkened by my shadow, though. It’s their whole happy little family. They never say it, but it’s all too clear. My sister is stressed and snaps more at her husband than I remember her ever doing, and even little Sophie gets a harsh reprimand she hasn’t deserved.

So I take the first best apartment I can get and leave after only two weeks. It’s a cheap and cramped studio—even smaller than the one I had in Budapest—six miles outside a sizable city.I could probably have gotten something bigger, but I want to be sure I can afford it for a while since I don’t know when I’ll be able to get a job.

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