After I Finally Became His Perfect Donna Chapter 09

After I Finally Became His Perfect Donna Chapter 09

I didn’t die.

From the moment I jumped, I never expected to open my eyes again.

The ones who pulled me out were an elderly fisherman and his wife. When the woman saw me wake, she

hurried over with a bowl of hot soup.

“Oh, thank God you’re awake. You were floating in that river for so long. You’re one lucky girl.”

They asked if I wanted them to call the police, or contact my family.

The moment I heard the words “your family,” I curled into the blankets, shaking uncontrollably.

“No don’t call the police. Don’t contact them.”

My voice was breaking. “Please, don’t send me back. I’ll work. I’ll do whatever you say. Just please don’t send

me back…”

If Dorian found me and dragged me back, I didn’t know if I’d have the courage to jump again.

The old couple exchanged a look, their eyes full of heartache.

The woman patted the back of my hand gently. “All right, sweetheart. You just rest here and get better.

Nobody’s coming to take you anywhere.”

In the days that followed, I tried constantly to make myself useful to them.

Even before my body had healed, I’d drag myself out of bed to help with chores.

I never complained about being tired. At meals, I ate whatever was left over. At night, I slept in the smallest

corner I could find.

The woman told me to stop more times than I could count. “Child, you’re still recovering. You don’t have to

push yourself like this.”

I shook my head and stubbornly took the heavy things from her hands.

At the Academy, only the ones who proved their worth were allowed to keep living.

One time, I accidentally broke a bowl.

I dropped to my knees on the shards out of pure reflex and slapped myself across the face. “I’m sorry. I’m

useless. Please punish me.”

The woman was horrified. She rushed over and grabbed my shoulders, her voice cracking.

“Child, what are you saying? It’s just a bowl. It broke, so what? Why would you hit yourself?”

She looked at the blood seeping from my knees and finally couldn’t hold back. “What did they do to you in

that home of yours? How much did they put you through?”

I looked up at her, genuinely confused. “Nobody put me through anything. I wasn’t good enough. I deserved

every punishment I got.”

She went still. Then she took my hands and, piece by piece, asked me about my past.

I told her about the five years in a calm, even voice. I was only halfway through when she broke down

sobbing.

She held me so tight her thin, weathered arms were shaking, her bony hand stroking my hair. “Animals. They’re animals How could anyone do this to you?”

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and gripped mine with fierce resolve. “Don’t leave. Stay here.

Be our daughter.”

“I’m nobody special. I can’t give you a fancy life. But I’ll be a good mother to you. And if anyone ever tries to hurt you again, I’ll beat them down with a broomstick myself.”

Mother.

That word had been so far away from me for so long that I had to reach back through the years to

remember.

I did have a mother once.

The first year I was locked in the Academy, she pounded on the gates, crying, begging them to let me out.

The second year, she brought every penny she had. She knelt and kowtowed, pleading with every person who

walked by.

The third year, her hair had gone completely white. Her back was bent, like a tree twisted by the wind.

The fourth year

By the fifth year, she didn’t come.

I waited a long time. From spring all the way to winter. She never came.

Later, an instructor told me she’d been hit by a car on her way there. Killed on impact.

The instructor’s voice dripped with contempt.

“Mrs. Voss, your mother died on the road because of your disobedience. Are you still not ready to repent?”

That night, my mother’s photograph was taped to the wall of the isolation cell.

I didn’t cry. By then, I’d already learned not to cry.

I stared at that photograph all night long, my mouth opening and closing, silently forming the same word

over and over.

Mom.

Mom.

Mom.

No one heard.

Now, this old woman who’d fished me out of the river was telling me she wanted to be my mother.

I looked at her face, and the tears came without warning, crashing onto the backs of my hands.

“Mom…”