by Nicola Tee
My eyes start filling with tears.
“Okay, sorry. I will stay here tonight, and then come tomorrow morning you will be shot of me.”
He climbs to his feet, barges past me and walks down the hall. I am weak, pathetic and stupid. I could have been in charge for two years with him as my victim but all I could last for was two weeks. Actually, not even two weeks, I lasted two days short of that.
Our Night
I flick through the drawers in the master bedroom, hoping to find something loose to wear to bed as it is a little chilly to sleep naked tonight. There is a cream nightie tucked at the back of the draw, it was probably unintentionally left behind by Mr. Hump’s mother all those years ago. It smells of nothing. Not fresh like it has just been washed. And not old like the only place it should go is in the bin. I quickly slip my clothes off and put it on.
I tuck myself into bed, trying to hold back the fountain of tears building inside me. I desperately want to cry because I have no idea what I am going to do once morning arrives. I have no plan A, let alone a plan B for my life. Where can I go with no money, no skills, no family or friends? I toss and turn for ages thinking about my mum and how one hug from her would help heal my heartache. But I can’t ever hug her again, my father has stripped me of that right. Plus, it would be selfish of me to ask her to take my pain away, as all she would get in return is her own heartbreak.
I tiptoe back to the living room to grab the letter I had drafted to my dad. The letter I know I will never send as I don’t have the balls to do that. I tuck myself back into bed, clutching it in my left hand. I want to read it, but I can’t, I am already an emotional wreck and repeating the words I had outlined from two weeks ago would just push me emotionally over the edge.
I open up the side drawer and stuff the letter inside it, then rummage around to see if there is a book inside. I need something to help take my mind off my own demons, instead, I find a penknife. It has the word ‘son’ carved on it in the top left-hand corner. It is beautiful; a detailed, home-made weapon that no doubt has sentimental value. Is it Mr. Hump’s? His dads? His grandfathers?
I flip the knife open. This voice inside me is screaming, ‘Use it!’ I am telling myself to cut my wrists, I am telling myself to further scar my body. The pain of the cuts will surely take away the sadness of my past; my brain needs a different source of pain to focus on. I can’t run the series of unfortunate events that put me where I am today through my mind any more. I lift the knife to my right wrist and start to contemplate whether to do one quick slice.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Hump interrupts my near self-harming moment by peeping his head around the door.
I immediately drop the knife to the side of me and roll over, so my back is facing him. I don’t want him to see me looking this vulnerable and broken, as he has spent eight years seeing me that way. I can hear his footsteps approaching me. I can feel him standing over me, breathing over me. He places his hand on my lower back, causing the tiny hairs on my arms to stand up.
“Are you all right?” He repeats as he sits on the side of the bed.
Once again, I ignore the question. But, I only ignore him this time because I am distracted by the sudden rush that has come over me caused by his touch. There is just a thin piece of silk; my nightdress and the bed sheets between my bare back and his palm. I have no idea what this ‘rush’ feeling is as I have never felt it before. I take a deep breath and roll onto my back. I look him straight in the eyes as I pull my arms out from under the covers, exposing my bare flesh. Without thinking, I lift my left arm and gently place my hand on his cheek.
“I am fine.” But he isn’t. He flinches the moment my palm makes contact with his skin. I can feel him tense his whole body, scared of my touch. Once I hear him take a breath and see his shoulders drop I throw back the covers, exposing my nightdress fully. It has rolled up and is sitting just above my knees. I feel an explosion of pride when showing him my freshly-shaven legs. I am trying to encourage him to see me as a woman, instead of the girl he is used to seeing.
I wiggle up the bed, get onto my knees and mount him. I do it quickly, so he has no time to resist my advances.
“Touch me,” I plead. He hesitates but only for a second. And then he takes his right hand and places it under my nightdress. One light brush from his fingers makes the small hairs all over my body stand up. I throw my head back, close my eyes and let him feel me. He has the lightest touch for a big man, but the light touch doesn’t last long. He slowly gets faster and rougher. As he does that I grab him and pull myself into him as tight as possible. My legs start uncontrollably shaking. And then my head collapses onto my shoulder.
“Take me,” I whisper in his ear.
He lifts my nightdress over my head, lifts me off his lap, and throws me onto the bed. He stands up and undresses within seconds, and then he climbs on top of me. He runs his fingers up my thighs as I cling onto the pillows surrounding my head, and then his head disappears. He licks and tenderly kisses every part of me from my waist down.
