by M. H. Lee
Her mother stared out the window. It was almost dark now. Freya's father and sister would be home soon. "I suspected it the day I gave you that blueberry pie. You ate it so enthusiastically. I started to wonder. I started to watch you."
"I can resist it sometimes," Freya said, silently begging her mother to look at her. "People don't always want something from me. And sometimes they want more than one thing from me. Like you on the day I returned. You wanted to know what happened in the woods, but you didn't. And Papa wanted me to be safe and unharmed, so I was able to tell the lie." She wanted to reach out and grab her mother's hands, but couldn't.
"It was much the same way with my sister." Freya's mother still wouldn't look at her.
"Then I'll be okay? I can fight this?"
"No."
Freya felt an urge to end it all, sparing her mother having to deal with this, and an equal urge to weave flowers into a crown and sing "Ring Around the Rosie" like she had when she was little. Before…this.
"Mother…" Freya managed to say around the pain from her mother's conflicting desires.
"Sorry, Freya. Be calm. Relax."
"Can we fight this, Mama?"
"We can try."
"But you don't believe we'll be able to?"
Freya's mother finally looked at her. Her expression was so sad, so defeated, that Freya wished she'd continued to study the rag in her hands.
"It's the men, Freya. You're right. Most people don't want much from anyone else. Or what they want is so disjointed that you can find your own path through their needs. But the men… Especially once they know what you are…what you can give them…"
"Then we don't let them know." Freya reached out and took her mother's hands.
"Of course. You're right. We just won't let anyone know."
Her mother squeezed her hands, but Freya knew she didn't believe it.
It actually worked. For a while.
Freya stayed on the farm and made sure to avoid anyone except her family.
Freya's sister and father didn't understand what was wrong with her, but they humored Freya's mother. And when Freya started to act odd they left her alone and let her find herself once more.
Sometimes, Jadzia got bored and used Freya's weakness against her—mostly by getting her to do the messy chores like mucking out the horse stalls. Jadzia saw no harm in it since in the moment Freya was always more than happy to comply and she could never tell her sister later how upset she was.
Freya tried to resist, but she never succeeded.
She couldn’t even tell it was happening until it was over and by then it was always too late.
It wasn't annoying, but it wasn’t all that bad. Not until that early fall day when they left Freya alone on the farm. Just for a few hours. Not like they could watch her forever.
Not like anyone was going to come by.
Except, someone did. Hakan, the butcher's son, stopped at the farm on his way to market. He was a nice boy—a little big and awkward, a little too friendly, but not a threat.
"Not a mean bone in his body" as the grandmothers said.
Freya tried to hide from him, but he'd already seen her and tracked her into the barn.
"Freya! I haven't seen you in ages. How have you been?" He smiled as he approached her.
"Hakan! I've been good, thank you."
As he came closer, she realized she really liked him. Really, really liked him. Liked his kind eyes and broad shoulders. His slow way of speaking.
He stepped closer. "I've been so worried about you. No one's seen you since the river accident."
"I know. Mama and Papa didn't want me to wander too far. They're worried something might happen to me." She smiled up at him, stepping closer as well.
He reached out to touch her face and she didn't step away from him. Instead, she leaned up on tippy toes to kiss his lips as he stared at her in awe and disbelief.
His arms circled her waist, pulling her deeper into the kiss.
And then he was bearing her down to the straw and her world became one of satisfying his need. Later, she could remember little bits of what happened. His mouth on her body. Hers on his. The dust that danced in the afternoon sun. The smell of horses and sweat as they came together in the heat of the afternoon.
Hakan left her with a gentle kiss and a big smile.
Freya ran to her room and buried herself under the covers, shaking. Her mother had been right. She’d lost herself in the needs of the first man who wanted her.
It hadn't been bad.
Hakan was nice, and he genuinely liked her. He'd been so grateful, so gentle.
And she'd wanted him, too, in that moment. Her body had been freely given.
But…
She had never wanted Hakan before. Not like that.
And she still didn't.
She sobbed into her pillow, hoping she’d never see him again.
He came back, of course.
He didn't know. He thought she loved him. He thought she wanted him.
And she did—when he was there.
And then one day Devlin came to see her.
Devlin, the only boy she'd ever wanted.
He was so angry, so upset.
"Tell me it isn't true, Freya. Tell me you haven't been with Hakan."
Freya collapsed at his feet, hugged his legs, and swore that nothing had happened. Devlin was the only one for her. Always had been. Always would be.
