Priscilla Martines
The kitchen is bathed in a pale, almost grey light. I'm sitting on the edge of the chair, elbows resting on the table, a glass of milk in my hands. I'm not really drinking it. I'm holding it like you hold a trace of warmth, a pretext not to think too loudly.
My eyes are shadowed, my mouth drawn. I sigh.
_Why is my mother so harsh with me? Why do I have to fight every day for a woman who sees nothing, who refuses to see anything?
I get up slowly, open the cupboard, take out a loaf of bread. I slide a slice into the toaster, wait for the click. The silence is heavy, almost sticky. The milk tastes like nothing. I drink it anyway.
The toast pops. I take it, place it on a plate, start spreading mechanically. Butter. Jam. Trembling hands. Blurred thoughts.
My life is a hallway without doors. A quiet, daily chaos that makes no noise but wears everything down.
And then suddenly— My name. Screamed. Torn.
"PRISCILLA!"
I drop the knife. It falls. The metallic sound pierces my nerves.
What is it now? What is she going to blame me for this time?
I freeze. I feel my heart pounding in my chest. I know it's starting again.
I set down the glass; I walk slowly down the hallway, heart beating too fast for a simple morning. I know that scream. That tone. That kind of yelling that means nothing but demands everything.
I push open the living room door. She's there, standing, arms crossed, eyes dark. Meredith. My mother. Always made up like she's going to a party, even at ten o'clock at night. Always ready to explode.
— Can you explain why there's no more coffee? Her voice snaps like a slap.
I freeze. There it is. Today's drama. Coffee.
— I… I thought I'd buy some tomorrow, I reply softly.
She throws her arms in the air, like I've just announced the end of the world.
— You thought? You thought? You think I can sleep without coffee? You think this is how we live, Priscilla?
I clench my teeth. I say nothing. Because if I speak, she'll scream louder. And if I stay silent, she screams anyway.
I think about my toast, my lukewarm milk, my trembling hands. I think about everything I do for her. And everything she doesn't see.
— You never pay attention to anything, she goes on. You live here, but you only think about yourself. You think I'm your roommate or what?
I lower my eyes. I'm not her roommate. I'm her daughter. But that, she forgot a long time ago.
I breathe. I wait for it to pass. Because with Meredith, you always have to wait for it to pass.
— What did you say?
I look up. I feel it rising. I feel I'm about to say what I shouldn't.
— I said I think about you. All the time. Even when I can't take it anymore. Even when I just wish… you'd look at me as something other than a burden.
She bursts out laughing. A dry, nervous laugh, without joy.
— Look at you differently? You want me to look at you how, huh? Like your father maybe? He looked at you once and then he left.
I freeze. There it is. The minefield.
— He didn't leave because of me, I whisper.
— You believe that? You think he would've kept you? He didn't want you, Priscilla. He didn't want us. And me—I sacrificed everything. Everything. For what? For a daughter who judges me the moment she opens her mouth?
I feel my hands trembling. I feel my eyes burning. But I won't cry. Not in front of her.
— Maybe if you'd known how to love differently, he would've stayed.
Silence falls. Heavy. Sharp.
She stares at me. Her eyes shine. But it's not sadness. It's something else. Something darker.
And then, without warning, her hand slaps my cheek.
The slap is dry. Violent. It knocks the breath out of me.
I step back. I say nothing. I don't cry.
I look at her. And for the first time, I don't see my mother. I see a broken woman. Hysterical. Bitter. And I understand she never really loved me. Not since he left.
I stay there, my cheek burning, breath caught. She looks at me like she's waiting for me to strike back. But I say nothing. I can't. I'm frozen.
And then she adds, in a cold voice, almost calm:
— If I'd known what you'd become, I would've never kept that pregnancy.
The world stops. The ground vanishes. I can't breathe.
She turns on her heel, as if she'd just commented on the weather. As if she hadn't shattered something irreparable.
I'm alone in the living room. The silence is deafening. My legs tremble, but I won't sit. I won't collapse.
She said that. She really said it.
"If I'd known what you'd become, I would've never kept that pregnancy."
I don't know how I'm still standing. I don't know how I'm still breathing.
I can't stay. Not one more minute.
I run upstairs, grab my bag, my coat, my keys. I don't think. I take nothing else.
The door slams behind me. The night air slaps me too, but it's a slap that frees.
It's cool. The street is empty. The streetlights buzz.
I walk fast. I want noise. I want light. I want to disappear into a place where no one knows me.
I take the first bus that comes. I don't check the destination. I just want to get away.
I want to dance. I want to drink. I want to forget.
Tonight, I'm no longer her daughter. Tonight, I'm just a girl who wants to vanish.
