Author: Mihaela Mateescu

I  was six when my dad left for the first time. I grew up thinking that he did so because of me, because he did not love me. I remember watching him walk away, and I often wondered why he didn’t look back even once. My mom used to tell me how he stayed home for nine months (he used to be a sailor) just to make sure that I would be born. So, I kept asking myself what I had done so wrong that he left me?

What I didn’t know was that he wanted to leave the country illegally, on board of a ship. Unfortunately, he was caught and accused of high treason against the Communist Party. There were two trials and both sentences were the same: twenty-two years in prison. This happened when I was too young to realize the meaning of it.

My mom told me that he would be in the hospital and that we could go see him after a while. I had to find out from a boy at school, a year later, that my dad was in jail ‘because he was a common criminal’. I still remember I went home that day and hid under the table for three hours, refusing to speak. When I finally opened my mouth, it was only to start screaming that everyone had lied to me and that I never wanted to see anyone again.

In 1989 he was released because of the Revolution. There were several appeals after which the sentences were reversed (or something technical like that). He left again in 1990 and divorced my mom from the foreign country he went to. If I was old enough then to understand he had not left because of me the first time, his leaving a second time was an even heavier blow. It was when I realized that maybe he really did not care about me at all. His reason for the divorce was that he would marry a foreign citizen, stay with her until getting the citizenship and then divorce her, so he could bring us over there. It didn’t work that way.

I have seen him maybe ten times since then. My mom did see him recently; she showed him pictures of me and told him that I wrote a novel. Then she e-mailed me to let me know how the meeting went. She said he cried the whole time they talked about me; that she could see in his eyes how sorry he was for not being there for me; that he was glad to know I had turned out better than he had thought and in spite of growing up without him; finally, that he said he hoped to see me at least one more time before he dies.

I realized that I still love my dad. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t, no matter what he did. I can never change the fact that I have his blood and his eyes, and his taste for good whiskey. I will always remember the way he used to put me on his back and pretend to be a horse I could ride; his stories about India and South Africa, after nine-month long voyages; his visits when I was in the hospital with tuberculosis, at 5. Also, I will always remember the only time when I visited him in prison, and he had chains around his legs, waist and hands because he was considered to be dangerous by the Communist regime.

I will always regret that I did not have more time with him, and that now, being so far away, there’s even less chance of seeing him again. I would like so much to hold him and tell him that he still is my dad, no matter what he did, no matter what people say about him, no matter how little time we had together; that I see his face every time I look in the mirror; that I hope to see something of him in my children; that I wish my life would have been different, but if that means having a different dad, I would rather go through the same hardships all over again. There’s nothing more to it. He will always be my dad.

Lights were getting dimmer and dimmer behind the curtains. A few props scattered around, forgotten maybe, or abandoned, made it seem like someone had started to arrange a scene then gave up. Spider webs were slightly covering dark corners, hiding dead insects fooled into submission. The random sound of a cricket was the only noise audible to the girl who was walking on the stage, amazed at the simplicity of the high, crumbling ceiling above her. She ran her fingers on the thick, almost crisp velvet of the chair with one missing limb. That was to be her beginning. She choked up just thinking about all the people who would come see her. She imagined the laughter at her jokes, and the tears at her dramatic monologue. She smiled suddenly and twirled, if only to admire her own dress. She put her palms together in front of her heart, interlocked her fingers in a silent prayer to an unknown deity, and began breathing deeper and slower. As hard as she tried, the butterflies in her stomach refused to leave. She didn’t have words for everything she was experiencing. All she knew as that the first night of her performance would be incredible, unforgettable, and penetrating to all who would witness it. All would fall in love, and crave her presence like a necessity, like something you need to survive. They would get drunk on the sound of her voice, they would adore the deceitful look in her eyes, they would worship her steps and her words. She looked towards the empty chairs and tried to imagine the scandal. She was smiling inside. She would be the talk of everyone forever. And she would enjoy every single minute of it like she had never enjoyed anything else. Not even her lovers. Not even her children, or her dreams. Not even the absinthe and the visions that came with it. Not even the moment when she had been proposed to in a grand ceremony. Not even the day she had met the man who was making all this possible for her. She didn’t care about any of that. She didn’t care that people loved her and were sacrificing their lives and fortunes for her. It wasn’t her fault they insisted on not letting go of the glimmer of hope that she was very good at maintaining, barely enough for them to not give up. She knew hope was good, but she was afraid too much hope would be a danger. She needed to keep them close, but far enough to discard them presently. She needed to do what she knew best: entertain, dominate, and submit to the will of her fans. Nothing else mattered. And this stage would prove it soon enough.

