Sophia

In front of me lies a woman, her limbs pulled and twisted in violent angles, exposing the tender flesh between her legs.

Her features are blurred and covered in tears, the only clear part of her face are her lips parted in agony, exposing her bloody teeth.

The brushstrokes hide her age but as I step closer to inspect her, I realise that she is everyone's woman. She is my mother and my daughter, she is the girl down the block and the barista that made my latte this morning. She is the epitome of a survivor, representing the four hundred six thousand women that were sexually assaulted in the United States in 2019, the year the painting was created.

The woman is painted on canvas, her skin blemished by scratches on her knees and palms, purple fingerprints bruising the skin on her hips and the inside of her thighs.

Underneath the painting hangs a small passport picture of a young Asian woman, her mouth surrounded by hard lines.

'And the nightmare begins', it says. By Josephine Lee, Rape Survivor.

"Do you think she painted herself?" my best friend, Lusina, asks, stepping next to me. Her green eyes are locked on the blood trickling out of the woman's private parts.

A shiver runs down my spine, goose bumps erupting on my skin as terrified screams start haunting my thoughts.

"I think so," I whisper and intertwine my fingers with hers. Nodding at the painting, I add, "I think she painted herself as a number in the statistics, that's why she blurred her face."

"She could be anyone," Lu says, her voice barely audible. Her eyes fill with tears and she blinks hastily, pulling her fingers from mine to angrily wipe them before they spill down her cheeks.

Lu is notoriously private about her feelings, one of the side effects of growing up with three older brothers that teased her mercilessly about her sensitivity and empathy.

"That was my mom," she says, breathing in sharply.

My stomach drops. "Your mom too?"

Lu nods, pulling at a strand of her hair, which causes her bun to topple over, her curls spilling down her back.

"She was seventeen. Just before she met my dad," she says. A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she gets lost in her thoughts.

"What happened?" I ask, reaching over and grabbing her hand again. Her long and elegant fingers curl around my short and stubby ones, and I smile at the freckles covering every inch of her skin.

"He got what he deserved," she replies cryptically and wraps her arm around my shoulder, squeezing me to her side.

"Why do you have to look at this sad shit again?" Lu asks, shaking her head slightly as we walk arm in arm past paintings and sculptures of women, men and children experiencing tremendous amounts of pain.

I flinch as I walk past a man cradling his deceased wife in his arms, my heart growing heavy. My mother has been dead for more than half of my life, but the imagery conjures up memories of the night she died. I don't remember her before that moment, a symptom of buried memories due to trauma, my therapist said.

"I'm taking contemporary art with a focus on women's expressionism in modern day America," I explain to Lu and steer her into the direction of the exit of the gallery. Her blank expression makes me laugh.

"Research for a paper," I add and bury my chin in my scarf. Lu opens the door for me, hiding behind me as we step out of the gallery.

The sky is overcast, grey clouds underlining the harshness of the Chicago winter. A bitter breeze seeps through my coat and caresses my skin.

Fog hovers low over the asphalt, hiding cars and pedestrians, and spitting them out as it creeps through the streets.

A town car pulls up to the curb in front of the gallery.

"Will you be okay?" Lu asks and reaches past me, grabbing the handle of the car door and yanking it open for me.

"That's my job!" Comes from the inside and a moment later the driver's door opens, and a bald, muscled man steps out, grinning at Lu over the top of the black car.

Lu shakes her head, smiling widely at the giant man. "Then you should be fired!"

Cameron huffs and puffs, walking around the car and lifting Lu off of her feet.

Lu giggles, a sound that makes my heart sing. The past few weeks my private and quiet best friend has turned even more introverted, often lost within her own head for minutes on end, missing moments and conversations around her completely.

He puts her down and she wedges her elbow in his ribcage, causing him to stumble out of the way with a bemused chuckle.

Cameron has been employed by my dad as our personal chauffeur since Mom was killed. Although I think his paranoia is unwarranted, he feels safer knowing that a former ex-Navy Seal keeps an eye on me since he's busy with his job.

"Soph," Lu addresses me and ushers me into the car as it begins to drizzle.

I slide down the backseat, making space for her to join me, however, she shakes her head, holding onto the door handle.

"Will you be okay?" she asks her unanswered question again, her green eyes narrowed at me in concern.

I smile at her, fastening my seatbelt.

