Forbidden Hearts

Two men stood dressed in neatly tailored black suits, mini microphones hanging from their ears. Watching me.

I'd just stepped off the bus into New York City, still trying to process the last six hours of my life, and somehow two strangers had already found a reason to stare.

I looked away, telling myself it was nothing. New York was probably full of strange men in suits.

Buzz.

I glanced at my phone, hoping it was Emilia. It wasn't.

Unknown Number: Welcome to New York City, Ama Wellington. I've been expecting you.

My hands began to fidget so hard that my phone nearly slipped from my hands.

I looked up. The two men were gone. Like they were never there.

"What the fuck..." I whispered.

***

Six hours earlier, I hadn't known any of this was coming. I'd only known the rain and the sound of my father's voice.

The evening sky continually grew darker as raindrops lashed the roofs of buildings in Boston, and thunder kept rumbling like powerful drums.

I gripped the car keys tightly, trying to slip past the living room without him noticing me.

"And where exactly are you heading to?"

A loud, deep masculine voice stopped me from behind-Tom Wellington, my father.

"Uhm, I... uhm, want to get something from the store down the block," I stammered.

"And you are taking the car along with you?"

"Yeah, it's raining outside and..." I tried to explain, but his voice cut in.

"Silence, Ama! Do you know how much it cost me to repair that car? The same car that broke down because of you. Thirty dollars wasted!" His voice became more aggressive.

"I didn't do anything," I whispered, but my voice was barely heard.

"You are to blame for your mother's illness. Ama! You are good for nothing!" I could see the rage in his eyes as he stared at me with disgust.

"STOP! STOP! STOP IT!" I yelled out.

The whole room that was full of shouts became a graveyard, and the raindrops outside became a melodious rhythm.

"Why do you hate me so much? What have I done to deserve this from you? You never let me live a normal life; you're never in support of me getting a job. You've always seen me as a failure. All of my efforts to make you proud of me have been nothing but in vain. Why? Tell me why?"

My father stood there in shock, his lips parted, and his eyes widened. This was the first time I had ever spoken back to him while he was scolding me.

"Why, Father? Why don't you love me? In my twenty-three years of living, I've longed for a father's love. My dad's love and-"

"Who is your father? I am not your father," he said as he interrupted me.

Once again, the room erupted into silence.

"Tom, stop, please." Following the direction of the voice, it was my mother. She kept sobbing in the corner.

"Louis, it's been sixteen bloody years, I'm fed up. Don't you think it's time she knows? Let her know the truth." 

"What truth?"

"No, please. Don't tell her." My mother collapsed to the ground in tears and anguish. She kept begging my dad not to tell me.

"What are you guys talking about? Tom, what is she saying? What are you saying? I am your daughter. Why did you say I am not?" I asked, but they both turned a deaf ear.

My mother kept shaking her head, signalling to my father not to let me know.

"Dad?" I whispered.

"I am not your goddamn father, you brat! I am not your father. Your father is evil. You are carrying the blood of a killer, not my blood." He turned to me, as his hands stopped midway, inches from hitting me.

I used my hands as a support to cover my face in fear.

My heart pounded against my chest. I lifted my gaze, and his hands were still frozen in the air.