The Mephisto Mark: The Redemption of Phoenix (23 page)

He moved around to get beneath the covers, upsetting Olga, who meowed then jumped off the bed. Before I knew what he was about, he’d turned me over and pulled me next to him, my entire back half surrounded by his big body. He had one arm around my middle, and his chin rested against the top of my head.
“There. Now you won’t be cold, and nothing and no one will bother you.”

“You’re not a heater – you’re a furnace. Why are you so hot?”

“It’s Hell.”

“Oh.”

He chuckled. “Not really. It’s that we generate so much energy, we run a higher temperature than humans.”

Olga jumped back on the bed and curled against my belly. I fell asleep thinking this was about as close to perfection as it could get. If only I wouldn’t dream, it’d be the best night ever.

Hours later, I woke in total darkness. The fire had gone out, and Olga wasn’t on the bed. I wondered what had woken me, then I heard Phoenix mumbling. I rolled over and moved close enough to hear him, but he spoke in English. He sounded distressed and I could feel the tension in his body, which was completely out of the covers.

W
hile I laid there wondering if I should wake him up, he whispered my name, then murmured English words, then said my name louder. He began to move against the sheets, rolling his head from side to side, calling my name while his arms twitched and his legs restlessly kicked. He became more physical and louder until he suddenly sat straight up with a sharp gasp. “
Jesus
,” he said into the darkness just before he quickly reached for me, his hands roaming across my body. They stilled against my hip and he took a deep breath, as if he was relieved. He laid back at the same time he pulled me next to him and wrapped me in his arms.

I didn’t say anything, didn’t let on
that I was awake. It seemed such a personal episode. He’d dreamed about me, that I was being harmed in some way, and after he woke and reassured himself I was fine, he nearly crushed me in his relief.

I stayed awake until his breathing became deep and even, and eventually, I drifted off again.

Then, I dreamed.

It was always the same. Always. Right down to the sound of the water pump’s rhythmic
badump-badump
from the dye factory two blocks away and the smell of stale cigarette smoke that permeated every inch of Emilian’s house. It was dark but for the yellow light from the downstairs hallway that filtered up and through the open door to my room. I always focused on his shadow on the wall because it was a featureless, silent monster rending the flesh of the shadow below – a girl who felt no pain, heard nothing, remembered nothing. I envied the shadow.

I
fought. In my dream, I always did. I couldn’t escape to the rug by the fire because in dreams, there is no escape. The horrors in my mind replayed over and over, every detail crystal clear. He smelled of vodka and vomit and an unwashed body. He called me horrible things, said disgusting words, and the more he said, the more worked up he became. I fought harder and he went into a rage and grew more excited. Holding me down with the weight of his body, his cold, bony fingers pushed my T-shirt above my breasts and he pulled his knife from his pocket. I flung my fists at him and kicked and struggled to get away, praying that this time would be different. This time I’d escape.

I never did.

I finally stopped fighting and stared at the shadow and prayed to God that he’d cut me deep enough that I’d bleed to death.

He never did.

I flinched when the cold blade slid into my flesh and gagged on my own spit when his horrible hand pushed my legs apart, heard his guttural grunts and his demand that I move, fight, speak, scream, show my fear, give him what he wanted.

I
remained still as stone and watched the shadow and prayed he’d die.

“Mariah, wake up.”

A deep, warm voice flowed over me and I turned my head to see who had spoken. Phoenix stood next to the door. “You’re dreaming. This isn’t real. Wake up now.”

I looked up from my bed and Emilian was gone. I tugged my shirt up to see my breasts
, and they weren’t bloody. I focused on Phoenix. “How are you here?”

“I came
for you. I came to take you home.”

Home. Yes.
Good.

“You made him disappear.”
My voice had a note of wonder. I was awed.

“
I will always make him disappear. Come on now and wake up.”