"This is not the first time," I reassure her and lean back into the leather seat.

"Are you not coming?"

She shakes her head. "Nope, gotta buy some things for the twins birthday party! I have a surprise for you later though." My stomach plummets and I open my mouth, about to tell her that I will kill her, when a sinister smile spreads across her face. "Just kidding."

I grimace at her and shake my head, my shoulders slumping in relief. I hate surprises with a passion, the absolute loss of control triggering anxiety and panic attacks so heavily that Dad has stopped buying me birthday presents, and instead wires money into my account a week before my actual birthday.

Her expression softens and she leans into the inside of the car, clutching the door handle between her fingers.

"Just remember you did your best," she says.

Before I get the chance to tell her that my best is not enough, that only perfection is tolerated and celebrated in my family, she shakes her head, her eyes growing soft.

"Your best is enough," she hastily adds.

"I know," I lie and force myself to smile, nerves fluttering in my stomach, making me feel faint and feverish. I wipe my damp hands on my trousers.

"Soph," Lu starts to say, sadness washing over her.

I have only known her for a few short months, our friendship having started when we both moved into the same room on campus. Since that day, however, she has been able to peel back the layers I have wrapped myself in to protect me and see the real me. It feels like I have known her a thousand lifetimes, her friendship resembling something closer akin to sisterhood. She feels my pain and shares my desperation, her own relationship with her father equally as strained as mine.

"Let's go," I say to Cameron and he nods, tousling Lu's her as a goodbye. He rubs over her head in goodbye and she grunts in protest, rolling her eyes at me.

"What is the surprise?" I ask as she takes a step away from the car. Her demeanour changes instantly, the sadness replaced by joy. Rubbing her hands together in excitement, she says, "Dad is funding a night out for us. He says we should celebrate the fact that neither of us flunked our exams and deserve a break."

I groan, burying my face in my hands. Although Lu is notoriously private about her emotions, she is the more extroverted person of both of us. She enjoys partying and meeting new people, whereas I have always preferred the inside of my four walls, occupying my mind with homework or the latest True Crime documentary on Netflix.

Cameron climbs behind the wheel, his eyes locking with mine.

"Ready, Miss MacLeod?" he asks and I nod, taking in a deep breath.

Lu grips on tighter to the door handle. "Please," she begs, "we've been at university for three months and have yet to go on a bender!"

"A bender?" I echo, with a raised eyebrow. She huffs and stomps her foot.

"I mean it! University is as much as it is for experiences as it is for learning! This is the time when we're supposed to experiment. I haven't had a one-night stand. Nor have I kissed a girl!" My eyebrows disappear in my hairline.

"I did not realise that was on your to-do list." I buckle my seat belt and lean back into the leather.

"Why?" Lou asks. "You wanna volunteer?" I roll my eyes and shoo her away.

***

I embrace the quiet as the car pulls away from the curb.

Lu disappears in the rearview mirror and a mere moment of tranquillity washes over me, calming my racing heart.

Fatigue tears at my limbs and my eyelids flutter shut, the stress of the last few weeks finally taking a toll. The distant sound of the rumbling engine mulls me into a light sleep until the loud honk of another car yanks me back into the frantic state of nerves that I have not been able to shake.

My heart starts racing again and my hands grow clammy.

I sit rigid, clawing my fingers into the brand new leather so deeply that they leave marks.

Cameron watches me in the rearview mirror, his lips pursed and his eyebrows furrowed.

I'm grateful that he refrains from speaking, that he allows me these few minutes where I can quietly freak out and prepare myself for the ugly words of disappointment my father would throw at me in ten minutes' time.

I repeat Lu's words in my head, telling myself that my best efforts are indeed enough and although her love and support makes me feel momentarily better, the reality of the situation replaces that feeling the moment it surfaced.

It doesn't matter that I have given it my all. Trying is not succeeding. Effort is not perfection.

The buildings grow denser and the streets fuller.

The car comes to a stop in front of the Dirksen Federal Building, the skyscraper that houses the United States Attorney's Office.

Cameron clears his throat, turning off the engine. He sits there for a few seconds, clutching the steering wheel, trying to find encouraging words but failing.

The intent itself speaks volumes to his character.

I unbuckle, leaning forward and squeeze his shoulder, my eyes filling with tears at the fatherly affection that washes over his face.

