by Poppet
“You should have told me she was an anal virgin. Sorry about that Ken, I inadvertently made a blood covenant with your possession.”
I'm going to lose it, I'm going to lose it so bad he'll be dead and pulverized before anyone can stop me. “Get out!” I bellow, launching off the couch again and stampeding, barely keeping upright. Reaching for walls and arch frames I'm barreling for him when he gives me his pompous smile and slams the door, probably running for his life.
Sliding to my knees, trying to focus, I'm afraid to touch her. She's finally back, but…
The door opens again and Matthew sneers, “You're a doctor, prove it. Put your princess back together again. Prove you are god's son.” The door slams before I look his way, the icy air cutting through us. I've been in the same clothes for four days, I haven't showered or shaved; it's currently brutal outside, the weather turned as dismal and cold as my heart.
Lifting her off the frigid tiles I stagger to the bedroom, gingerly placing her on the bed without sheets. I haven't been in here. It didn't matter. It mattered too much.
Folding into myself, the air in my lungs pressurized and punishing, I am kneeling, looking at the body that was without flaw now riddled with pain. Her back is lacerated, her thighs lacerated, she has rope burn on her legs, severe marks on her wrists and neck, and from her swollen face to her feet she is riddled with bruises in varying shades of mottled abuse. Her eyes are so puffy that she barely looks out of them. A lone accusatory tear trickles out, severing my soul clean in half. I should have fought them off, I never thought… it doesn't matter, it's done, I'm responsible.
Sitting with my back to the bed I stare through the moonlight at the shattered mirror. I rampaged, I tore through this place like a hurricane, never realizing that it was a portent. Brittle shards of mirrored glass glint in the wan light. Once it's broken you can't fix it.
It takes me two hours to summon the courage to face her, putting the lights on, closing the curtains, swallow caffeine tabs to still my shaking hands; panic upon me like the angel of death.
She's traumatized and I need my gear. Time is more than likely of the essence. I never thought I'd live to see the day I'd need these supplies but I keep them frequently replaced and plentiful.
Kneading my forehead, stress making me sweat, I pile my arms up, carefully traversing the messy hallway back to the bedroom. Dumping the goods on the bed I take the time and care to supe the IV bag with an antibiotic and anti-inflammatory.
Jesus!
Why me?
Steeling my resolve I get to work, spreading the plastic sheet underneath her, inserting the IV and an injected sedative, waiting for her to pass out.
With her unconscious a thin veneer of guilt recedes off my smothered conscience, alleviating guilt in a tiny window of grace.
Inserting the cold speculum, pulling gloves on and the elasticized headlight that I usually wear when I'm working on the bike, I'm feeling fairly sterilized with all the alcohol in my system. Performing what I would consider an emergency DNC, I carefully scrape away her uteral lining, reducing her risk of infection. Swabbing and clearing into the bucket as I go, it's with sickened relief that I strip off the bloodied gloves, shame and guilt building a dam of revulsion and self-deprecation inside me.
This is an outrage, a fucking despicable disgrace. How many assisted in this? She had more cum inside her than I can produce in a year.
Fuckers!
It takes me hours and hours, to beyond midday of the following day to sterilize and close every wound. She's got more gauze and surgical tape on her than skin, but I've done my best. The final gesture of logic is to inject her with vitamin B. It hurts like a motherfucker but it's necessary. I keep a supply in the fridge, so fetch a vial, extracting the cold elixir into the syringe and injecting her in the tush. It'll leave a bruise on someone as sensitive as her, but somehow I don't think she'll notice it when her whole body is smudged with them. The glute's the biggest muscle in the body, making it the logical choice.
Padding through exhaustion I make it to the linen closet, extracting clean sheets, going back and making the bed around her, tucking her in, tenderly smearing balm on her cheeks, eyelids, around her mouth, leaving her to sleep with a cool compress on her face to retard swelling and bruising.
I've had to insert a catheter because I'm going to keep her out for days. Until I have the courage to face her like a man. But right now this man is just going to sit here, with his shame, and cry.
~ Chapter 19 ~
But if I have no love,
I am nothing.
~1 Corinthians 13:2
Candace:
He's disheveled and what I can see of the house looks like a team of landmines set up camp and performed a dance of synchronized detonation. He reaches for me and I seize up when I flinch, the agony of a cramp forcing more tears. I want to scream but my throat's too swollen and raw, so whimper when he picks me up, carrying me to the bedroom. I'm in torture, the thought of going to the bedroom now is enough to trill my pulse and burn my veins with the incinerating agony coursing through my head.
Everywhere is carnage, he's stepping over it in the passage. I'm afraid, trying to plead, to beg him not to stick it in me now. Not now. Please god, not now!
I wake to fresh, bright, clean, him dozing next to me cradling me against his side, me under the covers and him on top. I don't remember anything other than being put on a cold bare bed.
Maybe I passed out, maybe oblivion finally granted me a measure of mercy. His cheek is smooth, his hair smelling of shampoo, wearing track pants and a running shirt, white socks linked primly together at the end of his ankles.
Struggling to move, my body revolts, screaming bloody murder, muscles spasm and the cramp is enough to make me wince. He's instantly awake, sitting up, gingerly running a hand down my arm, “What is it? Tell me where it hurts.”
“Cramp!” I wheeze, trying to rub my thigh but pressure just compounds the searing pain.