The bus drops me off downtown. I don't know why I chose this stop. I don't know why my feet brought me here, to this street full of noise, of light, of people laughing too loudly and already dancing on the sidewalk like the night belongs to them.
I push open the door of the first club I come across. Not to have fun. Just to disappear.
The music hits as soon as I enter. The bass pulses through my body, pounding my chest like a second heart. It feels good. It drowns out the voices in my head.
I walk up to the bar. The counter is sticky. The bartender looks at me without insisting, with that air of someone who's seen it all and isn't surprised by anything anymore.
— Something strong, I say.
He nods. Doesn't ask questions. He pours. I drink. I grimace. I go again.
— Long day? he asks, not really expecting an answer.
I look at him. He has tired eyes, tattooed arms, a quiet weariness in his movements.
— Long life, I murmur.
He says nothing. He wipes a glass. He waits.
I don't know why I'm talking. Maybe because he doesn't know me. Maybe because he won't judge.
— My mother told me she wishes she hadn't kept me.
I laugh. A dry laugh, hollow.
— And she slapped me. Just to make it count.
He doesn't react. Just a slight nod. As if he understands. As if he's heard worse.
— I'm tired, I say.
— Of what?
— Of existing for nothing.
He pours me another drink. No comment. Just a gesture. Just presence.
And then I see him. Him.
I don't know how he appeared. I don't know if he spoke first or if I did. I just know his gaze stopped me. Cold.
The bartender steps away. The music rises. The lights spin. And I stay there. Half empty. Half ready. The night begins.
He approaches. I see him from the corner of my eye, but I don't move. He doesn't speak right away. He sits beside me, as if it's natural. As if it was meant.
I smell his cologne. Woody. Light. Nothing aggressive. Just enough to make me turn my head.
— What are you drinking? he asks.
His voice is deep, steady. It cuts through the noise. It goes through me.
— Whatever they give me, I reply.
He smiles. Not a wide smile. A discreet one, almost sad.
— Then let's drink whatever they give us.
He signals the bartender. Two drinks arrive. I don't know what they are. I don't ask.
We drink. We grimace. We laugh.
The music still pounds. But it fades. As if it's just background noise now.
— Do you come here often? he asks.
I shake my head.
— No. Tonight is… different.
He doesn't ask why. He doesn't press. He drinks. He waits.
— And you? I ask.
— Me, I'm running.
— Running from what?
— Everything that makes too much noise in my head.
I look at him. He's not lying. I can feel it.
We drink again. We're tipsy now. Not drunk. Just enough for the words to come easier. Just enough for the silences to feel soft.
I don't know his name. He doesn't know mine. But it doesn't matter.
Tonight, we're just two bodies trying to forget.
The minutes pass. I don't know how many drinks we've had. I'm not counting. I don't want to count.
I laugh too loudly. Or not enough. I sway a little on my stool, and he reaches out—just to keep me from falling.
His palm is warm. Steady. I hold onto it a second too long.
I lean toward him. Not to kiss. Not to flirt.
Just because I need him to hear. To hear without answering. Without judging.
My mouth is near his ear. I feel his breath against my cheek. And I whisper:
— Tonight… I just want to forget my sorrows.
He doesn't move. He doesn't pull away. He says nothing.
But I feel his fingers gently close around mine. Like a silent answer. Like a quiet agreement.
I stay there, leaning against him, my forehead almost resting on his shoulder. The music spins. The world fades.
He stands. He helps me down from the stool, gently, as if I were fragile.
— Come, he says.
I follow him. Without thinking. Without asking questions.
We step out of the bar. The night air brushes my skin. I shiver.
And there, right in front of the entrance, I see it.
A car. Black. Shiny. Perfectly parked. Like something out of a dream I can't afford.
I stop for a second. I look at it. It looks like nothing I've ever known.
— Is it yours? I ask.
He nods. No pride. No show.
— It's useless if I'm alone in it.
I don't know what to say. So I walk toward the car.
The night is thick. The air smells of asphalt and silence. I stumble a little as I leave the bar, my heels tapping against the pavement, and I laugh for no reason.
He's there, right beside me. He doesn't speak, but he looks at me. And that's enough.
I trip. Not hard. Just enough for my body to seek support. And it's him.
His hand catches me by the waist. Firm. Steady. I end up against him, breath short.
— You okay? he murmurs.
I nod. But I don't pull away. I stay close, as if it's the only place I can stand upright.
He opens the car door. It's there—black, gleaming, like a cocoon.
— Get in, he says softly.
I settle in. The leather is cold against my thighs. He closes the door. The world stays outside.
He sits beside me. We don't speak. We breathe. We're tipsy, both of us. Just enough for gestures to blur. Just enough for barriers to fall.