He nods solemnly and gets out of the car. Opening the door for me, he holds my hand as we walk up the stairs to the building.

He tells me to call him when the meeting is wrapped up, that he'll be with me in a heartbeat and to stay inside so I won't catch a cold.

As he walks back down to the car, yelling at a cop trying to give him a parking ticket, I realize that he's closer to me than my father is. That his concern for my well being comes as naturally as if he is my father and I'm his daughter.

It's almost five o'clock when I walk through security and into the elevator.

One of my dad's interns gives a terrified shriek when she sees me and flees down the corridor, as if my opinion of hers would affect my father's in any way.

I laugh at the thought. He never valued mine, so why would he care what I have to think about his interns?

Florence, my father's secretary, and entirely undeserving of her name, stands across from the elevator and greets me with a big smile.

There's nothing that happens within this office that she doesn't know about and although she would never openly admit to the fact, the security guards downstairs call her the moment I step foot into the building.

"Your father is still in a meeting," she says, holding out her right hand to take my shoulder bag from me. I hand it over with a raised eyebrow and let Florence drag me to the waiting area in front of my father's office.

It's already four minutes past our scheduled appointment.

If there is one thing my father loathes, it's me being late. In his opinion, the person you meet should be treated with sufficient respect so as not to waste their time.

If I was the person who was four minutes late to our weekly appointment, I would never hear the end of it.

I look at Florence with wide eyes and drop into an uncomfortable chair.

"How's school going?" she asks, sitting down behind her desk and adjusting her glasses.

Florence has been Dad's secretary for twenty years and the secret recipe for his success. While Dad works on prosecuting criminals, she makes sure that every aspect of his life is running smoothly. She is an employee, wife, mother and grandmother at the same time. After Mom's murder, Dad buried himself in work, switched off his feelings and guilt, and if it wasn't for Florence, I would have not seen Dad at all.

"What kind of meeting is he in?" I ask curiously, crossing my legs. Florence leans back in her chair. The phone rings and she glances at the display, only to deny the call.

With her short gray bob and tight build, Florence looks younger than her fifty-four years.

She clicks her tongue and doesn't answer my question.

"Ooooh," I utter and glance curiously at the heavy wooden door that blocks access to my father. "What is it this time? A murderer?"

Florence rolls her eyes.

"No? A banker? "I ask. One of the reasons Florence and Dad get along so well is the respect that the older woman has for his job. Aware that her talent lies in organizing others, she wanted to do her part to make the streets of Chicago safer.

Florence's respect also shows in her continued silence.

She never talks about the men and women who step into this office, never discuss the alleged crimes they have committed.

Minutes pass.

Lu sends me a selfie holding a gift basket for her twin nephews, grinning widely into the camera. Underneath the picture, she tells me that she looks forward to holding my hair back when I throw up.

I send her a thumbs-up emoji back.

From time to time, Dad's voice seeps underneath the threshold, followed by another, deeper one. I can't make out their words, but the stranger's tone projects confidence and a hint of anger.

When Dad is officially half an hour late, I lock my screen and put my phone in my pocket. Florence frowns at the computer keyboard, deeply absorbed in her task.

I use Florence's momentary focus to my advantage and get up, taking three long strides to get to my dad's office door. Before Florence can even say my name, I turn the doorknob and push the door open.

"You're too late," I whistle, poking my head into the room.

Dad sits behind his desk, hands folded over his stomach. His blazer hangs forgotten over the arm of his desk chair and the sleeves of his blue shirt are rolled up.

William MacLeod is a tall man with blond hair and thick eyebrows that I have inherited. Wrinkles run around his blue eyes and the lines on his forehead have only grown deeper since I started studying.

Dad is a serious man; he finds no enrichment in empty phrases or jokes. He chooses his words carefully, and when he speaks even his enemies fall silent.

His shoulders are rigid, his entire stance screaming stress and apprehension.

When I enter the room, he almost looks scared, but then the expression disappears as quickly as it has come. His shoulders relax, his lips pursing disapprovingly, irritation seeping from him.

"Sophia", he greets me and waves me into the room. I follow his request when Florence says my name angrily, stepping into Dad's office behind me.

"Excuse me, sir," she says, shaking her head.

"She just walked in," she and Dad say at the same time.

