HEIRLOOM - SLEEPING AT LAST
"you are so much more than your father's son."
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TW: MENTIONS OF ABUSE & SH
please read at your own risk.
Rays of sun gleamed through the sheer white curtains of my bedroom; their warmth washing away the remnants of sleep as I slowly woke up— though I didn't want to. I had pretty much one of the worst nights of my life, with constant nightmares and the inability to fall back asleep. Throughout different periods of the night, I contemplated waking Dominic up, but I didn't want to be a bother. Besides, when he slept he looked the most at peace as he ever did.
"Good morning," he greeted, his voice still a little raspy from sleep.
"Morning," I smiled sweetly, my eyes still adjusting to the light of my bedroom— and the sight of Dominic laying comfortably in my bed.
"How did you sleep?"
"Really well," I half lied. The moments of my deep sleep, were amazing. The others? Not so much, but I didn't want to nag Dominic about it. He'd probably buy me a whole new bed or something if I told him I didn't sleep good.
"It doesn't look that way," he replied, his tone carrying a hint of remorse. His eyes met mine, acknowledging the sarcastic remark as he sighed.
"That's a nice thing to say to your girlfriend," I scrunched my nose at him with a playful yet reproachful smile, my gaze lingering on him.
The early chapters of our story were ripped with rough edges, particularly made by me. And though I guess I had spent these past few months trying to hate Dominic— or maybe just dislike him— I couldn't, and now, we had ended up here; with complexities that should have forbidden us from ever happening.
Nevertheless, I was happy.
"But I know you didn't get much sleep, I heard you wake up," he remarked.
"I only went to the bathroom for a second."
Dominic gave me an unimpressed look, his eyes narrowing down onto mine. "You were in the shower for twenty minutes at three in the morning," he remarked, apparently having memorized it.
"I just couldn't fall back asleep."
"Bad dream?" He asked, his voice a gentle inquiry laced with concern.
He caught me off guard for a quick second. How the hell did he even guess that? "Yeah," I replied quietly, the memory of the dream lingering in the air like a shadow that refused to dissipate. The images of the reverie were still as vivid in my mind as ever, each detail painted into the canvas of my consciousness.
"Do they happen often?"
"Not really, just..." I hesitated, the words caught in the recesses of my thoughts. I couldn't tell him. I couldn't tell him because then he'd worry, and then he could find out, and I couldn't have that. "I don't know."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
I shook my head in disagreement.
"Okay," he said softly, not attempting at pushing me for answers. "Well then we can take it easy today, okay? You should rest some more, and I'll draw you a bath."
"We? Don't you have work or what not?"
He chuckled, a warm expression on his face. "There are other people who can take care of it," he reassured, his gaze holding mine with a sense of shared responsibility.
"But what if this is how people find out?" I voiced my concern, uncertainty lacing my words. "If you start to stay at home more, then people might start thinking things."
"They won't. And if they do, then so be it, Red," he asserted with a confidence that brushed away my worries. "I can handle them." His reassurance was accompanied by a tender kiss planted on my forehead, and then he pushed away the sheets from his legs.
The sound of running water coming from the bathtub was the last thing that I heard before falling back asleep.
_______
Dominic held the book in one hand, its weight a comforting presence against his palm. His other arm wrapped behind me and rested on my stomach, creating a secure embrace as I nestled into the curve of his chest. We had been sitting on the living room couch, reading for about forty five minutes, and I was merely seconds away from falling asleep. I guess Dominic was right— I really didn't sleep enough after all.
Our breathing synchronized with the rustle of pages turning, and my eyes grew heavy until the deep and calming voice called my name. "Violet?" He asked, and I felt his head turn as he looked at me.
I pushed myself taller, fixing my posture so that it would be harder to fall asleep. Though I doubt that would work, because Dominic might have been the most comforting person to have ever held me so simply. "What? Oh, yeah. You can turn the page."
He laughed softly before delicately setting the book aside, placing it on the side table next to him. "Come here," he invited, a warmth in his tone that dissolved any lingering tension. I positioned myself on my back, nestling my head in the cradle of his lap. His hand slipped under the thin fabric of my tank top, the other pushing my hair out of my face.
