the stretch of marble floor into tangible constellations.
I remember my father, upon seeing me standing in the doorway, still in my pajamas – and how he looked so totally choked. He took my small hand, pressing it against a wet cheek that glistened much like my own. Tears streamed down my face as I stared at the mess, frightened and wondering how my father could have been capable of breaking so many things at once.
“Don't cry,” he said. “Everything comes and goes.”
And then he left; I was once again alone.
My father tried to hold on to me for awhile. His attempt at possession was desperate and destined to crumble from the beginning. We went to church, we prayed. We prayed, and prayed. We adorned our home with crosses and once again the crystal angels returned. I think deep down he was begging the Almighty to bring my mother back. But you can't change the stars, just as you can't change the mind of God.
Still, my father was drunk in blissful neglect; drowning in tears and something stronger.
He swept me away to the mountains out West, where at a grand ball accompanied by girls carrying a wooden cross draped in lace, I pledged my purity; a gestured solidified by the ring I still wore today.
None of it was about love, though. It was about control – and for awhile, I indulged him. I neglected boys and focused on my studies. I was accepted into Trinity, a success my father boasted about heavily, loudly.
When he met Vivian, the two connected instantly. Her husband, Marius' father, had also been consumed in an affair with some woman he met in Queens. She had a thick accent, I guess, and raven-colored hair; Marius showed me her picture once, a somber, hateful smile on his face.
“I hope it was worth it,” Marius muttered, and we both sat in a shared, understanding silence.
After that, we stopped going to church as often, even though the crosses still hung. My father treated our moments together more as a business transaction. If I needed something, he fulfilled my requests, and in exchange I kept my grades and sensibilities and everything else to his polished standards. When it came time to consider universities, he took care of it immediately, securing a spot at Yale – where he had attended, and his father before – so quickly that I barely had time to blink.
I continued maintaining my posture and smile, dressing in silk and wearing my hair and makeup and every piece of fabric that covered my body with a perfect, conscious manner. And I kept the ring on my finger, not as a gesture to my father's desire to maintain possession over my actions, but as a reminder to myself that I didn't want to let anyone else in. I wanted to keep that control; that safe, deliberate distance. I wanted to remain a perfectly painted mask. No emotions, no love, not risking the exposure of my own vulnerabilities.
I let them see what they wanted to see: someone kind, and good, and clean - that was enough.
And yes, for that, I thanked my parents.
That evening after school, my father called me into the parlor. I was still weighed down with my own thoughts of Mr. Tennant's hands on my waist. His fingers skimming down the length of my jaw-line.
My father was surrounded by his business partners, all in suits, their faces already flushed from the alcohol that slogged through their veins like motor oil.
“Kaitlyn!” he hooked an arm around me, and I fell against his shoulder. “Kaitlyn here is to be attending Yale this fall. Isn't that true, darling?”
In my mind, I imagined confessing that the spot had been financially secured, and what his reaction would be. I pictured his face swelling, along with the dozen other men in the room; expanding like balloons and so lit with spirits that if I were to stick a needle into their skin, they would have exploded into a mess of gin and brandy.
“Yes,” I said mildly, smiling and tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. I contemplated laughing to convey a bit more enthusiasm. “I'm
I remember my father, upon seeing me standing in the doorway, still in my pajamas – and how he looked so totally choked. He took my small hand, pressing it against a wet cheek that glistened much like my own. Tears streamed down my face as I stared at the mess, frightened and wondering how my father could have been capable of breaking so many things at once.
“Don't cry,” he said. “Everything comes and goes.”
And then he left; I was once again alone.
My father tried to hold on to me for awhile. His attempt at possession was desperate and destined to crumble from the beginning. We went to church, we prayed. We prayed, and prayed. We adorned our home with crosses and once again the crystal angels returned. I think deep down he was begging the Almighty to bring my mother back. But you can't change the stars, just as you can't change the mind of God.
Still, my father was drunk in blissful neglect; drowning in tears and something stronger.
He swept me away to the mountains out West, where at a grand ball accompanied by girls carrying a wooden cross draped in lace, I pledged my purity; a gestured solidified by the ring I still wore today.
None of it was about love, though. It was about control – and for awhile, I indulged him. I neglected boys and focused on my studies. I was accepted into Trinity, a success my father boasted about heavily, loudly.
When he met Vivian, the two connected instantly. Her husband, Marius' father, had also been consumed in an affair with some woman he met in Queens. She had a thick accent, I guess, and raven-colored hair; Marius showed me her picture once, a somber, hateful smile on his face.
“I hope it was worth it,” Marius muttered, and we both sat in a shared, understanding silence.
After that, we stopped going to church as often, even though the crosses still hung. My father treated our moments together more as a business transaction. If I needed something, he fulfilled my requests, and in exchange I kept my grades and sensibilities and everything else to his polished standards. When it came time to consider universities, he took care of it immediately, securing a spot at Yale – where he had attended, and his father before – so quickly that I barely had time to blink.
I continued maintaining my posture and smile, dressing in silk and wearing my hair and makeup and every piece of fabric that covered my body with a perfect, conscious manner. And I kept the ring on my finger, not as a gesture to my father's desire to maintain possession over my actions, but as a reminder to myself that I didn't want to let anyone else in. I wanted to keep that control; that safe, deliberate distance. I wanted to remain a perfectly painted mask. No emotions, no love, not risking the exposure of my own vulnerabilities.
I let them see what they wanted to see: someone kind, and good, and clean - that was enough.
And yes, for that, I thanked my parents.
That evening after school, my father called me into the parlor. I was still weighed down with my own thoughts of Mr. Tennant's hands on my waist. His fingers skimming down the length of my jaw-line.
My father was surrounded by his business partners, all in suits, their faces already flushed from the alcohol that slogged through their veins like motor oil.
“Kaitlyn!” he hooked an arm around me, and I fell against his shoulder. “Kaitlyn here is to be attending Yale this fall. Isn't that true, darling?”
In my mind, I imagined confessing that the spot had been financially secured, and what his reaction would be. I pictured his face swelling, along with the dozen other men in the room; expanding like balloons and so lit with spirits that if I were to stick a needle into their skin, they would have exploded into a mess of gin and brandy.
“Yes,” I said mildly, smiling and tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. I contemplated laughing to convey a bit more enthusiasm. “I'm
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