Page 147 of Forbidden
The woman crosses her arms. She knows how many models I bedded. Also, how many celebs and heiresses.
I know there’s a good chance she will tell me to go, and never come back. I will then lose the only mother figure I’ve ever had, or will ever have.
If I screw this up, and lose Martha and Storm, I may as well kill myself.
I gulp, as I plan my words. After a hundred board-type meetings where I commanded men, and women, lawyers, and bankers with ease, this here, is making me sick.
“Look, I know she is upset… ”
“Devastated, Lorenzo. You’ve broken the young girl!”
“I know, I know,” I say as I pace. “But it’s not as clean cut as that.”
“It never is.”
I don’t want to explain how crazy it got with the French woman trying to blow me. Martha is a conservative, sweet, woman, and she should never hear the details.
“Well?” shakes me out of it.
I don’t know what to say, so I pace to hack my mind. “Look, all I know is, I’ve never felt this way. I don’t want to live without her, and there’ll never be another.”
I look out the kitchen window. I can’t look into Martha’s eyes. The field in the distance is wide, and open, and I see horses graze.
A tear starts down a cheek, and I let it fall.
Suddenly, the foster trauma floods back. It starts with the ruthless cigarette burn torture. The days of being tied up. The humiliation. The days, and days of being burnt. The laughing at me. The drug taking behind me. The endless tears. And me… the center of entertainment.
And all while my skin burnt, and melted.
And the thousands of times, I tried to work out, why my real parents never wanted me.
All the times I was strapped or beaten in other foster care homes.
All the times I cried myself to sleep.
All the times I slept hungry.
All the times I ran from homes.
And later, all the times I hid hungry on the streets of NYC, like a dog.
As I wipe the salty tears from my face, I sniff, embarrassed. I should be stronger than this. Maybe I’m just weak, useless, and no good to anyone.
As the tears stream down both cheeks, I give up caring. What is the fucking point?
And why not tell her, now.
Just after I give up hope, I feel a soft, warm, body against my back. It is soft, and caring. Arms wrap around my stomach, and they hold me from behind. I’ve never been held so softly, and gently, and slowly I turn.
I hold the woman in her cardigan, and I let go. I don’t understand what’s happening, and maybe, just maybe, I want to be loved.
By someone.
For the first time in my life.
I’ve never hurt anyone in my life, and I don’t understand. It’s not supposed to be this hard.
No one should have to have a tattoo made, to cover cigarette burns and torture. The intricate dragon carved into my back was not done by choice.