It amazed me how gentle he was. For a person whose daily existence was entwined with the decision of life and death, held me with a tenderness that defied the harsh realities he navigated. Two or so months ago, I wouldn't have believed that those abilities could ever coexist, but after all, a lot can happen in that time.
"You make a good pillow," I commented lazily.
"Thank you," he mumbled back, and I stayed there, laying down with my eyes closed for— I don't even know how many minutes.
Then suddenly, a knock from the front door filled the silence of the house. The simple tap against wood was enough for me to sit up straight, rising from the relaxed position I was in moments ago. "Are you expecting someone?" I asked, my voice sounding somewhat alarmed.
It wasn't usual for someone to be knocking on Dominic's door. In most cases when he'd have men over, they would come from the back door; and even then, he would tell me about it. The person here must have had some sort of access to Dominic's property though, otherwise they wouldn't have been able to make it passed his heavily secured gate.
"No," he said, his hand sliding up and down my arm in a comforting rhythm. The gentle touch carried a warmth that momentarily eased my nervousness. As he stood up from the couch, I shifted onto my knees, leaning against the plush backrest. With a slight shift in my posture, I positioned myself for a clearer view of the door and watched as Dominic unlocked, then swung the door open, revealing a familiar silhouette.
"Antonio," Dominic greeted coldly. His father acknowledged the greeting with a nod, but there was a palpable chill in the air as he brushed past Dominic, making direct eye contact with me in the process before disappearing into his son's office. My heart quickened its pace with unsettlement.
Did he know? Did Antonio know about Dominic and I?
Dominic, somehow aware of my nervousness, gave me a reassuring nod, attempting to convey that I had nothing to worry about. Yet, the apprehension persisted, and I still worried. "It's okay," he mouthed before following into the office, closing the door behind him.
_______
Ten minutes felt like an entire human existence as I waited patiently on the couch. The voices of both Dominic and Antonio were heard through the walls; angry yelling of Italian and words that I couldn't understand.
In the time that passed, I tried to continue the book that Dominic and I were reading together— Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. But by the time Antonio had left back out the front door, I was still on the same page as I started on.
As soon as he shut the front door, I rose from the couch, a sense of urgency propelling me toward Dominic's office. The initial brisk pace transformed into a sprint when a resonant thud echoed from the room. The sound intensified my concern, urging me to reach him quickly.
Upon entering, the first thing that I saw was a single purple flower on the desk, then saw Dominic, who stood visibly stressed, leaning against the wall. The room bore witness to the aftermath of his distress. A hole, jagged and the size of a fist, marred the drywall; a white dust covering his knuckles.
"Dominic? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
I took a look at his body language; which conveyed anything but the word 'fine.' His hands were balled up into tight fists, his knuckles white, and the veins in his arms were visibly strained, as if he was holding something back. A punch, maybe, though he had already taken that out on the wall.
"You're very tense," I remarked with gentle insistence, resting a hand on his forearm.
"I'm always tense," he replied tersely, a defensive shield veiling vulnerability. "Not this tense," I insisted, my gaze lingering on the telltale signs etched into his physique.
"I'm fine."
"This hole in the wall suggests otherwise." My eyes diverted to the damage he had caused.
"You should go," he deflected, tilting his head upwards, his eyes avoiding mine, fixated on the ceiling. He swallowed hard, looking like he was struggling to stand even while the wall supported half of his weight. He was so hurting.
I cautiously approached him and slid a hand to the warm skin of his neck. "You're in pain. What happened?"
He hesitated, his guarded expression softening under my touch. "You need to leave," he urged once more, but I stood my ground, not moving in an inch. In fact, I think I took a step closer to him.
"Violet—"
"Please," I pleaded, "please just tell me so that I can help you."
It took him a little while to respond, though he ended up telling me eventually. "Scars," he finally muttered. "Okay," I replied gently, running a hand over my hair, unsure of how I could help. "Ice? Do you need ice?"
"Sure."
"Stay here."
I moved swiftly to the kitchen, my hand instinctively pulling the freezer door open, retrieving two ice packs, and then making my way back into the office. "Here, let's sit down." I suggested, as I pulled us both down beside the wall.
