The wide expanse of the back of my father's hand nears me as if in slow motion. I can see his meticulously manicured nails, a few hairs at the bend of his wrist, his titanium Panerai watch showing a few minutes past six in the morning—all peeking out from the cuff of his silken maroon pajamas. Kicked up from the floor by his handcrafted, Italian leather slippers, a million dust particles swirl and dance in the air, reflecting the early morning light and forming a tunnel of movement for his hand to follow. Aimed at me. Aimed at my face. Aimed at beating sense into me so I won't turn out like my mother. As if it wants to say, You thought you could play a joke on me, did you?

Smack!

His hand strikes my left cheek and my head comes alive with livid fire. I convulse in a bout of coughing, sputtering water out of my lungs. My throat and mouth burn with a scorching sensation of chlorinated liquid rushing out. Every breath brings pain and a low whizzing noise. I try to swallow, but it hurts. I try to stand up and promptly recede into dizziness. The bathroom doesn't just double-spin against me, it seems to turn inside out and fold onto itself in consecutive waves. A pulsing rhythm matching my heartbeat.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Papa yells into my ear. "Answer me."

Perhaps there was a time when my head and my brain were one. Not anymore. My brain floats on its own in my skull, a mere container for its syrupy presence. It sloshes to the side as I tilt my head in an attempt to hide from his yelling. Every syllable, every word that flies off my father's lips, threatens to pierce my sanity and explode my head into a million little pieces.

I don't need to listen to what he says, it's the usual concoction. A string upon a string of swear words and accusations and warnings that one day, you just wait, one day you'll turn out just like your mother. Nothing will ever become of you. Would you look at what you did. You made me break my bathroom door. Do you even know how much a door costs? How much it costs to replace the lock? To fill in holes in the wall and to paint it?

All I see is his mouth opening and closing, his thin lips stretching over his teeth in a dance of forceful monologue that's supposed to teach me, to do me good, to help raise me in such a way that I manage to survive in this world, as a woman. Because, in Papa's eyes, women are second class. Women are weak creatures who need to be controlled lest they decide to charm off men's pants and make them do stupid shit. They corrupt men's very spirits. I don't just stop listening to him drone on and on, I even stop listening to my own thoughts repeating to me automatically what I have heard so many times.

I'm really good at tuning things out, years of practice pay off. My focus shifts to the door. It lies on the tiled floor, its oak paneling covered with a layer of white particle board dust. I feel sorry for my only refuge, the only room that can't be locked anymore. And I want out. Out of this room, out of this house. I want to run away and never come back, like mom did on that rainy September morning.

"Did you hear what I said?" Papa's voice jerks me from my moment of contemplation. Out of habit, without being fully present, I play along.

"Yes, I did," I say, shifting my gaze to Canosa, making sure she doesn't move. Suddenly, I have a hard time suppressing the urge to jump out of the tub and look at the marble sirens, touch their marble faces to confirm that I haven't gone insane.

"Then, please, explain to me what this is doing in my bathroom?" Papa shoves his hand under my face.

I make myself look up, wincing at the searing pain that starts at my eyelids and continues crawling under my eyeballs and beyond them, directly into my brain, ramming two metal spikes with every blink. I smell it before I see it and I know what he's found. Papa's unturned palm displays three joint stubs, twisted and stuck to the top of the crushed soda can that I didn't even care to dispose of because, by now, I was supposed to be dead. Every ounce of pain vanishes, swept away by the terror of being caught.

"It's not mine," I say, feeling my face turn red and hot, desperately trying to control the blood flow by gritting my teeth together. No use. It's as if I speed it up instead. Every single blood vessel in my face inflates with guilt. In some stubborn delirium, I insist, "I didn't do it. I swear. It's Hunter's." There, I just betrayed my only friend. Nice move, Ailen.

Another slap on my cheek makes me grab onto the tub's rims so that I don't slide under the water. This is slap number two, one more to go. The world spins. I think I can taste blood and smell my own fear.

