Page 58 of Cara
We both know that’s not true.
“Rosa, I don’t think this is the best time,” I hear him say.
“No, he needs to see her.”
The door swings back open, tiny feet pattering into the room. The moment I see my daughter, I lift my gaze and wipe my face of any resentment, rage, despair. I refuse to introduce her to pain this early in life. She throws her arms around the parts of me she can reach, perceptive enough to know something has happened.
“Daddy… okay?”
I nod, pressing my face into her hair. “I'm okay. Just tired.”
She places her plush giraffe in my lap, the one I got her from the zoo. The stuffing leaks in certain areas, and the lightspots are stained with food and dirt, but Rosa claims it’s her favorite. “George.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes, failing to hide them from her. Just breathing is difficult.
My gaze lifts to her mother. Caesar has his arm around her shoulders, comforting her as she looks at me, her eyes red-rimmed with longing.
“Come on, Bella,” Caesar says softly. “The car is waiting.”
“Love you, Daddy.”
My reply is barely audible. I don’t know if she hears it. “Love you, baby.”
She leaves the stuffed animal in my lap.
Their footsteps fade, voices soft as they file out of the manor as a group. Placing the giraffe on the bed, I leave the room, relieved to be free from their watchful gazes.
The grandfather clock chimes as it strikes midnight.
My feet guide me into the parlor.
My father’s eyes—his portrait—watch me from above the hearth.
All these years, I kept it there out of spite. To remind myself what I sank into the depths of hell to accomplish. But as his painted eyes fixate on mine, I feel as if I can hear his menacing laugh echoing throughout the space.
My stomach turns. I bound to the wall, seizing the frame. I tear it from the nails, letting it crash onto the carpet. The glass shatters into a million pieces at my feet, but it’s not enough. Possessed by an acute kind of torment, I have to break everything around me.
Break it as I have been broken.
Mangled.
Torn apart.
All for one woman.
My… wife.
I slam my hands against the desk, sliding them and throwingeverything on it onto the floor: the lamps, the phones, the safe, the heirlooms from my grandfather and his grandfather and beyond. I break it all with my bare hands, hearing myself choke on the words I cannot get out.
“No,” I breathe, glaring at the mahogany, unable to see it. “No, this can’t…”
This pain is indescribable.
All of this… these years… fornothing.
I shake my head, searching the room for something, a sign, a feeling. Her likeness surfaces in my mind, and I hum low, closing my eyes tightly in denial. My eyes, frantically lost, drift across the warpath I waged upon this room, catching sight of a picture in the rubble.
No.
