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14. Cherry Bomb

14

CHERRY BOMB

DAISY

ABOUT THREE YEARS AGO ― April 22 nd , 1972

"God, I'm starving," I groan in pleasure as I shove a forkful of Salisbury steak into my mouth. "This is so good, Dad."

Mom, Dad and I are seated at the dinner table, eating his delicious cooking.

"Thank you, mo luaidh . How about we go out for an extra training session tomorrow? Maybe go out for dinner in the city afterward. What do you say?"

Dad takes me out to the woods every week, where he teaches me self-defense. Uncle Stef usually tags along, too, and over the years I've become almost as good of a shot as them. We always get ice cream afterward or pie and it's one of my favorite things in the world.

We started this tradition when I was only ten years old. I can't really remember it, but apparently when I was just a little girl, I once said I wanted to be strong like my daddy. He's never been shy about telling me that it's a tough world, especially for girls. So I wanted to learn how to fight.

And now, after all these years, my aim has become excellent and I can stab a grown-ass man to death in a matter of seconds. All while I look hot as hell.

"Sure, Dad. Sounds great." I give him an honest smile.

Dinner goes as usual―Mom cackles at a horrible joke he makes, I just roll my eyes, and the dogs beg for scraps at our feet underneath the table. They always get the last bites of our dinner and they damn well know it. That doesn't stop them from begging like they've been starved for weeks. Dramatic bastards.

I know my parents are just keeping the peace until we're done eating so they can talk to me about their therapist idea. The food turns sour in my mouth when I think about the fight this will surely cause. On the one hand, I want to avoid it altogether. On the other, I'm curious about the woman they talked about―Annie.

My eyes switch between their smiling faces as they talk. Sometimes they make me want to barf. There hasn't been a day in my life that they haven't been obnoxiously in love.

I squeeze my eyes shut when it all becomes too much. The sound of their laughs, the record player in the corner of the room that plays Sinatra, and the cutlery that scrapes over porcelain plates. Eliza, the poodle, keeps chewing on her toy, making the most irritating squeaky sound.

I suddenly drop the silver cutlery on my plate, startling both of them. "Can we just cut the bullshit?" I pound my fists on the table, the force of it making pain shoot up my arms. "Who the fuck is Annie?"

As if on cue, the record player stops and the room turns eerily quiet. They share a look before Dad grabs Mom's hand from across the table and squeezes. He looks at me with a calm expression, but I notice the slight tick in his jaw.

I nervously smooth my hands over my colorful plaid skirt underneath the table, looking away from them. "I heard you talking yesterday. I know you think there's something wrong with me."

"No, baby." My eyes are still aimed at my lap, and I keep them there until I feel the soft touch of Mom's hand on my arm. "There is nothing wrong with you."

"Then why do you want to send me to therapy? That's for crazy people. You think I'm crazy."

"You're not crazy, mo nighean ." My daughter. "We've been keeping things from you. We thought we were doing the right thing. We wanted to wait until you were older, but you're already so grown up. Too grown up."

"Wait with what?" I ask, looking up at him.

"With telling you about your birthmother." The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and goosebumps cover my arms. "You know you're adopted. We've told you that much. But we've always been your parents. Always ."

When it turns quiet and neither of them says anything, I get impatient again. "Is this Annie you mentioned my birthmother?"

"Yes," Mom replies. "She couldn't take care of you. You know how your daddy was in Crimson Manor for a few years, right? Well, that's where he met Annie."

"She was my friend," Dad continues. "After I got out, and after your uncle Abe got out, she got mixed up with one of the prison guards there. And she got pregnant, with you. The guard apparently wasn't too excited to become a father, and we don't know for sure what happened, but knowing Annie, she killed him to protect you. She got placed in the high-security ward afterward, sentenced to life for murder, and as soon as she had you, you were given up to the orphanage in town. When we heard about it, we adopted you."

A tear slips out of my eye. This is all too much. I don't know what to do with this information, so I ask the first question that pops into my head. "Why was she in Crimson Manor? Was she sick?"

They share another look, and the eye contact between them is really starting to fuck with my temper. I hate that they have whole conversations just by looking at each other. I hate being out of the loop.

"She was in there for nymphomania," Mom answers. "Sex addiction."

Another deep sigh leaves her mouth. I can understand that it must be difficult for her to talk about this, even though I'm filled with anger that they have never told me the truth.

