Hope

Hope
At 12 Years Old

It's tomorrow, I'll turn 12, and Mom is going to hurt me. I tremble, hiding inside the closet. She's disappeared, and my brothers and father can't find her. I think she must have hidden at my aunt's house, or Dad took her away so she couldn't hurt me. But it never works; she always finds me.
I can't understand how Mom can try to hurt me on my birthdays, always calling me a bastard and saying I was the result of rape. I've tried to figure out what those words mean, but no one tells me, and Dad has forbidden me from mentioning her to our family or I'll be punished. I don't want to be punished; I can't stand Mom hurting me anymore.
I put my hand to my stomach, the hunger from hiding for hours torments me, but I'm afraid to go out and find Mom around the house. It's only a few hours before midnight, and I know she'll appear from somewhere. I need to get out of here and find another hiding place, one she doesn't know about. If I survive tomorrow, she'll be affectionate again, and I won't have to worry.
Last year, Mommy ran away from Dad while he was keeping her locked in her room. She found me in Black's room, hit him with a baseball bat, and then me. Dad was quick to catch her, but she still hurt my leg. I was bruised for two weeks and couldn't walk properly.
Dad is soft with Mommy; he can't hurt her or use restraints to restrain her. She always yells at him, calling him Benjamin. I see how my dad gets when he's called that name; it's as if he's being beaten by Mommy, too. I don't know who Benjamin is, but he must have been a bad man to terrify my mom and shake my dad.
That's why she always manages to escape. If she hits my dad or my brothers, they won't fight back. If she gets to me, she hurts me long enough for them to react. Black tries to protect me, but he gets emotional when Mom says it's his fault, that he didn't protect her. Steve sometimes seems to understand what she's saying too. They're all hurt by her words, but it's only me she's trying to kill.
I can't take making my mom suffer anymore. She hurts me, but it hurts her too. I see the tears in her eyes and how she begs me for forgiveness the next day. I can't go on living this way anymore, so I've decided I'm going to put an end to my mom's suffering. While everyone's looking for her, I've been hiding in my room for three days, not drinking or eating anything. Eventually, the pain will pass, and her suffering will end.
I just need to disappear.
"Hope." I hear my dad's voice.
I cover my mouth. He can't find me here. Dad will try to protect me, but if he does, I'll continue to hurt Mom, and I don't want to make her suffer because of me anymore.
"Honey, come out, please." I stay quiet, listening to his footsteps through the house. He approaches the closet, opens the doors, and the clothes above my head move aside. I find my father with a worried expression. He sighs before sitting down across from me.
"What are you doing here, little one?"
"Hiding," I say, my voice hoarse and my lips dry with thirst.
"Hope," he cups my face, "how long have you been here?" He pulls me toward him, studying my face. I shrug, not wanting to answer, my body tired. "Hey, look at me." His hand pats my cheeks. I fall asleep in my dad's lap.

I wake up feeling a twinge in my arm. I see the doctor inserting a syringe into my hand. I follow the long tube, finding an IV above my head. My father has a worried expression as he examines me. The doctor leaves, and we're alone. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring at me sadly.
"You weren't eating, why?" "If I died, Mom wouldn't suffer anymore," I confess, the tears catching in my throat.
"Never say that again," he begs, pulling me close.
"I can't understand why Mom hates me?" Thick tears stream down my cheeks. "I can't take it anymore, Dad, please, end my suffering."
"Are you crazy?!" He grabs my shoulders, shaking me. I cry even harder for hurting him. I should have found a better place. "Never do that again, do you hear me?"
"Tell me the truth, Dad, why does Mom call me a bastard and say I'm the product of rape?"
"You're still too young, you wouldn't understand."
The clock strikes midnight. I tremble, pushing him back, staring at my bedroom door, fear making it hard to breathe. She's coming, she's going to destroy me. I'm going to hurt my family again. I curl my chest against my knees, crying until I can no longer hear my voice through my hoarse throat. My father holds me against his body, tears welling in his eyes, and his suffering hurts me.
"I shouldn't have been born," I say Mom's words. "I only brought suffering."