Papa hovers over me, the collar of his silk pajamas hanging open and revealing his chest hair, his lips quivering. After an initial surge of anger, this is his typical remorse. "Don't you ever lie to me, Ailen. How dare you. Would you look at yourself, look who you're turning into. It's in your DNA. Your mother was a liar, too. It pains me to strike you, sweetie, but there is no other way for me to teach you. I care for you, I want you to have a better life than her. Do you understand?"

"I'm sorry I worried you, Papa, I'm fine. I'll be fine." I manage, talking through the pain, hoping against all hope that he won't make me look at him.

It's a futile hope, because he grabs my chin, as always, and lifts up my face. His huge eyes bulge out of his head in two menacing horror-balloons that have given me nightmares ever since I was little. I imagine they're two pools of water that I'm staring at, my usual escape.

"Papa, let go, it hurts."

He doesn't hear me. He continues asking. He wants to know what I'm doing, fully dressed, in a tub full of water. Did I take any other drugs besides weed? How long have I been up? How will I go to school? He tells me he has no time to deal with it and I should've known better. I sense the ending to his tirade.

Here it comes. The pitch of his voice rises, balances on a precipice of that familiar place before tumbling into an abyss of rage. Bout number three, the grand finale. Three is my favorite number, because after three it's over. I stiffen.

Slap!

The back of his left hand greets me hard, but to me, he caresses my cheek. I ignore the salt in my tears, pretending it's a taste of sea. My ears ring from the impact, but I imagine it's him telling me how to throw pebbles into a lake so that they skip along like frogs. That's what the slapping noises were, really.

He reaches under my armpits and yanks me out of the tub, drags me several feet, and leans me against the wall. He begins mopping my face with a towel, like I'm five. Shaking violently from being wet and cold, I stare at Canosa, thinking back to our conversation, replaying her words in my mind. How about you become a siren and torture his soul with your songs, never really killing him, holding him by a thread on the precipice of dying, as long as you want to. Watch him squirm and plead, like a worm? Hurt him, for hurting your mother?

I think about how my idea of hurting him, the only way I can, is stupid. Killing myself to make him feel sorry? Right. Throwing him deep into grief? Dream on, Ailen, dream on. Look at him, concentrated on drying me like his favorite doll that got dropped into the toilet by accident, with such a grimace of disgust on his face that can only be attributed to how much I stink. Canosa is right, he doesn't care. Never did, never will. He's broken beyond repair. There is only one way to hurt him.

"Yes," I tell her. "I want to. Take my soul, please."

"Who are you talking to?" Papa asks, attempting to trace my line of vision. I drop my gaze to the floor, stare at my bare feet, and watch small puddles form around them. Before he has a chance to say anything else, I remember something important.

"I'm sixteen today, Papa. You forgot," I whisper, terrified at pointing out his mistake. It's me who is always at fault, no matter what. It's me who always has to apologize.

"I can't hear what you're saying, sweetie, speak up, please. How many times do I have to tell you?"

He doesn't hear me, of course. He never does. I want to burst from hurt, as he lifts my head again and looks me in the eyes.

"I asked you a question, I expect a response."

I look at the window, anywhere but at him.

"Would you look at those eyes darting left and right. You think you know better than me, don't you? You think you're so smart? Here, I'll give you a chance to prove it. Tell me what women were made for. Go on."

This is it, his favorite question to quiz me on. His way of making sure I remember it for the rest of my life. I'd prefer it if he was a religious freak who asked me to repeat a daily prayer. This is worse, a hundred times worse. His face fills the crack between my insanity and my freedom. His eyes bulge, his neck veins pushing against his skin. I open and close my mouth, twice, like a beached fish.

"Answer the damn question," he says slowly, as I slide against the wall, leaving a wet trace against it. He clamps the back of my hoodie in his left fist and pulls me back up. Play limp, just play limp.

"You forgot, didn't you? That's typical of you, another trait from your mother. Bad memory. Well, let me remind you."

His lips brush my ear, eager to share the big secret. I can smell his cologne from yesterday washing over me and it nearly makes me gag.

