Porcelain Song
Two
Nocturnal interludes he called them. Just before midnight, my door would open, light from the hall, hitting my face and waking me up.
Now I don’t blame Benoit for all my faults, perhaps even without his slimy touch I would have become the scourge of Europe, scattering broken hearts and broken bodies like confetti.
Or perhaps not… now we will never know. My point however is that I will not tell you what he did to me those nights, not yet anyway.
Let’s just say that this went on for two years, and by the time I hit seventeen I had turned things to my advantage. If I saw a diamond broche I wanted, Papa Benoit would have to buy it for me, otherwise I would feel the need to inform his wife, my mother of his indiscretions.
It must be said that I always knew how to make the best out of a bad situation. For every nauseating, terrifying moment I spent in his arms, was a lovely new dress, straight off the runway, a glass of champagne at the most chic new restaurant.
But one night, it went too far. He left marks that could not be hidden, my Mother grew suspicious and by the end of the day he was out on his ass. She took my dresses, and threw them out; she took my diamonds and locked them away. A curfew was imposed, and I was sent to bed each night at 9pm, while she entertained her special ‘friends’ down stairs. While she slept, they ventured upstairs, where I would continue to entertain them.
Then, of course, after just a few months, my mother married again, and again and again.
There were men who called me princess, men who called me darling, but each and every one of them held my hand too tight, and when they said they loved me, it wasn’t like a father should. I think my Mother knew what was going on, but she didn’t care. These ones hid it well, and bought her almost as many pretty things as they bought me.
While other girls studied, became nurses and debutantes, I stood by my mother, and various step fathers, a secret smile on my face, and predatory stare, scanning the room.
Did I get what I deserve? You shall be the judge.
Now I don’t blame Benoit for all my faults, perhaps even without his slimy touch I would have become the scourge of Europe, scattering broken hearts and broken bodies like confetti.
Or perhaps not… now we will never know. My point however is that I will not tell you what he did to me those nights, not yet anyway.
Let’s just say that this went on for two years, and by the time I hit seventeen I had turned things to my advantage. If I saw a diamond broche I wanted, Papa Benoit would have to buy it for me, otherwise I would feel the need to inform his wife, my mother of his indiscretions.
It must be said that I always knew how to make the best out of a bad situation. For every nauseating, terrifying moment I spent in his arms, was a lovely new dress, straight off the runway, a glass of champagne at the most chic new restaurant.
But one night, it went too far. He left marks that could not be hidden, my Mother grew suspicious and by the end of the day he was out on his ass. She took my dresses, and threw them out; she took my diamonds and locked them away. A curfew was imposed, and I was sent to bed each night at 9pm, while she entertained her special ‘friends’ down stairs. While she slept, they ventured upstairs, where I would continue to entertain them.
Then, of course, after just a few months, my mother married again, and again and again.
There were men who called me princess, men who called me darling, but each and every one of them held my hand too tight, and when they said they loved me, it wasn’t like a father should. I think my Mother knew what was going on, but she didn’t care. These ones hid it well, and bought her almost as many pretty things as they bought me.
While other girls studied, became nurses and debutantes, I stood by my mother, and various step fathers, a secret smile on my face, and predatory stare, scanning the room.
Did I get what I deserve? You shall be the judge.