“Saturday night, as boring as every other night of my life. As usual, all I had to do was watch TV, while trying to enjoy a little bit of chocolate ice cream. I was already settled in my very comfortable recliner when the phone rang, totally taking me by surprise. I picked it up thinking it was someone looking for the wrong person. Who would call ME? But it wasn’t. The voice at the other end of the line vaguely reminded me of this guy I slept with once, in college. He said he was in town for business, and he invited me over to this hotel, for a drink. I agreed even though I don’t particularly want to see him. But it’s a variation, something different to take me out of my routine. So here I am, all dressed up, I even put some makeup on, in an effort to look a little sexy…after all, one drink could lead to so many things…”

“Well, you can wait as long as you like. I’m sure he’ll show up,” the girl said with a big, sweet smile on her face, a smile that contradicted everything she had just said to me.

So I sat down in the lobby to wait. The girl at the reception desk was looking at me when she thought I didn’t notice. I did, but it didn’t bother me. Besides, she was cute. I kept checking my watch, I kept trying to look worried. It worked, because the girl would smile at me from time to time, as if to let me know everything would be ok… I looked up when I heard someone’s steps coming towards me. I had a smile ready, just in case it was the person I was waiting for. And there was someone, there was a girl. Tall and slim, with dark blonde, long hair, and brown eyes. She was wearing a pair of low cut jeans, which made her underwear pretty visible. Through her top, I could see the rings in her nipples. She looked at me and smiled, not too big, but subtle and warm. She walked by, going to the reception desk, while I just sat there. Two minutes later I got up and started walking away. But then I stopped. I turned around, and noticed the girl was still looking at me. I saw her leaning over to the reception desk girl, and telling her something. There was a smile as if “Yeah, right,” then a shrug of shoulders and a shake of hands. As I was turning away, I heard a voice behind me:

“Excuse me, miss, I was wondering if you’d like to keep me company for a little bit, maybe have a drink…”

I smiled as if I couldn’t believe that she was actually talking to me, as if “The nerve on this girl! Who in the hell does she think I am? Or what?”… I didn’t even turn around when I said “Thanks, but no, thanks.” It wasn’t enough, though. One minute later, just as I was walking out the door, I felt her hand grabbing mine.

“Please…”

I didn’t know what to say to that. But I wasn’t supposed to say anything anyway. She was so beautiful, her smile was intoxicating, and the way she walked in front of me, leading me to her room, made me dream with my eyes open. I understood perfectly what was happening to me every time, why I was so attracted to her. I was head over heels in love with her, and all I needed, all I wanted was for her to say something else, so I could hear her voice again.