"Women were made to haul water, Ailen. Beat this into your pretty little head. I'm tired of repeating myself every day. Have pity on your old man. Why else, tell me, would your mother make fun of me like this? Why else would she give me a daughter when she knew I wanted a son?"

I recoil, not fully comprehending what he said, feeling like I will faint from the fervor in his voice shrouding my head in a cloud of forceful conviction.

"She made fun of me, Ailen. That weak woman dared to mock me publicly. Imagine how that felt. She was crazy, crazy! I don't know what I saw in her. She twisted me around her finger, got pregnant, made me marry her. Then, she had her last laugh. You know what she did? She left me, to raise you all alone. You know how hard it is to be a single father?"

His words sink in. Ailen Bright, an unwanted child. Good joke, mom, I salute you. I suppress a terrible urge to cry. If my own parents didn't want me, who will? I glance at Canosa again. She doesn't wave or blink back. The sirens. I belong with the sirens. How I wish they were real.

Papa continues whispering in my ear. "I raised you my own way. I want to make sure you turn out different, despite your genetic predisposition. It's in your voice already, those seductive notes. I can hear them when you talk. I'll root it out of you. You'll thank me later, I promise."

He finally lets go of me and wipes his hands on a towel. There is a space of three feet between us. I look to my left. The gap where the door stood is wide open, like a passage into another world. I don't care where it leads, as long as it takes me out of this horrible place once and for all. This is how my mother must have felt on the morning she left. I think I understand her now, and I'm not as mad at her anymore. I see her face floating against the hole in the wall, smiling, beckoning me to follow.

"We'll talk more after school. I want you to be home by three." Papa smoothes his hair and turns toward the sink to check himself in the mirror.

"I'm leaving," I say, set in my decision. I press myself into the wall, pushing my hands flat against it to hold my balance. I never talked to my father like that in my life, not once. I tighten my leg muscles, ready to sprint.

"What?" He turns around, his eyebrows fly up.

"I said, I'm leaving. I'm going to see mom and you can eat shit." I lean away from the wall and stumble out of the bathroom on unbending legs, reeling left and right like a drunken sailor, clutching the walls for support. I step onto the carpet and make painfully slow progress toward the stairs, with one clear goal in mind.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

"You're not going anywhere," I hear behind me. I slide down the steps, my knees buckling, my butt bumping against them. I shake my head and pull myself up against the rail, as my father's arm reaches for me. I let go and roll all the way down. The pain shakes me and a fresh shot of adrenaline give me enough strength to stand up and reach for the front door handle. There are two. I blink. They're back to one.

My father, unable to comprehend what I'm doing, yells at me from the stairs above, unwilling to go down in his pajamas because it goes against his habit. His voice paralyzes me.

"Ailen, where do you think you're going? Get back here, now."

He's never worn his pajamas on the first floor. He only comes down after having meticulously dressed himself in a freshly-ironed dress shirt, silk tie, silk socks, a custom-made Italian wool suit, and leather Ferragamo loafers—twenty pairs, of which, he keeps neatly organized in his bedroom closet.

I ignore him, afraid my moment of bravery will pass and I won't be able to make myself leave. It's now or never.

I focus on the door knob. Take it, Ailen, just take it. This doorknob was the source of my nightmares along with father's bulging eyes. In fact, they would morph into each other. First his eyes would float toward me, out of his face, getting bigger and bigger, pressing me against the wall. Then, they would merge into one and her face would appear. Her is the woman's head that serves as our front door knob, the one that's on the inside. I don't even want to go into describing the one on the outside. Our house is full of Italian relics of two types: women and fish. As much as I love my four marble sisters and one bronze one, I hate this one.

She let my mother out on that morning, the seventh of September. She didn't stop her. For that, I want to melt her in our fireplace and watch her face come off in a grimace of utter surprise. I hear Papa stepping down and force myself to grab the she-knob, my palm pressed against her round, bronze face, my fingers feeling every groove of her hair. Maybe she is Death herself and it's my turn to step through her door. As if I'm right, the knob feels freezing cold under my fingers as I turn it, gripping it hard so it won't slide in my sweaty hand.