"That's not true, you're my girl," he says, kissing me. My head hurts, but it's no use, nothing can erase the pain in my chest. "I'm going to disappear, Daddy, I promise it will stop hurting."
"No, Hope!" He holds my face, forcing me to look at him. "You can't die, do you hear me? You're my daughter, and I love you."
"She's not your daughter." My mother's icy voice rings from the wall. I turn to find her emerging from a secret passageway; I didn't know there was one here.
"Kennedy!" he yells at her, letting go of me and running toward her.
"You're not Bartholomew's daughter, you bastard!" he yells.
"What?" I ask, staring at my father, who covers my mother's mouth. The desperation is evident on his face as he stares at me.
"Hope, it's not true, your mother is unbalanced."
However, she wasn't unbalanced. She knew what she was doing. I see the knife in her hand sticking out from behind her. Dad doesn't notice the sharp object, and Mom plunges the blade into his thigh without even blinking or looking at him. He screams, and she pulls the knife away and stabs him in the stomach. My father can do nothing but stare at her as he falls to the ground. She sheds a tear as she walks toward me.
She's going to kill me.
I freeze. If she stabs me with the knife, everything will be over. My father won't be at risk anymore, my brothers will stop suffering, and Mom won't cry or try to hurt me anymore. If she stabs me, it will be the end of all my suffering. I stay still, waiting for her to reach me. Her bloodstained hand grips my hair, her eyes fixed on mine. She raises her arm with the knife, plunging the blade into my stomach.
I scream, cry, the pain is sharp, my body is burning, and I feel like I'm going to pass out.
"You were never Bartolomeu's daughter. Your real father raped me and impregnated me with you." I hate you for looking like Benjamin. Do you feel pain, Hope? That's what I felt as he thrust his cock into my vagina, ripping me in two to create you. You were never my hope, but my torment.
"I'm sorry, Mommy," I beg, coughing up blood. "Forgive me."
"Never." He twists the knife in my stomach.
I pass out, falling into the arms of death. At least now no one will suffer because of me anymore.
I wake up feeling numb. An annoying beep. I open my eyes slowly, adjusting to the brightness, the white ceiling. Am I in heaven? I roll my neck in pain, finding my mother sitting in a chair, her head down, sleeping. The memories of what happened haunt my mind like a nightmare.
I curl up, pretending to sleep again. What day is it? Is she going to hurt me? The beeping gets louder, I hear the door opening, and I brake with fear in every part of my body. A hand touches my head, and I scream. "Hope, it's me, calm down, my love." It's my father's voice.
Memories of my mother telling me he's not my father reverberate in my head like a song that never ends. I cry inconsolably. If he's not my father, who is? Is this why Mom hates me? I scream in desperate sobs, a pain worse than physical pain tearing at my heart, hurting so much I want to rip my chest out.
"Hope, my love." My mother's voice. I feel her touch on my arm and flinch, I can't stand being hurt anymore. "Honey, please look at me, it's okay, Mommy's back to normal."
It doesn't matter, she can be the good Mommy today, and on my next birthday she can go back to being the mean one who hurts me and says my daddy isn't my father.
"She's very agitated, I'm going to give her a sedative," someone says. I don't feel anything being stabbed into me, but my senses are slowing, my head heavy, and I can't cry anymore. I open my eyes halfway, finding my mother, father, and a man dressed in white. I black out again. The following days are a series of repeated storms of fear, which only worsen when my father has to leave. I'm sedated or I go into a panic.
I don't know how much time passes, but I finally manage to wake up and not be agitated or crying. A strange calm takes over my chest. I don't talk to anyone, I eat and drink the water they give me. My brothers try to get me to talk, but I don't want to hear the sound of my voice. When my father returns, I'm taken home. My room frightens me; I refuse to go in and go with Black to his room.
"Honey, we need to talk," my father says. "If I tell you the whole truth, promise you'll understand and talk to us again?" You've been like this for six months now, Hope, please come back to me," he pleads, but I can't react to his words.
"Aren't you my father?" I ask, still feeling numb.
"Yes, I am," he holds my hand. "I was the one who raised you and loved you from the second we knew you existed. Only I am your father," he pulls me toward him. "But there's something you don't know. I'm going to tell you the truth behind your mother's outbursts so you don't blame yourself anymore. We can get through this together, my girl. Do you trust me?"
