Wicked Love | √

Nine

I come to a complete halt at the front of my house as I stare at the large iron double doors. Hard and unyielding. Perfectly suited for the man who resides inside the fortress that didn't quite feel like a home as I grew older. I didn't want to come to dinner tonight but I knew if I skipped it would only make my mother worry about me, and I hate causing her stress even though I know I'm not the root of it. My father is. But she'll never admit that so she focuses all her troubles on me. Her only daughter.

I used to avoid dinners at home like the plague. They consist of my father berating me and my mother doing nothing to stand up for me while my younger brother sits by and gets praised for doing the bare fucking minimum. But I realized soon enough that missing these dinners only made my father angrier. It would cause him to bottle his emotions up until he could unleash them on me. He's easier to deal with when I see him more often and in smaller doses. He tends to ignore me more, which in my eyes is better than him telling me that I'll never make it because I don't have a penis.

The familiar taste of anxiety that always rises when I come home hits the back of my throat and my insides begin to twist uncomfortably. My fingers lift of their own accord to trail over the gold chain of my necklace. A move I barely notice anymore since the necklace has become such a part of me. It's the only jewelry I wear on a day to day basis. I usually let it sit below the neckline of my sweaters, hiding it, letting the metal warm against my bare skin.

The necklace is rather simple. Just a small round pendant that sits at the bottom of a thin gold chain. On the pendant is an emblem of the Saint Joan of Arc. She's holding a sword with her hair billowing behind her as if she's riding off to war, and her name is etched around the edge. She is one of the patron saints of France and represents strength and bravery. The necklace serves as a reminder of who I am and who I will become. A reminder for when I'm feeling weak and down on myself. A reminder that I am more than my father chooses to see and no one can take that from me. Not even him.

Oddly enough I found the necklace on that dark and terrible night seven years ago. It was sitting in the middle of my driveway. Abandoned. A little muddy. And perfect.

I cleaned it up and my mother instantly commented on how cheap it looked but I didn't care about the cost or if it looked expensive enough to my peers. My father made a snide comment about religion when he saw it, and ever since then I've tucked the necklace under my clothes because I didn't need anyone else's input on the piece of jewelry that very quickly became my most treasured asset.

The night I found it I remember sitting at my computer and looking the saint up and her entire past and the many stories about her. I wanted to know every single symbolic meaning of her and her life. Because learning about such a strong woman in the midst of the chaos gave me a new sense of power that immediately flooded my veins. And the idea of being so close to her, even through a necklace, emboldened me.

My fist squeezes around the pendant tightly letting it fill me with the same idea of strength that it did that night when it felt as if everything was turning to ash around me.

It's dumb and I'd never tell anyone this, but I like to believe that the necklace chose me. As if this small, insignificant, inanimate object knew I needed it and it came to me like a beacon of hope on one of my darkest nights.

I shake my head and let out a small breathy chuckle at the idioc thought. I release the necklace before tucking it back under my shirt so no one can see it. I anxiously run my fingers over my plaid cropped chinos and my black cashmere sweater that I wear to get rid of any blemishes or lint that my father could call me out on.

Once I'm content with my appearance I let out a quiet sigh to calm the mess of nerves buzzing through me. I push my shoulders back and stand tall before I lift my hand to twist the large doorknob and walk into the house that is not a home. The smell of chicken tetrazzini fills the air and my stomach rumbles a touch.