He can’t take it anymore and nor can I. He positions himself directly on top of me. He takes a deep breath and enters me. A wave of relief brushes over his face as he starts rocking back and forth. He starts slow but quickly picks up the pace with each stride. We are in sync, our bodies and our rhythm fit together like a finished puzzle. And then he comes in me! His whole-body flops, as he looks into my eyes and smiles. He smiles at me! He has never smiled at me before. He closes his eyes and leans forward, pushing his lips onto mine; it feels so wrong but at the same time it feels so right.
He falls to the side of me, wraps his arm around me and holds me tight. I can tell he doesn’t want to let me go and I don’t want him to either. I look over to him. He looks at peace with his eyes shut and his breathing slowing. I lay there, staring at him and then at the ceiling, over and over, trying to get my head around what just happened. I have just made love with the man who held me captive and tortured me for years. Was I actually crazy? I must be crazy because I loved every minute of it. All I keep thinking is, when will he touch me again?
“Morning, beautiful baby girl,” his mannerism has done a one hundred and eighty degree turn.
“Morning.”
“Do you think we need to talk about what happened?” he questions.
“Yes,” I coyly whisper.
“You are the first woman I have ever made love to,” he grins.
“You are my first man.”
“I want you again,” he demands.
“I am all yours!”
And with that he climbs back on top of me and kisses every part of my bare skin, starting from my neck and working his way down to my toes. Every kiss gives me goosebumps. We make love all morning, and well into the afternoon. Our lovemaking makes me see a different side to him; he has a touch lighter than a feather, a kiss softer than a new mother’s, a gaze sweeter than sugar and a smile cuter than a baby’s laugh. I have gone from hating him to loving him in a blink of an eye. He has become my plan B.
Months go by with us living together in sheer bliss. I somehow manage to morph Gregory into the man I need in my life. We sail the lake at the back of the cottage together most weekends. He made us this boat within a matter of days, it was adorable and extra special because he had made it all by himself. He is so useful with his hands, which makes him that much more attractive in my eyes. I would make a few sandwiches, and we would sail the lake and dock somewhere upstream and have a romantic picnic. It is beautiful; we even made love a few times out on the grass as we are so far away from people and their prying eyes.
We have found a demand from stores in the town centre about thirty miles up the road for home-made oak furniture, so Gregory and I started to make what was being demanded. We have a waiting list of personalised furniture that people want, and it pays a pretty penny too. Currently, we are making more than enough money to live comfortably, and we plan on moving to France in the near future so we don’t have to look over
our shoulders any more. We have fake identities but there is still a risk that people will learn the truth. I am Jeanette Dough, and Gregory is Michael Dough. I have coloured my hair platinum blonde and wear glasses. And Gregory always wears a cap when outside and is noticeably thinner.
We eat different meals each day, which is a massive bonus as I can’t put my stomach through another piece of dry chicken. I brought some cookbooks from the town’s book store and have been making different dishes whenever I have the time. I am loving the new-found palette of flavours I am exposing myself to. But what I love the most is how much we laugh together, he is so funny, who would have thought it? Our humour runs parallel to one another. He is my family, my world. And we just found out two will become three.
“Let’s raise them to speak English and Russian,” I suggest.
“Okay, and if it is a girl let’s call her Lizzie,” he replies.
“Why Lizzie?”
“Because if it wasn’t for our mission to find Lizzie and right the wrongs, we wouldn't have bonded and become a family,” Gregory states.
I smile because he continuously surprises me with how smart he is.
“Okay, we can call her Elizabeth Blue Stamper, and if it's a boy let's call him Gregory James the Second. Sorry, I mean Elizabeth Blue Dough or Michael James Dough the second.”
Gregory grins and places his hand on my belly. “She or he is kicking for their daddy.
“I love you, Elizabeth Blue or Michael James,” cries Gregory.
We share a moment of pure silence in appreciation for what we have to come.
The Game Is Up
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Police! Get down on your knees!”
“Please do not hurt me, I am pregnant!” I scream.
“Do not touch her, do you hear me?” Gregory threatens.
“I said, get down on your knees!” the man in uniform repeat. Greg drops to his knees and helps me down. I can feel myself suffocating with fear because I know what is coming next.
“You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
The game is up!
“We can no longer run, darling,” I cry as I look over to Gregory.