"Sweetheart. You're putting yourself in danger. No matter how much I try to keep you close, you manage to find ways to put yourself into these situations. We can hardly lock you up in your room. You need to be around friends, do homework with your classmates. To go out and have fun. But I know what's going on. I'm not blind. When it was just you alone in your bedroom, I could look away, let you explore yourself in a healthy way. But it started so early. The first time I caught you, you were only nine years old." She lets out a deep sigh. "But now that you're out in the world, with all these horny schoolboys around, we have to do something."

Mom's eyes are full of compassion, but I notice my dad is looking away and balling his fists, as if he's trying not to explode. "Are you angry with me, Dad?"

"No, mo luaidh ." He shakes his head. "That's the last thing I am. Do I wish I could go out and teach all those boys a lesson? Absolutely. Your mom has begged me not to. That's the only reason I haven't. But there's only so much I can take before I lose it."

He flexes his fingers and leans closer to me on his elbows. "You need to be grateful to your mom, sweetheart. She has had your back for a long time, trying to keep this from me. I'm not always home to notice what you've been up to with your friends. But I know now. This can't go on."

"It's not your fault, okay?" Mom buds in. "We can get you help. We will hire a therapist, the best there is. And they'll help you deal with these things in a healthy way."

I ignore that. "I want to meet her."

Mom lets out a defeated sigh and retracts from my hand, leaning back in her chair as she blinks away some tears.

I don't mean to hurt her. But I want to find out who I am.

"You can't, mo nighean ," Dad tells me.

"Why not? You want to be honest with me, right? Well, for years I've been wondering why I sometimes seem so different from you guys. I want to know where I really came from."

"You can't ," he says again, lowering his voice.

"Why. Not?" I ram my fists on the table and abruptly rise from my chair.

"Because she's not there anymore. She escaped four years after you were born."

As soon as that revelation leaves his lips, I sink back into the chair in defeat. "What…? How?"

"Details have never been revealed. But my guess? I think she seduced one of the guards and he helped her get out. I've heard rumors about underground tunnels that led from the basement to the outside world. Things must have gone wrong, though, because he ended up dead and she was never to be seen again. No one knows where she went―if she's alive or dead. She just disappeared."

"I can't believe this." My voice skips, and I let my head hang back in defeat, looking at the ceiling.

"You can talk to us about anything, okay?" Mom goes on. "And we will try to be as openminded as we can. When Annie was locked up, it was a different time. People weren't as free as they are now. They didn't understand." She sighs. "The point is you're our baby and we want you to be safe."

"All we want is what's best for you. We want you to thrive, to find something you're passionate about just like your mom. You're capable of great things. Whatever you want to ask about Annie, I'll answer as honestly as I can. You can even ask Uncle Abe about her. As long as you never forget that this―" He grabs Mom's hand, smoothing his fingers over her knuckles. "Is your real mother. And I'm your real athair. " Father.

I take a deep breath, meeting neither of their faces when I feel their eyes on me. "It finally makes sense… How I've felt all these years, never knowing what's wrong with me." I stand up, swallowing away my pain and throwing my napkin on the table. "I can't be here right now. I'm going out."

I walk away, slip on my loafers, and yank the front door open. I hear their protests behind me, but I ignore them as I grab a jacket from the coat hanger and step out. As soon as the door slams closed, the dogs start barking loudly.

It's chilly out even after I've put on my jacket, but I don't stop walking. Tears stream down my cheeks, and I blame the cold wind for hurting my eyes.

"Daisy! Get back here!" Dad's voice calls out from behind me, and that's when I start running. I vaguely make out some Gaelic words and his car door slamming closed, the sound of his engine quickly following.

I know this was a difficult conversation for them. But fuck that. This isn't about them. It's about me . I've never known who I was, and this is all just too much for me to deal with.

I'm not going back right now. It's only six, and I'll be back before my curfew. They have nothing to worry about.

Making a left turn, I run through a steep alleyway, eventually shaking him off. I decide to run to town and see if there's anyone to hang out with. Lucky for me, the park is packed with people and I recognize a few peeps from school.

As I go to sit with them, I'm handed a beer and a joint. It doesn't take long before a comfortable buzz turns my brain fuzzy, a buff arm sliding around my shoulder. I don't know the guy, but he seems nice enough. I lean into him as he starts kissing my neck, and I chuckle when the words ‘wanna get outta here?' are whispered in my ear.