I turn my head toward him. He looks at me. His gaze is slow. Deep. He doesn't ask. But he waits.
I slide my hand to the back of his neck. His skin is warm under my fingers. He doesn't move. He lets me.
I lean in. Our breaths mingle. Our faces brush.
And then, gently, our mouths find each other.
It's not rushed. Not rough. It's a dizzying fall.
His hands move to my hips. Mine clutch his shirt. We stop speaking. We let go.
— You like adrenaline? he asks with a smile.
I smile back. I lean closer, my voice low, teasing.
— I love it when you tickle my pussy like that, I think we're going to have an incredible night
The car glides through the night. The streets pass by, silent, lit by streetlamps like beacons in the blur. I sit beside him, forehead against the window, eyes half-closed.
I feel the alcohol in my blood. Not too much. Just enough to slow everything down. To soften. To drift.
He doesn't speak. Neither do I. But his hand rests on my thigh. Light. Present. And I don't push it away.
I watch his profile in the shadows. He's beautiful. Not like in magazines. Beautiful like someone without fear.
The car stops in front of a house. Large. Simple. Dark.
He gets out. Circles around. Opens my door.
I sway a little. He catches me by the waist. Again.
— Shall we?
I follow him. No hesitation. No questions.
Inside, it's calm. Warm. Wood, leather, soft lighting.
I kick off my shoes and toss them. He watches me. As if every gesture matters.
I walk into the living room. I touch the furniture with my fingertips. I want to anchor myself. I want to feel that I'm here.
He approaches. His hands slide to my hips. I turn. Our faces brush.
— Are you sure this is what you want? he asks, his voice low, his touch lingering.
His hands slide over my hips. I don't pull away. I don't want to.
I look at him. I breathe.
— I know tomorrow will be another day; but right now; right now I want to feel like a woman. Fuck me like I belong to you.
I place my fingers on his shirt. I feel his chest beneath the fabric. I feel his breath against my cheek.
Our mouths search for each other. Find each other. Recognize each other.
He kisses me like I'm fragile. Like I'm precious. And I cling to him like a lifeline.
We don't speak. We undress. Piece by piece. Skin against skin.
He carries me to his bedroom. I laugh. A light laugh. A laugh I don't recognize.
The bed is large. The sheets are cool. I slip into them like into a promise.
He joins me. His hands are everywhere. Not rushed. Just right.
I close my eyes. I let my body speak for me. I let the night pass through me.
We make love. Not like in movies. Not like in books.
We make love like two people trying to forget. Like two solitudes brushing against each other. Like a parenthesis in the chaos.
And for a few hours, I'm no longer the slapped girl. No longer the abandoned girl. I'm just here. Alive. Loved. Almost.
The next morning
Mathieu Lewis
Morning light filters through the curtains, white and sharp. It cuts the room into clean angles—too clean for my still-foggy eyes.
I wake up with a migraine splitting my skull. Not just pain. A weight. A drum. An echo of the night.
My mouth is dry. My throat raw. I taste the bitterness of alcohol, the memory of a dizzy fall.
I sit up slowly. The bed is messy. The sheets crumpled. But she's gone.
I reach for the pillow. Cold. No trace. No warmth.
I get up. I stagger to the armchair. And there, I see it.
A small object, tucked into the lining. Almost invisible. A pendant.
Simple. A teardrop-shaped medallion, black, matte, without shine. But engraved.
I take it between my fingers. It's light. Cold.
On the back, an initial .P. Hand-engraved. Delicate. Almost shy.
I close my hand around it. And suddenly, a flash. Her face. Blurry. But there.
Her eyes. Her laugh. Her breath against my cheek.
I close my eyes. I sit on the edge of the bed. I stay there, the pendant in my hand.
I don't know her name. I don't remember everything. And I'm not trying to find her.
It was a night. A parenthesis. A shared forgetting..
But this pendant… I keep it. Not for her. For me. For what it reminds me of. Or for what it silences.
I stay there, sitting on the edge of the bed. The pendant in my hand. Silence around me. Emptiness inside.
I'm not trying to find her. I'm not telling myself stories. It was a night. A parenthesis. A shared forgetting.
I get up. I place the pendant on the nightstand. I walk to the kitchen. A glass of water. Two pills. The morning ritual.
My phone vibrates.
I pick it up. A message. I recognize the name. No need to open it to know.
But I open it anyway.
I read. I say nothing.
My face freezes. Slowly. As if something just shifted inside me.
I stay there, motionless, the screen lit in my hand. The glass of water untouched. The pills forgotten.
I don't speak. I don't think. I just stare.
And the reader, if they were here, would see what I don't say. What I don't yet understand. What I thought I'd left behind