Click.

The heavy front door opens slowly and rainy morning air gushes inside. I breathe it in and stop trembling for a second, forgetting I'm wet, forgetting I'm scared. I soak in the smell of damp asphalt, fallen leaves, fresh sorrows. Something cold traces my face. It takes me a second to realize what it is. We weep together, the sky and me.

"What do I do now?" I ask it.

It drips silence, full of gray clouds.

"Ailen, don't make me come out into the rain. You know I hate getting wet." I hear my father's steps behind me and, afraid to see his eyes, I run out onto the porch. Something makes me stop and raise my face to the sky. Maybe it's the unanswered question.

"Did my mother ask you the same thing six years ago? Did she ask you?"

The sky leaks more indifference, splashing my face with raindrops.

"Why didn't you stop her? Answer me, you stupid thing!" I curl my hands into fists and feel hot tears roll down my cheeks. The sky doesn't answer. I want to mash it with my fists beyond recognition, when I feel Papa grab me by the arm. I turn and twist out of his grip. He opens his mouth in shock, perhaps not expecting me to resist. His maroon silk pajamas soak up the rain. Before he composes himself, I run down our eleven painted porch steps and turn around, yelling at both the sky and my father.

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

"Ailen, I understand you're frustrated, but you can't go anywhere like this. Your clothes are wet. You're not even wearing shoes, you'll get pneumonia."

"Like you care!" I yell, my teeth chattering.

His face goes dark. "I'm counting to three. On three, you need to be back inside this house." He stands fuming at the edge of the porch, oblivious to getting wet, which is so unlike him. The only thing I see is his eyes, and I feel them pulling me back.

"One..."

I keep staring, swallowing tears and raindrops, not moving forward nor backward, trembling from being wet and cold.

"Two..."

His gaze fills me with terror, all fifty-two years of his might against my feeble sixteen. Fat chance, Ailen. My shivering legs won't move. "Three."

He leans forward and I unfreeze. It's as if the sound of his steps breaks my stupor, tears off the lid from my suppressed feelings and they tumble out of me in one cry.

"Stop!" I yell. He pauses. "You forgot something." I back onto the concrete path, toward the white gate overgrown with vines.

"What's that?" He comes down the stairs and cautiously steps onto the path, looks at his slippers. I know what's going through his mind. He's thinking about them being ruined, and all that money wasted.

There are ten feet between us, filled with my defiance. I grab the gate as an anchor, and lift the latch with unbending fingers.

"It's my birthday today, remember? I'm sixteen. You didn't even wish me a happy birthday. Well, I won't bother you anymore, you can relax. I'm leaving and I'm not coming back."

"What makes you think I forgot?" He lowers his head and dashes toward me, slippers forgotten.

I fumble with the latch, jerk the gate open, and run down twenty mossy steps, my bare feet sliding against them, the gaps between my toes filing with dirt. At the very bottom I finally lose my balance and grab the fence post so I don't fall. My hands slide on the slick, painted wood. Stable, I let go of the fence and run out into the street. An oncoming car veers around me and honks. I flip its driver the finger and turn to look, my heart pounding hard and fast. Papa is a few feet behind me, dashing down the steps two at a time, not holding on to anything, just staring at me. One of his slippers flies off his foot and he falls on his bony ass, cursing loudly.

For a second, we watch each other.

He hates getting wet, and his right hip gives out after a few minutes of running. He probably doesn't believe I'll go far. He's too meticulous to come out after me unprepared. I know what he'll do next. He'll dart back into the house, grab his keys and coat, step into expensive Italian shoes, run back down, and skid along the sidewalk to the front of our garage door that was built in 1909 for holding horse carriages. Next, he'll grab the metal handle that looks like a man's face, press the button on his keys, yank the garage door open, and get inside his Maserati Quattroporte Sport GT S—shiny, black, and, of course, Italian.

He pulls himself up and I bolt.