"Fuck yeah," I reply happily, shoving away all the new revelations that threaten to make my head explode. He helps me get up and we make it to a secluded place in the park, surrounded by greenery.

Then I let him fuck me against a tree.

"Tell me, in your own words why you are here, Daisy," Dr. Beaumont, my therapist, says. The gray-haired man sits in a leather chair across the room, clad in an expensive suit. Guessing from the lines on his face, I'd say he's about fifty-five.

He waits patiently for my answer, like he has all the time in the world. It must be relaxing, listening to other people's shit when you probably get paid a crapload of money. Telling from the large office full of sculptures, paintings, books, and beautiful furniture, I'd say he makes a fine living.

I sit on the chaise longue opposite him, bouncing my bare leg as I open the first few buttons of my teal-colored blouse. I'm feeling hotter than a fucking barbecue.

Glaring at him, I bite my lip to suppress my big, angry mouth from cursing Mom and Dad for sending me to this fucking place.

I don't entirely manage to keep it inside, though. "I am here because my parents have it in their heads that I need help just because I like to fuck. It's not the same as when they were young. People fuck without getting married, just for fun. I don't know what the big deal is."

"They have expressed their worries to me about your wellbeing. They're afraid you're putting yourself in situations that might result in danger."

I scoff. "Danger? My dad is in the mafia. If anyone is in danger, it's the guys who touch me. I'm just here to get my parents off my back. It'll make my mom happy."

"Do you do that often? Do things just to make your parents happy?"

I lean back, meeting his eyes. "Seeing them happy usually makes me happy, too. Everything is just different now. They kept things from me and now all I feel is anger."

He writes something down in a notebook on his lap. "What things did they keep from you?"

"They never told me the truth about my birthmother." I start scratching the orange nail polish off my fingers. "She was in Crimson Manor. You know, the fucking looney bin in town? I have the same issues with sex as her, according to my parents."

"You don't believe that's true?" He tilts his chin up with inquiry. "Tell me this―in a day, what are the things that go through your mind? Let's take today as an example."

I contemplate that, frowning. "Well, right now, I think about how angry I am with them for sending me here. Then there's a part of me that kind of knows they're right. Because right now―in this moment?" I sink back further on the sofa, slowly parting my legs to expose my underwear. "I think of how much I would like to get onto my knees, crawl my way across the room, and take your dick inside my mouth."

He shifts in his chair uncomfortably. I let out a dark chuckle, tipping my chin up. "I think about how easy men are. I think about how easy it is to manipulate and seduce them. It usually only takes one look, and I'll have the boys right where I want them." I widen my legs even more. "Tell me something, Doctor. Are your other clients as young as I am? And do they have the same problems as me?"

"I have treated patients with hypersexuality before," he says calmly.

"And did those patients look anything like me?" I ask with a smirk. "Young and tight and eager?"

"Can't say that I have had patients like that, no." He clears his throat. "Let's take a dive back into your past. When was the first time you started experiencing these issues? Do you remember the first time you masturbated?"

I let out a manic laugh. "This is madness. There is just no way in the universe that a man can ask questions like these without feeling some kind of arousing curiosity."

"I am here to help you, Daisy," he says in that same monotone voice.

I let out a low rumble, feeling the leather stick to my legs. "According to my mother, the first time she caught me I was nine. But maybe it started sooner. I don't really remember."

"Do you remember how it made you feel?"

"It felt good, duh. Why else would I do it?"

"Did you feel any shame for it?"

I cross my arms over each other. "No. I didn't know what it was. I just knew that it felt good. I felt shame when Mom caught me. She didn't mean to make me feel bad, I know that. But now that I'm older, I get it. It was fucked up. I was just a kid."

"Aren't you still a kid?" he questions, meeting my eyes.

"I am not a damn kid. I haven't been for a long time." I cross my legs, my mood suddenly changed.

"Do you think sleeping with all these boys somehow gives you a sense of worth?"

I roll my eyes. "Don't make this more than it is. Men will microwave a peach and fuck it. I have no problems with confidence or insecurities. I don't need guys to show me that I'm somehow worthy by sucking their cocks. I had a great childhood. I've been treated like a princess all my life. There's no trauma here for you to dissect, Doctor."

The rest of the session feels like a police interrogation, and it only worsens my mood. But halfway through, I decide to shift tactics because acting hostile and rude isn't helping anyone. Instead, I let my flirty, sunshine personality shine through, and I realize that it's not going to be all that hard to bend Dr. Beaumont to my will.

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