Page 2 of Ravaged
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five. Just yesterday you were my baby girl.” And to think, a mere seven years ago, he had sold me to the Dahlia District, claiming I would be safer locked inside of the club than I would be out in the real world. There was extensive security here, but what did Dad think he was protecting me from?
Let me make a correction: Dad had given my services to Dahlia, because Dahlia, and my father, didn’t believe in terminology that would link them to human trafficking.
But I knew better. Dad did too.
“This is delicious, by the way,” he said.
He slurped down the noodles, and I quietly boxed the rest for him in a take-away container, stealing it from another server’s supply. After I sat back down, he pushed his empty bowl towards me.
“Will you play for me?” he asked. The weak way he said those words got me every time. Usually, he asked after he got the money, as if it would somehow make it less painful if our last few moments were spent with music, our biggest connection beyond the financial one. He was being more roundabout than usual, then.
I put his bowl in the sink, eyeing the You use it, you wash it! above the faucet. Iris would give me a hard time if I left the bowl there, even for an hour, but she’d also understand. It was my dad. Like the club member had said, family came first. Even when it came to Greenhouse rules.
Dad followed me through the Greenhouse, past the dorm rooms and dressing room, out to the mostly-empty Dahlia District. Our footsteps echoed through the main floor. The restaurant portion was lit, dishes clattering from the kitchen, with a few club members still left at a long table, the club member from before sitting amongst them again. With the fluorescent ceiling lights on, the club always looked different during the daytime. More artificial. Less sacred. Like a suddenly sunny haunted house, seeing the hiding places where the creatures hid in the shadows.
We went up the stairs to the stage. I moved my lap harp and bench out of the wings and played All I Ask of You, Dad’s favorite. It was one of the first songs I had played in a real recital, back when I was still a young girl. When I dreamed of studying music in college, when I wasn’t even sure if there was such a school for that. When selling my body and charm for a profit that I gave to Dahlia and my dad wasn’t even a thought in my mind.
When the song ended, a tear was in his eye. Every. Damn. Time.
And still, even after what we had been through, I swelled with pride at seeing the emotion on his face. Even if I couldn’t move anyone else in the world with my music, I could still move Dad.
“Those music lessons really paid off,” he said, sniffling. There it was, his segway into asking for money. “I’m so glad I made you do those.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. Because it’s not like he was grooming me for slavery. He was simply nurturing my talent.
“Teagen, I—” he paused, grasping his hands together. The full name always started it. Not Tea, but Teagen. “I need a favor.”
“What’s going on?”
“There was a deal that went south for that antique vase I found. Remember, I told you?” By found, he meant stole. But I remembered. I nodded. “I need some money to get it repaired.”
Or, he owed money to some criminal for not finishing the agreement of actually obtaining the antique vase.
“How much?”
“Five thousand.”
I cringed. Though we could charge as much as we wanted per hour for one-on-one entertainment at the Dahlia District, a majority of it went to pay for our debts to Dahlia, including the cost of living on-site. In order to save money, I had to make up excuses for Dahlia about why I needed cash, then stuffed those extra bills inside of my mattress. Because I knew that Dad would need it. And who would I be if I didn’t help my only family?
Back in my dorm room, I made sure no one was following us, then flipped the mattress, pulling out a large plastic grocery bag full of a mix of hundreds, twenties, and tens. I handed it to him.
“Be sure to actually get it repaired this time,” I said. And not gamble it away on some stupid bet.
His eyebrows gathered together and he squeezed his eyes shut, a heavy sigh escaping him. He gestured at my neck.
“Let me have the necklace,” he said. “I’ll bring it back soon.”
A short breath huffed out of my nose, but I undid the clasp and looked at it. He had given me the golden harp necklace as a present right before my first recital. I never took it off, unless he asked for it, which he did every once in a while, disappearing with it for a few days. I never questioned what he did with it.
“I’m no fool,” he said softly, clasping his palm around the tarnished gold. His voice grew quieter, “You deserve better than what I’ve given you.” Pain crowded his eyes. “I’m not a father. Not even a man. I’m a joke.”
A tight pain surfaced in the back of my throat. He had never said anything like that before. He was usually full of hope, talking about repaying my debt so that he could set me free. A reality we both liked to talk about, even though we knew it would never come true.
“It’s fine, Dad,” I said. “You did what you had to do.”
He stared at me, a melancholy look heavy in his eyes. He shook his head and sighed again, the weighty sound cutting through me.