On the other side of his desk sits a tall, skinny man with thick, black and gray hair that he wears combed back from his forehead. His weathered skin stretches across his cheekbones and his hooked nose looks too big for his face.

Dark, almost black, eyes fixate on me as I step closer to the two men.

"This is my daughter," Dad introduces me.

When I hold out my hand to the stranger, Dad's shoulders stiffen again.

The stranger gives Dad an amused look, his clammy hands clasping mine and with a sharp yank, he pulls me closer to him.

"It's an honor," says the stranger, pressing my fingers against his lips.

I try to maintain a neutral expression, even if I want to pull my hand from his grasp and wipe it on my coat. Who knows where his mouth has been today?

"Likewise," I reply and take a step back in relief when he lets go of my hand and leans forward on the dark brown leather armchair.

"What a beautiful daughter you have, William," he says and I don't miss the innuendo in his voice. Albeit perfectly civil, his tone does not conceal the threat that is only meant for my father's ears.

Dad stands abruptly and glares at the stranger.

For a moment neither of them say anything, the silence describing the intensity of the moment more eloquently than words ever could.

In the waiting room I had characterised the voice as confident, but looking at the man in front of me, I see a villain portraying such arrogant megalomania that only a man aware of his power can carry.

"Dad?" I ask after a few seconds, scratching my chin nervously.

Dad's blue eyes lock on me and the spell is broken.

"Sophia," he says again, as if he is only now realizing that I'm in his office.

"You have to excuse me," he says to the stranger and steps around his desk. The stranger follows his example and rises. Standing, he is even bigger than I expected. Well over six feet one, his size could be intimidating if it wasn't for his narrow shoulders and his long, skinny arms and legs.

"Always a pleasure to do business with you, William," the stranger says, brushing invisible creases from his black cashmere coat.

"Sophia," he says instead of goodbye. I nod at him, watching him as Dad accompanies him to the door, both men exchanging hushed whispers until the stranger leaves with a final nod.

"Are you okay?" I ask Dad when returns, sitting down on the armchair the man had occupied only a few seconds earlier.

All tension drains from his body. He scratches his chin, a habit I inherited from him or I passed on to him.

"Did I forget to teach you manners?" he asks and walks around his desk, sitting in his chair again.

I smile and cross my legs.

"I think I have excellent manners," I contradict him. "You on the other hand ..." I point at the clock on the wall without a word.

Every Friday at five o'clock, Dad and I meet in his office to talk about the past week and discuss upcoming plans. Growing up, Dad has been painstakingly absent during school performance and parent-teacher conferences, sending Florence in his stead.

When it comes to an appointment made with him, five minutes early was five minutes too late.

"That was business," he says dismissively. "Given that you have not worked a single day in your life, I do not expect you to understand." I open my mouth to tell him that he explicitly forbade me to get a job, but close it again, taking in a deep breath.

I bite my tongue to refrain myself from saying something I would later regret.

Arguing with my father is useless. He is, after all, a lawyer.

He can twist every word that comes out of my mouth and badger me so far into a corner that I end up forgetting all my carefully aligned arguments, blinking away tears in frustration.

For a few moments we talk about my plans for the weekend ahead. As a courtesy, he inquires about Lusina and I about his third wife, Jade.

Six months after my mother was murdered, Dad remarried, but the marriage fell apart after ten years. Dad has a better relationship with Florence than with my stepmother, Olivia. Olivia is fifteen years younger than my dad, and when she realized that my dad would never be the emotionally open man she longed for, she filed for divorce and moved in with her tennis coach. The last time I spoke to her, she was snorkeling off the coast of Australia.

Dad's third wife, Jade, is a former intern. After marrying Dad, she has given up her promising law career and organizes charity galas and picks out china.

I cannot stand her and avoid the house that has once been my home and refuge. Not that I would recognise it again; Jade has painted all the walls lilac.

Dad doesn't mind, it's not like he's spending any time at home at all.

When we run out of topics to chit-chat about, I look closely at my fingernails and try to rub a chocolate stain off my leggings.

Dad clears his throat, pressing a button on his phone that activates the intercom and a second later, Florence's voice rings out.

"Sir?"

"Florence, would you please print out Sophia's transcript?"

The copy of said transcript suddenly burns against my back pocket.

I don't even ask how he obtained it — he is the United States Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois after all, and a close friend of the dean of my university.