Devlin pulled her to her feet and clung to her. "I'm sorry I ever doubted you, Freya," he said as she wept on his shoulder.
"It's okay, Devlin. I love you. Only you. I always have."
And she did love him. Always had. Always would.
She'd wanted to tell Devlin the truth, but she couldn't because he didn't want to hear it.
He loved Freya as he thought she was—pure, untouched. And his need for her to fit that image was so strong that she couldn't break free of it.
She lived in dread of the day Hakan would return and she'd betray Devlin again.
But Hakan never came back.
Britt, his closest friend, came instead. And Britt's brother, Soren.
They found her alone in the barn.
Britt cornered her near the tack room. "You lied, Freya. Why would you tell Devlin that you'd never been with Hakan? Hakan loved you. Do you know what Devlin did to him? Beat him within an inch of his life. That's what. Because of you. Why, Freya? Why would you do it?"
Freya told him. All of it. About the blueberry pie and the river and the hunter. About Hakan and Devlin and even about why she was answering his question.
Britt listened in disbelief, his mouth hanging open.
Soren listened, too, but he listened with a cruel smile on his lips, his eyes roving her body as she spoke. When she was done, he stepped closer. "So, you enjoyed it? You enjoyed being with Hakan? And with the hunter?"
"Yes. At the time…"
"You'd enjoy being with anyone then." He took a step closer, reaching for her.
"Yes." Freya stepped into his grasp, her hands reaching for his clothes.
He shoved her back against the wall. "What if I didn't want you to enjoy it? What if I wanted you to scream and fight back?"
She glared at him. "Then I'd fight you."
"Good." Soren's smile bloomed. "Britt, guard the door. Freya and I are going to have a little fun."
Soren grabbed Freya's arms and shoved her into the tack room. She fought and screamed, but not so loud that anyone would actually hear her and not so hard that she'd manage to free herself. Soren didn't want that.
No, he wanted something else entirely.
And Freya gave it to him. She couldn't do anything else.
Soren left Freya crumpled in a heap—a handful of dull copper pennies strewn in the hay at her feet.
"Thanks, whore. I'll be back."
Freya lay there, her clothes shredded, feeling the aches throughout her body, remembering.
Remembering how Soren had grasped her flesh and wh
ispered obscene things in her ear. How she'd wanted him to do those things.
She'd even begged him for more.
But that wasn't her. It wasn't.
Was it?
Soren came back.
And he brought friends.
Freya dreamt of the men every night. She couldn't get away from them even when she was alone.
She remembered the pleasure she'd found with them. Or at least with the ones who wanted her to feel pleasure. With the others…
She shuddered as she flinched away from the memories, wondering if this was who she was, someone who changed to please those around her.
Sweet and innocent for her father, steady and quiet for her mother, generous and helpful for her sister.
And for the men…
Whatever they wanted her to be.
Sweet and shy.
Bold and brazen.
Victim.
Whore.
Maybe she really was all those things?
But she knew.
Somewhere deep inside, she knew.
She lived for the days when Devlin came to see her. For the days when she could be his pure, sweet Freya. Untarnished. Untouched. Just a young girl who would one day marry the boy she'd always loved.
Some of the men Soren brought to her were older men—men with wives and babies at home that took their pleasure and threw coins at her without looking back, ashamed of themselves and disgusted with her, hating a woman who could so freely give herself to fill their needs.
She hated herself, too, while they were there.
And after. After, she scrubbed her skin raw, trying to get rid of the feel of their greasy bodies against her skin.
And then, one late fall day as the leaves died and pooled on the ground, came the moment when she could no longer be everything to everyone.
It was no longer warm, but not yet winter, and Freya was cleaning the kitchen when Soren found her.
He was alone. He liked to have her to himself every once in a while. Liked to do things to her that no one else should see.
He shoved Freya against the table, not even bothering to take off her dress, and tangled his hand in her hair, pulling back until her neck was bent at a ninety degree angle, willing her to scream.
She did.
That's when Devlin found them.
"Freya! What's going on here? Soren! You get the hell away from her."
"She wants it, Devlin. Don't you, Freya?" Soren's hand was still tangled in her hair, still pulling her head back.
Freya screamed again, like a wounded animal caught in a trap.
Devlin wanted her to be his sweet, gentle, kind Freya.
Soren wanted her naked on her knees, begging him to take her.
She couldn't please them both. She couldn’t be both girls. Their conflicting desires were tearing her apart.
She fainted.
When she awoke, she was in her room and the house was in chaos.
There were angry voices shouting downstairs—men's voices.
