Amapola Beviláqua

I didn't expect to be separated from my father so quickly, and I definitely didn't want it. I liked having him close; he was my refuge, my security, and my strength, just as I know I am for him. I needed him to recover. I didn't know how long we would be kept in this tiny, poorly ventilated place. To be honest, there was so little air circulating that I breathed cautiously to ensure he had more.

The man who served as our jailer always left bread, coffee, and water, and we never exchanged any words, except on the last day when he pulled me from the cell and practically demanded that I eat. He said he knew I was only drinking the coffee to stay warm and was leaving all the bread for my father. I can't say for sure, but for a moment, I thought he might have been... concerned.

I saw the very devil enter our cell and take my father away from me. He left my papa naked and discarded my coat in a corner. I didn't know if he would kill him because of my defiance. I had called him a monster, and I believe no one had ever said anything like that to him before.

When the door closed and we were left alone in the room that seemed even smaller because of the imposing figure of the man, I thought it would be my end. I thought he would kill me without a second thought. But that didn't happen.

He stood before me, fury etched in his eyes. He wanted to kill me; I felt it in his silence. His eyes shot daggers at me, and I could do nothing but wait for my end. To be honest, I wasn't worried about myself but about my father. Because of my actions, he was condemned to a slow and painful death.

He told me to stand up, and defying all my instincts, I did. I put myself in a submissive position, knowing that’s what he wanted, what he expected from everyone around him, and I begged for his forgiveness—not for myself, but for my father.

But he didn’t believe a word I said. He saw through the lie and, more importantly, that I wasn’t sorry for what I said. To be honest, I wanted to say much more, and that’s when he allowed it. For a fraction of a second, I saw compassion in his eyes; something about my situation bothered him, and he let me pour out all my anguish and frustration on him.

Through punches, slaps, and scratches where he lowered his guard, I vented my hatred and insecurities. Contrary to what I expected, he didn’t retaliate or hurt me. He stayed silent until my last strength was spent, and when I would have collapsed, he caught me.

His hands wrapped around me, and I felt cared for and protected, like when my mother was still alive, when my father wasn't dependent on alcohol and on me. I shouldn’t have felt that way; he had kidnapped my father, kept me captive, and now, strangely, was letting me relieve the tension and ensuring I didn’t get hurt.

Did this man have any remnants of humanity within him? I began to think so, but he quickly resumed his façade, his posture as the lord of the world, the all-powerful one. Nevertheless, he stayed by my side until I was completely calm, or until the last of my strength had ebbed away.

When he got up to leave me alone in my solitary confinement, I questioned his actions and realized he was as lost and incredulous as I was. He had acted on impulse, and I felt he was regretting it.

He was in conflict with himself, and unlike him, who helped me when I needed it, I had no way to help him.

Before leaving, he assured me that he wouldn’t kill my father. In a way, it was his last act of mercy toward me. I would be kept here, but just knowing that my father was alive was a great comfort and relief.

“Amapola.” I hear a familiar voice call me. I was so exhausted that I didn’t see when my captor approached.

“Yes?” I sit up quickly.

I’ve been trying not to defy them. Not having my father nearby and not knowing how he really is haunts me, so I’ll do whatever I can to cooperate.

“Take a shower,” he says, handing me a bag with jeans, a black t-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. “You’ll be leaving here today. I’ll be back to get you in half an hour.”

“Are you freeing me?” I ask, hopeful.

“Not necessarily. You’ll be sent to another location.”

“My father?” I question.

“No more questions, girl. Just get ready and I’ll be back to get you.” He says before closing the door to my cell again.

As I showered for the first time with soap, fear began to take over me. I didn’t know what to expect from this new place where I’d be sent. Even though alone and without any comfort, I had grown accustomed to my private prison. The unknown scared me.

I used the soap and, with the edge of the towel, improvised a toothbrush. It was terrible not being able to maintain my personal hygiene as usual.

I was taken in silence by the man to an old and beautiful building. When I entered, I discovered it was a casino, a gambling house.

“Martin,” he calls the attention of a man who was distracted at the bar and hadn’t noticed our approach. I remained silent, my head down beside him.

Even in this position, I scanned as much of the environment as I could. It was bathed in luxury and wealth; I was sure that the people frequenting this place were financially well-off.

Many people walked back and forth, cleaning every corner of the place. Most were women, dressed in short clothes, some even in lingerie. I wondered if they felt cold, but the place seemed to have some sort of heating because I wasn’t wearing any coat and still didn’t feel cold.

Some women chatted and laughed with others as if they weren’t here under duress. I wondered if they, like me, were prisoners, but if they were, why did they seem so content while working?

Perhaps these were the most beautiful women I had ever seen, made up, with silky hair, manicured nails. They didn’t seem to suffer abuse. The only thing that bothered me was the scant clothing they wore. Otherwise, everything seemed normal—well, not quite normal, as there were armed men scattered around the place carrying heavy-caliber weapons.

Why had they brought me here? I wondered as soon as I entered, but when the man behind the bar approached us, I got my answer.

“Buon pomeriggio, amico Amadeu,” he greeted my captor, now revealed to be named Amadeu.

“Good afternoon, brought this girl to stay with the others,” he informs, and my heart races. This was it—they prostituted them, and I would be forced to do the same.

How could I do this when I had never been with a man in my life? I had deceived myself, and unlike the feeling of protection I had when alone with the monster, this time, he would destroy me.

“Another one for the menu?” Martin asks.

“Not at all. By express orders from the boss, she’ll stay here until further notice but won’t be offered like the others, understood?” Amadeu asks, and relief washes over me. Still, I can’t escape the fear. If he didn’t bring me here to prostitute me, what would I do?

“And where should I put her, amico? With that angelic face, she would bring good profits to the house.” Martin lifts my face to meet his eyes and, in a repugnant gesture, caresses his member through his pants while licking his lips. I shudder inside.

In a swift move, Amadeu removes his hand from my chin and drags Martin over the bar, forcing him to press his back against the cold surface with a gun pointed at his forehead.