Florence knocks barely a minute later and hands Dad my transcript.

When she leaves the office, she gives me a pitying look that brings heat to my face and closes the door behind her.

Perfection is barely good enough in Dad's eyes and failure is not tolerated.

"I allowed you to study such a useless degree with the expectation that you would be successful," he starts and inspects the paper in his hand closely. "However I can see that I expected too much of you."

My body flushes a crimson red and tears prickle in my eyes.

Do not show him weakness. Do not show him how much he affects you.

He picks a pen from his desk and sits the paper down, circling some words and crossing out others.

"I know you wanted to study art but Art History will open doors for you. You simply do not possess enough talent to stand out from the crowd and with an Art History degree, you may as well sit on the Board of Trustees at the Met."

I flinch as if he hit me.

It's not the first nor will it be the last time that Dad tells me that I don't have any talent, that my efforts are wasted. That all I will be good for is sitting on a board surrounded by dirty, old men who do not value my opinion and discriminate against me because of my age and gender.

When he passes me the paper, he hands me the transcript of his expectations. .

4.0 in all courses, with praise from my professors, a temporary job as a professor's assistant, and volunteer work in socially disadvantaged areas.

I swallow.

"How hard can it be?" he asks. "You don't need to learn anything new or have to change anything. The past cannot be rewritten, Sophia. All you have to do is memorise it. I expect better grades next quarter."

His threat is effective, if not quite as strong as the stranger's.

Dad does not expect better grades, he expects perfection.

If I don't deliver, then I can expect him to pull funding for the rest of my degree.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and my head begins to pound.

Dad's cell phone rings and I recognise Jade's name on the display. I grimace before I can help myself, which Dad acknowledges with a deep frown.

I sigh and slide to the edge of the chair, hoping that he lets me go to deal with his teenager.

When I hear her voice, I roll my eyes and stand up, a move that makes Dad shake his head. He motions for me to sit again and I do what I'm told. I suddenly feel three years old again.

He doesn't speak, only hums. When he hangs up, I almost pity Jade for having to put up with him when he retires in twelve years. Almost.

"Jade wants you to join dinner next Friday," he says with a pained expression on his face.

Men are often clueless about tensions between women, but Jade and I have always been very vocal in our mutual dislike for each other.

In my opinion, she is after his money and the notoriety that comes with being married to the United States Attorney.

In return, she likes to comment that I don't even bother to mend the relationship between Dad and I.

As Florence always says, it takes two to tango.

If it's more important to Dad to criticize and bend me until I conform to his ideas, then I will look for my family in the form of Cameron, Lusina, and Florence.

"Oh, how nice," I whistle and clap my hands enthusiastically. "We can play Barbie together and she can braid my hair."

Dad ignores my words and nods his chin towards the door, all the sudden too excited to get rid of me.

Relief floods me and I jump up. I quickly walk around the desk and kiss him on the cheek.

His three-day beard tickles my lips and catapults me back to my childhood to times when I was still happy and could still feel his love.

For a moment I feel grief for these times and think back to the day that changed our lives forever.

I think of the smell of blood and the sinking feeling of heaviness in my stomach as I watch my mother die.

A lump forms in my throat and tears sting in my eyes.

I blink them away and press another kiss on his cheek.

I can't remember the last time Dad hugged me and the little girl in me longed to be close to him for a moment but he clears his throat and pushes me away.

The feeling of rejection makes my cheeks burn and I step away from him, suddenly embarrassed.

He avoids my eyes as I walk to the door.

His words echo in my head.

"You don't need to learn anything new or have to change anything. The past cannot be rewritten, Sophia. All you have to do is memorise it. I expect better grades next quarter."

With "See you next Friday?" he interrupts my train of thought, and I give him a small smile.

"See you next Friday," I repeat his words and leave his office. The door closes behind me and for a moment I lean against the glass door, my eyes closed.

"Was it that bad?" Florence asks from behind her computer and stands up when I push myself off the door.

She hands me my bag and escorts me back to the elevator.

It feels heavier on my shoulder than it did before and when the doors close in front of her smiling face, I open the zipper and find a Tupperware box of homemade biscuits between my laptop and my Renaissance books. Cookie dough with chocolate sprinkles, my favourite.

I smile and zip it close again.

I'm free for another week.