„In a parallel world, we are always our masters"

A large library, badly illuminated by the sun because of the thick red curtains, chosen in bad taste from the Flea Market; a massive bookshelf made of walnut; an oriental style desk; two chairs, with backs lined with black velvet; and a red sofa on the left are the pieces of furniture that can be found in that XVIIIth Century „room of science" as my father uses to call it.

The room isn't too welcoming at first glance, but if to spend some time there, one could find it quite interesting and acceptable, only if he manages to completely sink into the world of books that are lying on the massive bookshelf on the left.

And the books aren't too boring, let's be honest: all the well-known writers of these times are there and their real bawdy novels aren't for sure works that a 16-years-old girl should have read or immerse herself in their alluring world. But there wasn't anybody in this house who could stop my curiosity and, being free to do and read whatever I wanted, I did it all the time.

I had that freedom of reading whatever I wanted always because I wasn't ever an object of interest, neither of my father nor of my stepmothers, who always preferred to „know" more about the importance of this „cosmic world,” of what happens in someone else's boudoirs or of finding new lovers than to take care of the daughter of a dead first wife. And they were right: why should they take care of their husband's daughter, when he doesn't care about her either? And I understood this once again, when he finally talked to me, after a long time staring at the newspaper he was pretending to read.

He first raised his glance and looked at me, above his glasses, which weren't serving for anything, anyway, because they hadn't any magnifying glasses. But he loved to have them on his nose because it was giving him a kind of alluring aura of an educated and aristocratic man. And, staring at me for about a minute, he said:

„You will go to London today and you will join the „Red Ants". It is your debt as my daughter and I won't accept a „no" on your part.”

My father's voice resounded like a bang in my head. „The Red Ants? What was he talking about?! That is... "

„I know what you are thinking about, but ... it's the only chance we have to survive, Eva … I lost a poker game..."

Again. He lost a poker game, again. „What a surprise!" It wasn't something new or unexpected. He always promised himself and his creditors that it was the last time he played a poker game, but he was always failing, again and again, while falling in that avid trap of gambling, while feeling himself someone important at that poker table, triumphantly glancing at those who were leaving the game first.

But what is more surprising is the fact that I feel it as being a real threat now, whose target I am, because this lost game means something big this time: the bet had been what was left from his fortune, or… It can't be. My father couldn't have done this. Even if he is shameless, a bad father, neglectful, and addicted to gambling, he would have never sold his one daughter to pay his debts.

But... he did it. I can see this in his glance while he avoids my gaze, and his eyes dance in their orbits, trying to catch a blind spot in this bad tasted furnished room.

And finally, he gazed at me again: and that glacial glance of a father that won't ever pay two pennies for someone else's safety, especially if that person is me, pierced me and made me shudder because it wasn't what I was expecting or what I've always wanted from him.

It wasn't, because even if I wasn't ever surrounded by his love or attention, even if I hadn't ever heard a good word from him, at least I knew that I have a father.

Maybe he wasn't the father I wish I had, but he was there, feeding and dressing me as if I was one of the many mistresses he was maintaining. And what impressed me at that moment was the fact that I finally understood this and I started to wonder if I was blind all that time or I've only pretended to be a stupid who saw nothing, because I tried to ignore the fact that I was comparing myself to his mistresses, instead of considering myself his daughter. But this never bothered me. At least I never felt the pressure of this comparison before. But it started to bother me now, when I understood who my father really was: a gambling addict, able to sell his own daughter, instead of losing his last fortune. I was his insurance for a better life.

And again I shuddered, understanding that my dream of being loved by him was just a fake dream. He didn't love me. He just wished to marry me to some wealthy heritor, even if much older than me, even if a widower, but someone rich enough to help him if necessary, and, because of this, he always kept me near him.

But his great dream had been blown by the wind when none of the candidates chosen by him accepted me. And it hurt him so badly that he decided to get rid of me, and without any regret or wondering about how my future will be. He made that deal ... a shameful one in my opinion and I think in the opinion of many others too ...and he did this to watch his back and not to protect me as he wanted others to think.

It's painful and it hurts a lot, but I must accept it and move on because my fate is only in my hands now, and if I collapse right now, then I'll be lost forever.

And I shuddered once again when I understood the cruel truth: this person sold me and this was my reality at that moment. But the most painful for me has been to understand the fact that I was wondering if this man was still the father he used to be once - the object of my wistfulness, if he was still the wonderful man that I used to sketch in my head while waiting for him to come back home from his long journeys, when he had completely forgotten about my existence, because of his love affairs. But even so, this fool innocent girl was staying for hours on that wet and cold stair and watching in the distance for a new carriage to approach their house while she was expecting her father.

No, he probably is a fake, someone who had exchanged places with my real father to make fun of me, for a while, and then, my father, my real father will show up, on a white horse and, chasing this fake one away, he will tell me that everything had been a lie, that I won't go anywhere and that I can continue to dream about a possible life or to read about it in one of those many books seen on that massive bookshelf, in our library.

The bookshelf – is the only thing I see right now and among all those books that are lying there, a red-covered one is coming into my sight at this precise moment: „The love of the Beauty Beast," by C.N. Chane: a thriller-romance about a kidnapped girl, Allia, who managed to make her kidnapper fall in love with her only to survive and just to can punish him in the end.

This story is about many things: love, respect, suffering, and in the end, it's about justice. But even if I knew all this, I was aware that this story wasn't about me for sure. Why? Simply because I'm not Allia, I don’t have her strength and definitely, I won't ever be able to fight against someone. I was just capable of accepting it as being my destiny and, in the end, still thinking so, to die, but only not to hurt another person.

To be honest, I have always been a weak person, a sweet child who dreamt about a safe world where nobody is hurt, where nobody suffers, and where there are still sunshines breaking that fog wall that was separating my world from the real one and I have always been capable to forget about myself and about the fact that I could be the one hurt in the end, only to save a little butterfly caught in a spider web and I feel myself the same now: the same butterfly I used to save once, caught in a spider web called life, cruelty and vanity.

„Why are you silent? Just say something. Blame me, if you want, but don’t keep silent," my father said while piercing me with his glacial gaze.

I felt so small at that moment, so weak, so unprotected, and, at the same time, so empty while I caught his glance and I saw no love in it.

„What can I say? There is nothing I can tell you now. It’s just…”

„I'm not sending you to die. I only want to… "

„You only decided to send me to a lost world from which I'll never return. A lost world and you know this".

Finally, my voice regained its natural strength and I managed to talk to him as I always wanted: confident in myself, knowing who I am and what I deserve. And I just simply turned my back on my father and I walked to the door, and this wasn't for sure the reaction he has expected from me.

Two steps from the door, I stopped and, without turning to see his face, I said:

„Send somebody to call me when they are here. I'll leave this house immediately. I have nothing else to do here anymore and of course, I don't have either a family here to return to again".

A slammed door … an empty room … a man sitting on a velvet-covered chair and empty inside, without nobody left at his side, was left behind me.

And the man I left behind was just a person without a future, a game addict, who finally sold his soul to pay some old debts, but the debts are generally so stubborn and they never accept a simple payment as a reward ... they are always asking for more ... and they are always asking you to sell your soul.

And they were just in front of his door … waiting. Took, took ... just wait ... we'll come... very soon ... for more ... for your life ... for...