Page 14 of Bleeding Love

She gave me an appraising look before kneeling next to my mother, who was trying to push herself up. I spun around, wincing as I wrapped a hand around my torso.

“I’m fine, child,” my mother spoke in a coarse voice, and I turned to look at her with relief. “Help Eela lie down for a bit.”

Livia nodded, crossing the room to where Carilla was trying to lift the other woman. They helped Eela to her feet, keeping her weight between them, and dragged her to the back room, where her sobs disappeared behind the closed door.

“That was very foolish, Roman.” My mother turned to me, her voice low and disapproving. Despite the pain that made it shake and the bruising that was already forming on her face, she stared me down with a sharpness that she never showed my father. “You know how he gets. He could have killed you!”

“He could have killed you too,” I muttered, looking down at her dress. Covered in dust and stains from the overturned meal, she even had blood staining her elbow. Not that she noticed. She didn’t look away from me.

“Roman…” she started, but then sighed and got up, offering me her hand. “Come help me in the kitchen since you are up. We have to make sure lunch is ready before your father and brothers get back.”

I took her hand but got up on my own. I had lost a lot of weight since I got hurt—the lack of strenuous activity, and the little food I was allowed since I didn’t work, ate away the muscles I had formed from the hard labor. I was still taller and bigger than her, though, and she was likely more hurt than I was. Even if she didn’t show it.

I watched her limp toward the kitchen, making not a single sound. I hadn’t taken the full force of my father’s kick, yet it felt like my ribs were primed to snap. But then again, my mother was used to my father’s temper. He usually left me alone as long as I did my job and kept my head down. She and my sisters-in-law got punished for every little thing in and out of their control. And getting punched was much better than the other things my father would put them through.

By the time I reached the kitchen, my mother had busied herself by the table, bringing potatoes, flour, and eggs so she could start preparing the food. She motioned for me to sit on the chair and handed me a knife. Wincing, I dragged the basket with potatoes closer and started peeling them.

I worked in silence, stealing glances at her and mulling over the things I wanted to say, but I never had the courage to.

Living in this family was hell for me, but for her and the other women, it was much worse. Not only were they forced to work from dawn till midnight, but it didn’t matter if they were sick or hurt or even pregnant. I couldn’t remember how many children had died already, most before they were even born. And the sharing…it had taken me a long time to realize that other husbands did not share their wives. Not with other men, not with their brothers, definitely not with their father. But in this house…our father always got to pick first, and nobody was to question it. I wasn’t even sure whose baby Eela was carrying.

“Roman.”

I flinched and almost cut my finger. Looking up, I found my mother watching me with her hands on her hips. Her face had gotten swollen, and one of her eyes was now almost completely shut. When I didn’t say anything, she sighed.

“You must never do that again,” she said as she returned to kneading the dough. “You cannot oppose your father, nor your brothers. You are not strong enough yet and you will lose. Then they will hurt you and you will die for nothing. So keep your head down, do your work, and pick your battles wisely. And one day, when you have a wife…”

“I am never taking a wife!” I snapped, and she stopped kneading. She stared at the dough for a few moments, then turned her good eye toward me. “I will never bring a woman into this place and let them treat her like that! Treat her like they treat you! And I cannot leave because, without me, he might kill you! Why do you even stay? Leave with me! We can…”

My mother dusted her hands before cupping my face. A gentle smile deepened the wrinkles around her mouth as she brushed her thumb over my cheek.

“My dear boy, I cannot leave,” she said in a solemn voice. “I stay because of you. Because of my daughters, who would not survive their tempers if I were not here to appease them. I stay because everything I live for is here. I have nothing beyond this house. But you…” Her grip tightened, and she brought her face closer, leaning her forehead against mine. “You are a man. So when you are ready, leave this place. Make a home somewhere else, somewhere far, and fill it with warmth, laughter, and love. Do not give up on life before you have experienced it fully, and when you find someone who makes your heart sing, never let them go. Love is the blood of life, Roman. Without it, you won’t live. You’d merely exist and there is nothing more tragic than that.”

I opened my mouth to tell her I wasn’t leaving her, but she was already pulling away.

“If you are done with the potatoes, I need you to go to the butcher to get more meat,” she said in a clipped voice, returning to kneading her dough. “He always undercuts the girls, but he’ll think twice before doing that to you. Bring your knife and leave the crutch. You can’t show them you’re hurt.”

I nodded, pushing to my feet. I was just stepping through the door to leave when the world swirled, darkness swallowing everything. I took another step and my vision cleared, only for me to find myself standing outside the house. My leg no longer hurt and as I looked down, I realized I was wearing my dirty work clothes. I had packed muscle again and my body felt stronger, but I was still slim with weakness that came with the half-life I was living. Time had passed—I knew it in my bones—but I knew not how long.

I looked at the house in the distance, where the light spilled from the windows. A sense of dread squeezed my chest and before I knew it, I was running forward.

The place was quiet, even though everyone should have been at home. They had left me to finish the work while they went back to celebrate the huge payment my father received for the job we had just completed. So why was it so quiet?

The door was slightly ajar, but even as it creaked under my fingers, no sound came from inside. Unsheathing the hunting knife from my belt, I crept into the house, searching for my family. I found my father and brothers passed out on the floor, with several empty plates and fallen cups clustering the low table.

The smell of alcohol, tobacco, and meat was heavy, so I almost missed the subtle tinge of blood in the air. The hair on my neck rose while I looked around for my mother and sisters-in-law. There was no sound in the kitchen, but I heard a quiet sobbing coming from the other room.

Giving my father and brothers one last, disgusted glance, I strode to the sleeping room. The place was dark, but when the door swung open, a chorus of horrified gasps reached my ears. I waited for my eyes to adjust until I saw the forms huddled together in the corner.

Three of them, holding onto each other. Only Eela looked at me, her arms wrapped around the two other women, as if trying to hide them within herself. Her stomach was no longer swollen, but there had been no baby cries echoing through the house. The child had been born dead, killed by a blow to the skull, likely from when her husband got angry at her for refusing to share his bed out of pain. She had been allowed only a day to grieve before she was forced back to work, and her motherly instincts had transferred to protecting the other two wives. She had even taken some of the beatings that my mother had earned for no fault of her own.

“Where is my mother?” I asked, looking around the room. She wouldn’t have gone to bed before my father and brothers, and it was already too late to leave the house, so where was she? The dread in my chest grew.

Another loud sob escaped one of the women, but it was hard to tell which one. When I looked back at them, tears streamed down Eela’s cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her chest wheezing. “There was…nothing…we could do…”

The words stole the air from my lungs. I wanted to ask what she meant, but my mouth was so dry, I couldn’t speak. Staring at me with a mix of fear and pity, Eela started crying.

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