The Child Bride

Prologue     He meets her three times.   The first time, she is mere days old, screeching and squiggling, hands and feet the tiniest he has ever seen in the eleven years of his life, eyes shut close as she cries aloud, strenuously kicking with legs that she isn’t even old enough to lift as she wails on and on that he feels like his ears might bleed from all the noise.     He isn’t the only one irritated at the ruckus the little thing is putting up, Uncle Vic and his ‘very important friend’ looks angry in a way he knows it’s not good. He almost hides behind his Ma’s dress because Uncle Vic’s friend is holding the gun so carelessly that he flashes it around for everyone to see, for everyone to be afraid and the look of disdain on his face is alarming that it seems he might fire the gun any second now. Don should know better than to hide though, he is a Carllone, ‘Carllone men never hide’ he recalls his Pa’s words.   The man yells something harshly when the crying goes on and then there is a skinny, red faced lady, stumbling into the room looking tired, bruised and scared, barely holding back her own sobs as she runs towards them. Don takes another step back out of instincts when the lady rushes by. The lady accepts the blankets eagerly, not paying him or his Ma any attention, and the baby- it’s a baby, he knows that now- instantly stops crying.   “Ain’t she just gorgeous darl? She’d be perfect for you” his mother asks earnestly. He frowns at the question, it’s tiny and loud and annoying, it’s a baby; what is he meant to do with it?   He doesn’t get to reply, because the lady holding the baby starts sobbing again at his Ma’s words, she holds the bundle closer to her chest, moving away from Don and his Mama. She begs and screams until the baby starts crying once again, Uncle Vic looks even madder than he was before. They take the lady away, but Don notes that one of the maids by the door forcibly takes the bundle away from the lady before the guards push her into another room. The crying goes on, the lady’s wails getting louder and louder as the lady begs, calling out ‘Anna’ and saying words he won’t recognize until much later in his life.    Uncle Vic’s friend storms off towards the room when the lady doesn’t stop crying, looking angrier and angrier. The crying stops just as he hears the gun shot ring in his ears, it’s not his first time listening to the recoil of a gun, surely won’t be the last, but yet he still flinches.   The helpless wails of the infant echoed in his ears for years to come.     The second time she is older, a decade had passed since she was a baby and now he was staring down at the most defiant pair of eyes he had ever seen, and he has seen a lot of those, but yet, hers doesn’t wean of at the sight of the men that surrounds her, each with harsh gazes and even harsher words. She is bruised, her wrist are a burning red, lips split and bleeding at the edges and the right side of her cheek is in various shades of red and blue, but her eyes, they stare him down.   He is older too; he is a man at the cusp of 22. He is old enough to know why she is there standing in front of him, looking at him with unconcealed hatred, he is old enough to know what exactly his mother meant all those years ago when she pointed at a squirming baby and he is also old enough to know that his Uncle Vic’s friend is Aldrich Devitto, the kid’s father, the king of an empire build from blood, pain and the money that came from a lifetime of inflicting misery. A man dangerous enough that Don has to smile, drink the glass of cold whisky offered to him and nod along to the old man’s words.    Mrs. Devitto apologizes, she talks about the kid’s fiery personality in more insulting words hidden under polite covers for the sake of her family name, she pretends to like the kid, touch her forehead and smooth out her hair, but Don is also old enough to recognize the unveiled threat and animosity there. Mrs. Devitto doesn’t give a damn about the kid, if anything she and the rest of her children seem to gleam at the sight of the old bruises. One of the woman’s older sons finally take note of the defiance in her eyes and  brandishes his gun in front of her, the kid’s eyes finally lowers, but he catches a flash of fear, desperation and what are no doubt unshed tears.   He knows there is no place for empathy and emotions in his line of work, he is not eleven years old anymore, he knows what goes behind the curtains, he has seen his enough share of blood and tears from tailing his uncle, he touched his first gun at 13, he doesn’t necessarily like it but he knows how the world works now, he knows how far he is allowed to say ‘No’. He doesn’t feel anything for her, she is a kid, still a baby in his eyes, but the grownups; they have bigger plans, plans that don’t involve any of their consent and if she is smart she will learn to shut up and take it.   But yet his eyes linger on the 10 year old’ knuckles, which are bruised red with dried blood and scraped skin, but the bones in there seems stronger in a way he only gets after spending weeks at the gym. He thinks maybe she does know how to take it, just in her own way.     The third time they meet it’s at an altar.   He is closer to 30 and she literally just turned 18 that day. She is standing opposite to him, wearing a wedding dress that is three sizes too large with nothing redeeming about it, her skin isn’t bruised anymore and her knuckles have healed perfectly, but her eyes still scream in defiance.   The event is big; there are too many people, too many eyes he has to please. He can’t hide, ‘Carllone men don’t hide’ he has to remind himself whenever he looks for the only face he wants to see that is missing among the sea of people staring at him and this strange child with him. He was barely aware of any of the preparations and arrangements for the event after years of trying aimlessly to stop this day from happening, so he gets completely drunk, and pointedly decides never to stop drinking. The only thing he has been asked to do is show up, say his words and kiss the squealing baby he saw all those years ago.   He doesn’t remember most of it, he says his obligatory ‘I do’ seconds away from passing out drunk, or more spectacularly throwing up all over his fiancée, but he has a moment of clarity when the officiator asks the kid the same question. He begs and hopes that she says ‘no’, thinks of the defiant eyes and the bruised knuckles, but he also recalls the bruises and the way her mother screamed before her presumed father shot her.   He feels like a coward, standing there, silently begging a child a decade younger than him to have the courage he didn’t and say ‘No’, but yet it doesn’t stop him from foolishly hoping. Her eyes soften for the fraction of a second, intend on staring at him.   “I do” she agrees, her voice wavering before she gets a hold of herself.   He kisses her when the officiator asks him to and realizes that he is married. He is married to a child he has met a total of three times, with each encounter barely passing a minute or two, a child he hasn’t ever spoken to or touched or even seen in years, a child whose mother was killed for daring to ask for her freedom. This isn’t the 16th century Europe, they aren’t from the medieval times where arranged marriages and blushing child brides were common, he is not a pedophile and she isn’t a gold digger, he doesn’t love her, he doesn’t know her, and he doesn’t want her and he never will.   But yet there are rings on their fingers, she has a new name and he has a new roommate whom he won’t ever be able to look at.    Amongst bottles and bottles of alcohol, defiant eyes and bruised skin, he gains a child bride.