C
rossing the line from unconscious to awake, I realized I’d been talking, and so had he. I blinked my eyes open and he was there, right next to me, stroking my hair. He’d lit the candles in the sconces around the room, bathing everything in soft, warm light. My pajama top was above my breasts and I hurriedly began shoving it down, but he’d already seen. He held his hand against mine and stopped me. “Don’t, Mariah. Let me fix you.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I
whispered, “Can’t you just forget that you saw?”

“I don’t want to forget. Let me do this for you. I can’t make it so it never happened, but I can
erase this constant reminder.”

How was he not revolted? I could scarcely stand to look at myself in the mirror, but when I was naked, I never, ever looked. “They’re so . . . horrible. So ugly. You must be—”

“Sad. Also raging mad, but not letting it show because what’s the point? All that can do is upset you.” His hand rested against my ribcage and his thumb rubbed lazy circles against my birthmark. “I won’t do this unless you say yes.”

“How can you fix me?”

“I can heal any living thing.” He came closer and kissed my forehead, my nose, my chin. “Will you let me?”

When I nodded, he raised himself to his elbow and gently
closed his hand around my right breast. Many minutes passed while I felt heat pulsing into my body and when he moved his hand, my breast was smooth and pink without the jagged, puckered scars. He repeated with the left breast, and when he was done, he tugged my shirt down, slid his arms around me and pulled me close, pressing my cheek to his chest. We stayed like that for a very long time, me listening to the beat of his heart, Olga purring behind me, Phoenix squeezing me tighter and tighter.

I was half afraid he’d say he was sorry about what Emilian had done to me, or talk about how brave I was. I’d read so many accounts of adult survivors, I knew it was common when people found out about the past to try and lose the awkwardness, to smooth it over and make the person feel better. They didn’t understand that nothing would make it feel better. This was something that was a part of me now, and while I accepted that, I also did all I could to not think about it, not dwell on it, and not let it be all of who I was. It was a part, but not the most important part because I wouldn’t let it. I would
n’t allow Emilian to ruin the rest of my life. He’d had his time to torture and torment me, and he was no longer in control.

Except in my dreams, and I hoped as time passed, he’d show up less and less.

I should have known Phoenix wouldn’t be like most people. He would never take the easy road. It made him difficult, but it made him real. He was the only person I’d ever opened up to, and not once had he reacted as I’d feared.

He didn’t now.
“Tell me what he did.”

Just that simple. And just that complicated.
Tell me what he did.

I knew he would ask again, and again, and later on, again. He wouldn’t leave it alone until I told him. I was warm and relaxed and so close to him, our legs were entwined.
Through the layers of our boxers, I felt the hot line of his penis against my pelvis, but it wasn’t hard. It wasn’t frightening. It just . . . was. “I don’t know if I can get through it. I don’t know if you can stand to hear it.”

“
Just tell me as much as you can. If you can say it, I will listen.”

I began, hesitant at first, but he asked a million questions, and my answers led to more talking, and all the while, I was there next to him, in a cocoon of warmth and security. I didn’t cry. The pain and
horror of what Emilian had done to me was way beyond crying. It had forever altered me, and I had long ago grieved the loss of who I was before he raped me that first time.

“You hate him.”
He stated it as fact.

“
With all my soul. Yesterday, when I thought Viktor was him, it all came back, every memory I worked so hard to lose. I was fourteen again with no way to get away from him.”

“Why didn’t you go to Marta?”

“He told me he’d kill anyone I told, then he’d kill me. I believed him.” I pulled away and rolled to my back to stare up at the ceiling. “I wished I would die. I prayed he would die. When he did, I swore I’d never be like that again.”

“Abused?”

“Dependent. If I’d had the ability to take care of myself, I could have left. I’d have run away and hidden from him and made my own way, but I knew what waited for me could be worse than him. The world isn’t kind to young girls on their own. When he died, I was elated, and Marta was kind to take me in, but I worked for her, for my keep. I was sixteen when I went to work for Gustav and began earning real money. I saved all I could, hoping I’d have enough to live on my own. Then I decided to go to university, to become a doctor. My grades were very good, and I was always smart in sciences and math. Sophia, Gustav’s fiancé, told me I’d qualify for scholarships.”