"What's the truth?"
"I had a brother, his name was Benjamin. We were identical twins, and Benjamin always wanted everything."

I had. He longed for my position and my family—he strokes my cheek—he wanted you for himself. Even though we fought constantly, he was still part of the family. One day, while I was on a mission, Benjamin picked up his mother and Black from the clinic where his brother had gone for a checkup. At the time, Steve, who was still a child, was at his grandmother's house.
He remains silent, and as much as I want to know the truth, I remain silent. I don't know if anything matters anymore. The man in front of me isn't my real father. Could this be why he let Mom hurt me? He took a knife for me—how can I even think that?
I press my hand to my eyes, tired of crying, despair consuming my chest. It's almost impossible to breathe; I don't know if I want to hear what he has to say anymore. I lie down, hiding my face in the pillow, feeling like if he doesn't speak now, I'll never know the truth again. "Adults often have something called sex when we're naked and we like each other," he pauses, "but they also use sex to hurt. Benjamin took advantage of Black being only 14 and sick and took him and Kennedy to his house, locked his brother in his arms, and tied his mother to the bed. He used sex, hurting his mother's body."
"Was that how..." I sob into the pillow, "I was born?" "I'm not sure I understand what my father means. But if Mom was hurt while she was naked, it must hurt her to this day."
"Yes, it's through sex that babies are born. But since your mother and I also had sex, there was a possibility that the baby she was expecting was mine."
"Would you hurt Mom?" I ask, looking at him.
"No, Hope, I never caused Kennedy pain. What she and I have is love, for each other and for our family."
"Mommy doesn't love me."
"Yes, she does." He pulls me to his chest. "When we found out you were pregnant, your mother believed you were my biological daughter and clung to the hope that it was true to help her overcome the pain Benjamin caused."
"Wasn't Mom ever afraid of you?"
"For the first six months, she was afraid of everything, but then she calmed down. Before the outbursts happened, Kennedy managed to stay sane around you and me because she knew I wasn't Benjamin. She always managed to tell us apart, better than my mother. Kennedy said our walks were different, the way we intoned our words, and, according to her, the way we looked at her. She always felt the love I have for her and our family when our eyes met."
"When did she change?"
"Benjamin hurt her and ran away. She spent four years hiding from me because she knew I would kill him the second I got my hands on him."
"Four years?" I ask, remembering the first time Mom attacked me. "That's when she started hurting me, on my birthdays." "Yes, I found Benjamin just four years after your mother was attacked. I searched every corner of the world until I found him in Argentina. No one in the organization could know what Benjamin had done, or you and your mother would be in danger. I needed to keep you safe while I hunted Benjamin alone. It took longer than it should have, but I found him and brought him to the basement. Where I tied him up and tortured him, making him suffer for hurting your mother. Kennedy was always strong; she was sure you were biologically mine, and when I brought Benjamin to be punished, she confronted him. That's when she discovered the truth."
"How?" I stare at him, confused. I don't know if I understand everything Dad says, but I understand that Mom was hurt and that I was born from it."
"While I was torturing him, your mother went into the basement. No one could know what Benjamin did to her, or she would be seen as dishonored and I would be seen as weak. So we kept everything a secret, but the second your mother came face to face with him, she froze." She approached Benjamin, cupped his face, and pulled back his lower eyelid, finding a small mole on his left eye that's only visible if you pull it.
"I have that mole." I face the reality that makes my world fall apart.
"That's when the outbursts started. She manages to stay well all year, but when she remembers the abuse and sees you on your birthday, knowing that biologically you're Benjamin's, she freaks out and only wants to hurt him through you. Kennedy knows that if it's discovered she had a child with another man, regardless of the circumstances, she would be punished by the organization. I would be killed for hiding a bastard, claiming her as my own, and you would be thrown into brothels, places where women are hurt with sex."
He holds me tightly against his body. I try to look at my father with the same fascination I had before, but I can't. The truth pouring before my eyes splits my head in two. I am the product of rape; now I can understand my mother's words; I am not my father's daughter. The cry erupts like a tornado in m