Once seated, I moved deliberately, my fingers gently lifting the hem of his shirt from around his neck. As the fabric ascended, his back was gradually unveiled, and with it, the intricate map of cuts that adorned his skin.
Seeing the scars wasn't anything unusual for me anymore. I mean, I saw them this morning, and I didn't really think much of it. But now, I saw them differently. It wasn't as if I pitied Dominic for it, but now my heart just... dropped.
Now, I realized that they still caused him pain. They weren't just a visual reminder for him, but he had to feel it like a daily confrontation with the endurance of his own history. And knowing him, he would have kept that fact hidden for years, silently bearing the weight of a pain that he never chose.
"Is this okay? Am I hurting you?" I asked, my fingertips gently placing the ice pack against the middle of his back, careful not to exacerbate any discomfort. Neither the cold nor the pain seemed to have too much effect on him though, because he didn't do so much as flinch whenever I adjusted.
He shook his head slowly. "You couldn't hurt me."
"Do you know why this happens?" I questioned, continuing to place the ice packs in different regions of his pack, hoping to offer at least some sort of relief.
"The nerves aren't fully healed— they never will. And so when I experience too much stress, they just start... burning."
I frowned slightly. Did he really endure this often? "Have you seen a doctor? I'm sure they could give you something to help."
"I don't trust doctors."
"Why not?"
He gently took the ice pack from out of my hands setting it down onto the ground, his clean shirt dropping back down his back as he leaned against the wall. I furrowed my eyebrows, adjusting my seated position and facing him, anticipating to listen to whatever he had to say next.
"I was... nine? Maybe ten years old when I was in a car accident with my mother. She was driving, I was distracting her, and we were hit."
I was not expecting to cry today.
His own memories hovered in his tone, the weight of guilt colored his recounting. "She experienced much more severe injuries than I did, particularly to her head. The trauma led to a coma on July ninth, and the medical assessment on August first determined her as brain dead. But she wasn't. She wasn't dead, she was still there. Someone tampered with the scans, and the doctors didn't check them well enough, so they pulled the plug," he explained all at once, at the room seemed to have tightened as he spoke of the tragedy.
He blinked slowly. "The following month I hardly even saw my father. He lost himself in grief and recompense against those who were responsible; the other driver, the doctors, the lawyers. Eventually, I suppose he realized that I was responsible for it all too."
I covered a hand over my mouth, blinking. "He did this because— because he blamed you?"
A deafening stillness drowned out the oxygen in the room. "One incise on the same cut every first day of the month," he continued, the words ghosting the air like a haunting refrain. "And after twelve months, he'd start a new one."
I am going to be sick.
The sharp warmth of tears had already begun to form in my eyes, a harsh lump in my throat as well as I examined the shapes around his spine. The revelation of the six long cuts on his back prompted a visceral response. A horrified realization dawned as the magnitude of his father's malevolent and insidious actions sank in like a blood stain. How could one single person hold the same amount of evil as thousands?
Dominic's next words stabbed through me like a knife, twisting in my heart with each syllable. "Though he had a good motive," he uttered, as if attempting to justify the unfathomable.
"You were a kid," I protested, the weight of innocence lost echoing in my words. "You were just a kid." My voice cracking into pieces of solid and sharp concrete. In my head, I knew that I was seconds away from losing it, but I couldn't. Not yet, not now.
"There's no... it— there isn't..." I hesitated, grappling for words that could encapsulate the depth of horror. An excuse, was what I wanted to say. There was no excuse that could ever rationalize the incomprehensible evil that was etched into his skin; no excuse for a father to ever to do this to his own son.
Because of the six series of long cuts, that would have meant that his father had done this to him for six years— from the ages of ten to sixteen. The last time that I assumed Antonio had ever touched him would've been around eight years ago, but these scars on his back didn't look nearly old enough to have happened eight years ago. They almost looked newer.
"But they... they don't even looked completely healed."
He inhaled, deeply and unsurely. His head hung low, almost ashamed. "My father never hid his admiration for sharp objects," he said, rubbing the palms of his hands together slowly. "I guess that was another trait he passed down to me."
