Amapola Beviláqua Part 2

Since my mother died, I’ve saved my father countless times, but now I knew I wouldn’t be able to. I had no way to save him from the man who still held my wrists while I cried on my knees on the floor.

My hands were raised upward; he hadn’t bent even a millimeter to make it easier for my knees to touch the ground. On the contrary, his hands were stretched out in front, holding my wrists up while my whole body dangled downward. He supported my weight effortlessly.

When he realized I would do nothing but cry, he released my arms, which fell heavily by my sides, and my knees finally bore the weight of my body.

“I have your father with me,” he says in a cold, completely controlled manner.

I lift my eyes towards him. How can he admit so naturally that he’s holding a man captive? Who is this man? He isn’t a judge or a police officer but acts as if he is the law itself.

“Is he alive?” I ask, seeing him through tear-blurred vision.

“For now, yes,” he says coldly, as if he could decide the fate of people, as if he were God.

“Let me see him,” I beg. “He’s a fragile man; since my mother died, he has only me.” I try to move him somehow, though I think it’s a difficult task.

“He should be the one taking care of you,” he asserts.

“He lost his will to live after the accident,” I tell him.

“Then death will be a welcome relief for him,” he finally says, as if sentencing him.

“Please don’t do that.” Still on my knees, I cling to his legs, pleading for my father’s life. “Kill me instead,” I ask, unable to bear the thought of a life without him by my side.

I could ask him to let my father go and never tell him what he’d done to me. My father would think I had left, and he’d have his revenge—one life for another. That was what I was proposing, hoping he would accept.