She opened the door to her room and stepped inside before me. I thought she was going to turn on the light, but she didn’t. Instead, she took my hand, pulled me close to her, and started kissing me. Soft and sweet at first, just so we could taste each other’s lips. And then hard and aggressive, so we could taste each other’s mouths. I don’t know how much time we spent kissing. All I knew was that I didn’t want to stop. I could feel my whole body getting warm, I could feel my knees getting weak, I could feel her hands on my back, pulling at the top I had on. She got rid of it in a split second, and then she pushed me towards the bed. I didn’t even realize falling on it, I didn’t realize when she got on top of me. I couldn’t focus on anything but her lips and hands all over me. She took the rest of my clothes off, and started kissing my body, slowly tracing it with her tongue. I just let myself go, and I felt getting wet when she was kissing the inside of my thighs. I wanted her to put her fingers inside me, but at the same time I wanted her to take her time, and drive me totally crazy… I couldn’t think anything coherent, and so I let her do whatever she wanted. It didn’t take her long to understand that I wanted her to fuck me, and so she did. I started moaning when I felt her finger inside, louder and louder when she used two and three, screaming when she used all of them. I was so wet that she didn’t have a problem sliding her hand in and out of me, harder and harder, and then slowing down, just to see me looking at her and begging for more. When she started moving her hand again, she made me sit on her lap, so close to her, so close that I could feel her breathing on my neck. I started biting her, sucking on her delicate skin, while my hands were looking for her panties, just to get rid of them. I did, and when I touched her, I felt her arching her back. She smiled and pressed my hand against what was her favorite spot. She made me rub it faster and faster, while her hand was still inside me. We were moving together, breathing together, moaning together, begging for each other, until we came together, until everything that we had inside exploded in a million pieces, spreading all over our hands… we stopped moving, but we held each other like that, smiling and whispering silly things to each other. I couldn’t help laughing when she said: “That was a brilliant idea, baby girl…you should have seen the face of that girl when I bet her that I would take you to my room… I need to collect in the morning.” She smiled again, she started kissing me again, and she turned me on again. In less than a minute I was ready to go… again.

The redhead little child looked around to see if there was anyone close enough to observe him. When he was satisfied, he proceeded to crawl in the dark space of his small closet with holes in the floor, into the coldness and ants nests, into the oblivion of a tight space where no else belonged. He brought his knees to his chin, and wrapped his arms around them, face hidden, eyes glaring into his crotch. He could not stop the whispering in his head, and he couldn’t share it with anyone. Who would understand his young words, the lack of expression, the feelings he didn’t have names for? Who would believe the nightmare that was he was supposed to call life? Who cared that his two-year-old brother was given away to the tall, scary man at the door, for a Ziploc bag? Who gives away their children for Ziploc bags? He couldn’t understand it either.

He started talking to himself, in an effort to quiet the noise in his head. Suddenly, a flash of light exploded around him, and when he opened his eyes, he could see the inside of his bedroom. Clothes all over the floor, mixed with rotted pieces of food, with feces no one ever bothered to clean, with smeared and old toys that didn’t even belong to him. He didn’t dare move. He could sense there was someone else there. He stared, as if at the source of voices he could now hear better and better. He heard his name called out, yet he refused to move. He didn’t want to go in there, not today. He needed a moment, or a few, without the torment of the things that were happening uncontrollably. He stayed put, but dreading the horror that was coming. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the bedroom door opened, and his mother stepped in.

With a crooked smile on her face, with rotten teeth and crazy, burnt, red hair, his mother cracked the closet door open and yelled. He shook his head and pleaded with his eyes. He started tearing up, but knew that would do more harm than good. He got up slowly, knowing full well he would have to follow her into the living room. His small body wasn’t heavy enough to put up any resistance, as she was pulling him by the arm, almost taking his shoulder out of its comfortable socket. He was ushered to the middle of the room, among strange men he didn’t know. Some smiled as they made eye contact, some were stern and impenetrable. Those were the worse, he knew. The others he could fool with his child play, with his crazy, made up stories, with his blue, innocent eyes. The serious ones he had to watch for, because they didn’t care about hurting him. They enjoyed it.

Then he saw him. The voice is his head became louder and louder, and hard to contain. A flash of light, and he was back in his closet, in the dark and cold of the small, suffocating place. He didn’t know how to ask for help. He didn’t know that parents are supposed to love their children. He’d grown up without any of that, he’d grown up wondering why the world wasn’t doing anything to help. He’d grown up a monster himself, through no fault of his own. And he knew that much. He looked up, he allowed himself a glimmer of hope, and he whispered: “Please, don’t hurt me, daddy…”