And just like that, I broke. My heart fractured into a thousand pieces. The sharp edges of realization cut through the invisible string that held me together. My tears, unbidden, broke free from my eyes, tracing a delicate path down my face. My voice, once steady, broke into a trembling cadence, as I searched for the right words.
Dominic hurt himself. He hurt himself.
Without knowing what to say, a surge of concern propelled me to instinctively wrap myself around him. The room seemed to contract, focusing solely on the shared emotions that unfolded. My arms enveloped him, pulling around his neck in a gesture of comfort and support. My tears quickly soaked into the cotton of his T-Shirt as he placed his arms around my waist.
It was only then that I grasped the full meaning of his words. He must've believed, if only for a fleeting moment, that he shared some semblance with his father. It would be dishonest if I said that the two didn't bear a resemblance. With their very dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and sharp jaws, certain features drew a parallel. Yet, as I observed Dominic more closely, I saw a stark contrast that surpassed the physical.
Dominic was so much softer. His demeanor, the subtle inflections in his voice, and the gentleness of his touch painted a portrait of a man starkly different from the shadow his father cast. In a way, everything about him was quieter.
"You're nothing like him. Nothing." I whispered into his ear, the fervency of my reassurance accentuated by the closeness of our embrace. "You're nothing like him."
My breathing was so shaky, and I had to take a quick minute to actually calm myself down in order to speak, because Dominic wasn't nearly as emotional as I was.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Dominic." The words slipped from my lips, each syllable carrying the refrain of shared remorse. "I'm sorry." I repeated. "You didn't deserve it. Any of it," I said, very slowly pulling away, but keeping a hand on his shoulder.
As I wiped away the tears with the back of my hand, it felt almost useless because the stream was never-ending He argued against me. "I did. I do. I've made terrible mistakes—"
"Don't say that. Please, don't say that." I interrupted, my plea punctuated by a gentle yet firm touch. "You were ten years old, Dominic. Ten." The number was a sickening series; too young for his innocence to be harmed like that by anyone.
"You're a good person with such a big heart," I affirmed, my voice carrying a conviction born from witnessing the complexities of his soul. "I know this because I've felt it. Since the day that you found me in the shower and told me to feel your heart— I knew, and I felt it all. All of the darkness, all of the light, and all of the in-between; all of it." I spoke with the quietest intensity.
I cupped the side of his face in my hand as I sniffled, a gesture meant to anchor his attention, but he wouldn't look at me. His eyes darted across the room, seeking refuge anywhere but in the vulnerability of my gaze.
"Look at me," I urged, my fingers gently pushing the dark strands of hair from his face."You didn't deserve it." And when he finally looked at me, it felt like the world had stopped. He wasn't crying, and didn't look at me with any kind of hopelessness; but his expression held gratitude.
I pressed my lips softly against his, and he kissed me back with the same amount of pressure, his strong arms holding my firmly against him. He tasted like a bittersweet rhythm of resilience, and like my tears.
When I pulled away, I hugged him yet again, resting my chin on his shoulder. "Are you clean?" I asked, whispering, unsure if he could even heard me. It honestly felt like he was comforting me rather than the opposite of my intentions.
His head leisurely nodded up and down twice. "Four years," he finally shared, and I sighed with relief.
"Good," I murmured twice, "good."
Without even realizing it, Dominic had placed both hands on my hips and sat me on his knee, making me face him. "So much for taking it easy today, huh?" he remarked, a wry smile playing on his lips.
His thumb gently wiped away my tears, and my stomach spiralled with guilt. I know I shouldn't be making this about myself, but I couldn't help but feel a tinge of self-reproach. Dominic had just trusted me enough to tell me one of the most gut wrenching and disgusting things I'd ever heard, and I couldn't even tell him about a simple dream. But I think the worst part about it was because the dream wasn't really a dream at all.
It was a horrible, dehumanizing memory.
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A/N.
If you know someone struggling with self-harm or abuse, it's crucial to reach out and seek help on their behalf. These challenges are deeply personal, and silence can exacerbate the pain. Encourage them to confide in a trusted friend, family member, or mental health professional. If you or someone you know needs immediate support, don't hesitate to contact a helpline.
In the United States, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255) provides free, confidential assistance 24/7.
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