Siren Suicides (Second Edition)

Chapter 2. Bathroom Door

The wide expanse of the back of my father's hand nears me as if in slow motion. I can see his meticulously manicured nails, a few hairs at the bend of his wrist, his titanium Panerai watch showing a few minutes past seven in the morning—all peeking out from the cuff of his silken maroon pajamas. Kicked up from the floor by his handcrafted, Italian leather slippers, a million dust particles swirl and dance in the air, reflecting the early morning light and forming a tunnel of movement for his hand to follow. Aimed at me. Aimed at my face. Aimed at beating sense into me so I won't turn out like my mother.

Smack!

His hand strikes my cheek, and my head comes alive with livid fire. I convulse in a bout of coughing, sputtering water out of my lungs. My throat burns with the scorching sensation of abrasive pebbles rushing out. I try to stand. The bathroom doesn't just double-spin against me, it seems to turn inside out and fold into itself in consecutive waves. A pulsing rhythm matching my heartbeat.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Papa yells into my ear. "Answer me."

Perhaps there was a time when my head and my brain were one. Not anymore. My brain floats on its own in my skull. It sloshes to the side as I tilt my head in an attempt to hide from his yelling. Every syllable, every word that flies off my father's lips, threatens to pierce my sanity and explode my head into a million little pieces.

I don't need to listen to what he says. I'm sure it's the usual concoction. You just wait, one day you'll turn out just like your mother. Nothing will ever become of you. Would you look at what you did? You made me break my bathroom door. Do you know how much a door costs? How much it costs to replace the lock? To fill in holes in the wall and to paint it?

All I see is his mouth opening and closing, his thin lips stretching over his teeth in a dance of forceful monologue that's supposed to teach me, to do me good, to help raise me in such a way that I manage to survive in this world, as a woman. Because, in Papa's eyes, women are second class. Women are weak creatures who need to be controlled lest they decide to charm off men's pants and make them do stupid shit. They corrupt men's very spirits.

I'm really good at tuning things out—years of practice pay off. My focus shifts to the door. It lies on the tiled floor, its oak paneling covered with a layer of white particleboard dust. I feel sorry for my only refuge that can't be locked anymore. And I want out. Out of this room, out of this house. I want to run away and never come back, like Mom did on that rainy September morning.

"Did you hear what I said?" Papa's voice jerks me from my moment of contemplation.

"Yes, Papa," I say, shifting my gaze to Canosa, making sure she doesn't move. I have a hard time suppressing the urge to jump out of the tub and look at the marble sirens, touch their marble faces to confirm that I haven't gone insane.

"Then, please, explain to me what this is doing in my bathroom?" Papa shoves his hand under my face.

I smell it before I see it and I know what he's found. Papa's upturned palm displays three joint stubs, twisted and stuck to the top of the crushed soda can that I didn't even care to dispose of because, by now, I was supposed to be dead. Every ounce of pain vanishes, swept away by the terror of being caught.

"It's not mine," I say, feeling my face turn red and hot, desperately trying to control the blood flow by gritting my teeth together. No use. It's as if I speed it up instead. Every single blood vessel in my face inflates with guilt. In some stubborn delirium, I insist, "I didn't do it. I swear. It's Hunter's." There, I just betrayed my only friend. Nice move, Ailen.

Another slap on my cheek makes me grab onto the tub's rims so that I don't slide under the water. This is slap number two, one more to go. I think I can taste blood.