Jadzia sat on the bed across from her.
"Mother told me to stay here with you so you don't do something stupid."
The waves of hate rolling off Jadzia were so strong that Freya almost opened the window and jumped.
"Don't," Jadzia said. "Mother very specifically told me that I'd be to blame if you somehow ended up dead."
"What happened?" Freya whispered.
Jadzia crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall.
"Well, Soren's dead and Devlin is being charged with murder. Seems he didn't realize that his dear, sweet Freya was willing to spread her legs for anyone who asked."
"What?" Freya sat up, looking towards the door.
"You heard me." Jadzia moved to stand between Freya and the door. "Seems Devlin saw Soren with his pants down around his ankles and heard you scream and got the wrong impression. So, he killed him. But when Britt found out about it, he told everyone how you were nothing but a no good, dirty little tramp. And then a whole lot of other men backed him up. Told stories about coming here while we were all in town and paying to be with you."
Jadzia sneered down at her. "Not that the money was needed, of course. They all made it pretty clear you'd be just as willing to open your legs for free. Now Devlin is going to be hanged because he was in love with a no good dirty whore."
"No. You don't understand…" Freya reached toward Jadzia, but her sister stepped out of her reach.
"You disgust me. You should die."
With that, Jadzia left her alone.
Soren had deserved to die for what he'd done to her.
But Devlin…Devlin didn't deserve any of this.
Freya should've turned Devlin away after what had happened at the river.
She wasn't worthy of him. But she couldn’t. Because he’d still wanted her.
He hadn’t known what she’d become. And it wouldn’t matter now even if she told him the truth.
She'd done it, hadn't she? She'd kept seeing the men and hiding it from her mother.
Freya could've told someone. After the men had left. When she was herself once more.
But she hadn't.
Not that anyone would have wanted to hear it.
Not her mother. And certainly not Devlin.
They'd wanted her to be their old Freya. The sweet child who skipped and sang silly songs.
But she wasn't that girl anymore.
And she never would be again.
Freya snuck out the back of the house and sprinted toward the Mill Bridge. This had started in the river, let it end in the river.
She ran to the middle of the bridge, ready to fling herself over the railing. But at the sight of the swirling waters below, she hesitated.
Death was so final.
But did she have any other choice?
She couldn't face them. Couldn't stand to see the look of betrayal in Devlin's eyes. The hatred and disgust in her father's. And without them, she had nowhere left to go.
She braced herself to jump, but, as she leaned forward, she no longer had the will for it.
She would’ve sighed in regret, but she couldn’t, because she was no longer alone.
"Child, what are you doing?" The man who spoke to her was middle-aged, his clothes covered in dust, his eyes kind.
"I was going to jump. I wanted to die."
He chuckled. "Well, that's the most honest response I've ever received to that question."
"You wanted an honest response, so I gave you one."
"I see." He studied her for a moment more before continuing. "Come here, child."
Freya obeyed.
"That was easy."
"I didn't have a choice. I had to obey you. But as soon as you leave me alone, I'll go back and jump."
"I see…" He looked around. "Where are your people?"
"I have no people. Not anymore."
"Ah. Well then. I guess you'll just have to come along with me. Can't have pretty young ladies jumping off of bridges under my watch. I'm Brandon. And you are?"
"Freya."
"Nice to meet you, Freya. Now come along."
Brandon walked away, Freya trailing him.
"So, young lady, tell me about yourself. How did you come to stand on that bridge?"
Freya told him. About the blueberries, the river, the hunter, Hakan, Soren, Devlin. All of it. Brandon listened, his brow creased in concern, arms clasped behind his back.
Freya expected to feel that pull from him that she'd felt from the other men, but she didn't.
He didn't want her, not like they had. He didn’t want her weak and subject to his will.
He wanted her to be safe and strong.
To be herself.
Somewhere deep inside a tiny flicker of will blossomed and she could feel Brandon supporting her, anchoring her. “How did you do that?”
He winked. "Give it time, child. It will get better. I promise."
Freya smiled for the first time since that day by the river as she
walked by his side, protected by his belief in her, finally free to be herself for the first time in weeks.
She allowed herself to believe.
That maybe there was a way to live with “it”. A way to be strong, to be herself again. To feel the desires of others, but to resist them.
To choose for herself what she did and when.
If you liked this story, you might also like The Bearer.
About the Author
You can reach M.H. Lee at [email protected]
Copyright
Text copyright ©2013-2020 M.L. Humphrey
All Rights Reserved
* * *
Formerly titled Freya's Tale