He’d raised himself up to his elbow and
rested his hand against my belly. “And now you’re here, and everything’s ruined for you.”

I look
ed up at his face, at his black eyes and the shock of dark hair that fell across his forehead. “I won’t lie and say I’m not upset about it, Phoenix, but my life never seems to stay on course. If I’m anything, I’m adaptable.”

“Why aren’t you angry? I don’t understand how you told me all of this without anger. Is it that you hide it so well?”

“The night he died, I shouted at him. I threw things at him. I knew he wasn’t going to live because he was helpless, lying there while the flames consumed the bed. It felt like I was burning up as well, and when I was so hoarse from screams and smoke that I couldn’t speak anymore, I went to get Olga and the picture book and ran downstairs and out the door. While I watched his house burn down around him, I wasn’t angry. I felt reborn, like I was new again. I remember it so clearly.”

Turning my head, I looked up at the ceiling. “I let him die, and accepted that I’d go to Hell for it, but I made my peace with it. I’d spent all those years since my parents
died being angry and resentful. Nadia and Emilian were just the most horrible, evil people, and I hated them, hated that I had to be there. I snuck out and went to mass every Saturday afternoon, and the priest listened to my confession and told me to pray for deliverance from my hatred. Then he’d say he would go to see them and try to intervene and I said no, because I was certain Emilian would kill him.”

“Why wouldn’t he have gone anyway? What kind of priest
knows a young girl is being brutalized and doesn’t do anything to help?”

“He only knew my first name, and they never went to mass, so he had no idea who they were
. I was careful never to say their names because if he’d gone to see them, I was convinced Emilian would kill him.” I got up from the bed and walked around the room, pushing my hair behind my ears over and over. Something hit me and I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before. It would explain so much. “Was Emilian a lost soul?”

Phoenix s
at up and rested his forearms on his bent knees. “M says no. He chose to be merciless and cruel, probably because he was severely abused by his father when he was young. He took out all that rage on you.”

A rush of adrenaline coursed through me.
The top of my head tingled, and I was breathless, as if I’d just run a mile. I stopped beside the desk to look across the room at him. “What does that mean? That it wasn’t
personal?
He didn’t actually hate
me,
he was just
mad at his dad?
” My voice grew progressively louder, until I was almost shouting. I couldn’t help it. “I was small and helpless and therefore a convenient
punching bag?
”

“I’m sure he hated you. He hated everyone and everything
, and blamed the world for all his difficulties. His father was somebody in the communist party before the Romanian revolution, and they had more money than most, but by the time Emilian died, he’d spent all of what his father left to him.”

Breathing hard, my hands clenched, my heart raced, and I was so hot, I began to sweat.
I continued pacing, my mind a jumble of scattered boxes, all the lids off, all the memories crowding into my head. “He never talked about his family. He never talked about much of anything. He’d stare at television for hours, and drink and smoke, and sometimes go out to buy more vodka. And eat. Nadia always cooked huge meals and they’d eat and I’d clean up, but only after she’d thrown all the leftovers in the garbage. She told me I was getting too fat and didn’t need to eat. This from a woman who was three times Emilian’s size. She’d bake – always baking, and it smelled so delicious, and she’d tell me if I would finish my chores in some impossible amount of time, I could have some. I never did, and she’d sit there like a giant cow and stuff all that food in her face and laugh at me. She’d laugh and laugh. And I was so hungry, I’d beg, like a ravening dog.” I stopped pacing and sucked in a deep breath. “Sometimes, she’d take what she didn’t eat and throw it in the yard, in the dirt, and I’d eat it, Phoenix. I ate dirt because I was
so fucking hungry
.”