Lust Contracts

Holding on to the Past

“If you want a perfect husband, you have to start by being a perfect bride! Listen to me!” my mother

started shouting.

I knew that the reason why I was hanging on to this scar didn’t make any sense at all, but I just couldn’t

bring myself to erase it.

“I have a headache. I’m going to sleep now; I have a test tomorrow…” I mumbled before turning away. ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

“You can’t avoid this forever! Elena!” my mother shouted after me.

I ran up the stairs as quickly as I could and headed for the sanctuary of my own bedroom. Closing the

door behind me and locking it firmly so that I could hide away from my mother. Her shouting seemed

far away now. Running away was the option that I always chose so that I wouldn’t have to fight with her

directly. She’ll get busy with other things, and she’ll forget about this scar on my back.

After entering the bathroom, I started stripping in front of the mirror. Turning my back towards the mirror

and glancing over my shoulder, I could see the thin patch of scar on my back from the reflection in the

mirror. True, it wasn’t hideously ugly, but it was still a scar. I got this scar from the fire that burnt down

the entire orphanage building. Honestly, I remembered very little about the events of that day.

Whenever I tried to recall what had happened, I would get an unbearable headache. Ultimately, I

stopped trying to recall it all together. After all, there was absolutely no good reason to recall what had

happened in the past without a way to go back to fix it.

Although, I didn’t remember anything much about that day, I remembered that an older guy saved me

from the fire and because of that he was hospitalized after the incident. Apart from the burn on my back

and other small cuts here and there, I had no other noteworthy injuries. That was probably because of

him shielding me from the fire. Whenever, I looked at or ran my fingertips on the scar, I would be

reminded of him.

It's ironic but this scar is the only thing that I had left to remind me of my previous life at the orphanage

and the only thing that I had to remember my savior by. The truth was that I didn’t even remember his

name or his face clearly anymore. As the years went by, I remembered less and less about him until I

forgot about him almost completely. What did he look like? What did his voice sound like? How gentle

was his touch when he held my hand?

I couldn’t recall anything…

It made me wonder if I erased this scar, would I lose all connections that I had to my past and to him?

It scared me for reasons that I couldn’t quite understand myself. After being adopted, I never went back

to the orphanage again because I knew that I wasn’t allowed to even without asking. To my parents,

the fact that I was adopted was something shameful.

“Don’t ever let anyone find out that you were adopted. They’ll look down on you,” my mother warned

sternly.

“Yes, mother,” I replied obediently.

“I’ve erased all records about your time before and at the orphanage. No one will ever find out unless

you let it leak from your mouth. Never tell this to anyone, are we clear?” my father said with a serious

look on his face.

I found him very intimidating when I was younger. He was taciturn and he always spoke sternly and in a

low voice. Even mother was secretly scared of him and lived her life by his every word.

“Yes, father,” I replied with a slight nod of my head.

Whether it was because of my father’s influence or not, I wasn’t sure, but no one ever asked me about

my background. No one suspected that I was adopted and even if they did, no one ever voiced it by

asking me. It was like I grew up and filled my new identity of being their precious daughter perfectly.

…

I graduated from high school with almost perfect grades and at the top of my class. My parents were

proud of that fact and didn’t waste time to publicize it to their friends and business partners. Soon

enough, various men started turning up to our house to have dinner with my parents. Whenever these

men came, I would be invited to have dinner along with them.

All the men were older and visibly extremely wealthy and famous. To welcome them, I would be

dressed up perfectly. My mother became extra strict about my appearance and how I behaved myself

in front of these men.

“Back straight and make sure that you speak in a sweet and respectful tone. Never wear the same set

of clothes in front these men. For tonight’s dinner, you will play the piano to entertain our guest. I know

you can do this. I’m leaving it all in your hands, Elena,” my mother said happily as she combed my long

hair.

“Yes, mother,” I replied with the exact words that she expected to hear.

If I recalled correctly, I was 16 when the first man came to have dinner at our home. From then on,

more of them came for casual visits. By the time that I turned 18, various men of this nature would turn

up for dinner at our house almost every single day without break.

It wasn’t a secret or a mystery to me why these men came to visit. After all, we were taught at school

about this matchmaking procedure. Of course, until I reached the age of 18, none of the men would

seriously consider me for their wife. That didn’t stop them from dropping by to see me in person to keep

me on their list of potential wives for the future though.

“What do you think of Mr. Whitley? He’s very famous and rich. He’s from a long line of aristocrats and

his family business has done well for generations,” my mother asked as she smiled at me.

--To be continued…