“Okay, I got it!” He bolts off the bed, sprinting down the passage to the kitchen, coming back with his über fantastic amino acids. “I don't have these in liquid, but some of them are in my protein shake, I can always make you a smoothie so you can sip it down? Yeah? You need magnesium, glutamine, and tryptophan.”
He looks panicked, indecisive, then heads back out of the bedroom in a hurry, charging back the way he came. It's so uncharacteristic that it makes me smile, which makes me weep because smiling hurts so bad.
After lots of blender noise he comes striding back, a smoothie for both of us and a nasty looking syringe. Oh jeez, that's big enough to inject a horse.
He hands me a closed sports bottle with a straw, ordering, “Sip. It'll help instantly… in five minutes, tops, the cramping will be gone.”
Settling himself on the end of the bed, on his side of it, he watches me while he drinks, leaving the syringe on his bedside table. The vanilla shake is filling, cold, and soothing. Sagging wearily against the pillows, I watch him become more anxious, as if he's fretting. “What?” I ask, the effort of speaking causing a chaffing discomfort.
He shakes his head, “Nothing.” Then in a burst of activity that presses my internal panic button he slams his bottle of magic potion on the table, standing and pacing, blurting, “Not nothing. I'm a fucking moron, I was stupid, I should never have let that shitwit take you away. I was – I should have tried to fight them off, I would've lost but at least I wouldn't feel like such a monumental arsehole.”
Then he lunges for the syringe, rambling like he's in shit street, “Vitamin B. Your body needs it after the stress you endured, it helps you recover, but it hurts. I don't want to hurt you but I have to, you need this…. fuck!” He stops mid pace, bunching his fingers in his hair and staring at me with frustrated and broody eyes.
I hoarsely whisper, “You cleaned up.”
“Yeah, fuck, I was a mess, hadn't shaved or showered for days–” He stops midflow, giving me a sheepish smile, “You mean the house? Uh, y
eah.” He nods, as if not knowing what to say. “Yeah, had to, couldn't have you recuperating in my demolition zone. I… kinda… lost it.”
He clears his throat, holding up the syringe, deciding action is the best course, “Shall we? It's going to sting, but, I can't prevent that.”
I half shrug. If it will help the pain go away what's a little more?
He nods again, coming to me and coaxing, “Just roll a little onto your side, this goes in the glute, sorry luv.”
Lurching to my left, I wait while he edges my pj bottoms down – I'm in pj's? – the injection is flawless, I can't feel it, but then an unholy burning turns my tush into carcinogenic coal. “Fuck.”
He rubs it briskly, “I'm so sorry, Blossom…”
And then he's rolling me back, sitting next to me, bracing his arms either side of my hips, “…For everything. I know it's going to take me a long time to prove to you that I'm not a monster, but I want to try. I wracked my brain trying to think of a way out of here, but no matter what I considered it ended in a dead end. There's no escape, for either of us. We're here for good, but inside this house, from now on, we do things our way.”
Glum, I stare at him, listening to sentences without meaning. I'm afraid to say a word, of the wrath it'll incur. I know better now, stay silent, agree to everything, and you'll live. It's not much but it's something.
There's a crater in my chest where my heart used to beat, now it echoes, sadness saturates every organ, my misery and fear is a living, breathing, entity.
“I'm not leaving you alone for a second, I will nurse you back to health, I will rebuild your body, and I will arm you for conflict. I … I'm no good without you, Candace. I fell apart.”
Good for you, how nice to know you had the gall to fall apart. You were lucky.
•
Kenan:
It takes nine long months before she has a real conversation with me, and weeks before she smiled for the first time.
It took trauma to make me understand that love has a way of rearranging priorities. I didn't dare leave her alone so started having my clients come to the house, to my gym, training them where I can hear Candace if there's an emergency, and so I could maintain constant vigilance on her state of mind. Because of her perilous health I was excused from church, only called to perform 'my duty' when tutorials needed to be filmed. And what a saving grace those were because all I've had at home is my hand in the shower.
I've kept her on tryptophan, hoping it will regulate her enough to stave off a suicide attempt. It's the optimism amino acid and I think it's prudent to be cautious. When I couldn't be with her I had the W.I. ladies come and sit with her, watching her for the symptoms I've warned them about. Celia is the first to volunteer, always, and I love that mad bat for her huge heart. Candace hasn't asked to use the computer, she gives me shopping lists to purchase for her whenever she needs groceries, she hasn't asked after her belongings, and she hasn't touched my phone. She won't even answer it when I ask her to.
Unfortunately her bitch friend has noticed she's missing, so we had the kill squad take care of that little issue.
I had her scanned for broken bones and brain trauma, but it wasn't necessary. It took ten weeks for the last of the bruises to fade and that's when I started her routine, building her muscles back to health, disavowing my brotherhood by teaching her karate in secret. I will never let her be his victim again.
I've used excuses and her health to keep her out of church and gatherings, but we can't hide forever. However, when she does go back in there I need to know she can kill a man inside forty seconds. She needs to be able to get away, and to hell with the consequences, if it comes to that we'll go on the run. I have a famous face but that can be rearranged to look like Yuri, my beastly second cousin.
I've also procured a home laser like the one they have at the salon. I'll never leave her alone with them, now none of them can be trusted. She'll be as hairless as she was after her purification, just the way Matt likes, but I'll do it in the privacy of our home.
I came home from the prostate sermon, explaining to her how the poor old widow Cunningham had to stick her finger in my arse and fondle about, finding that gland and smearing it the way we did the O spot, and how I ended up apologizing for messing up her new hairdo.
She laughed, for the first time she laughed, but whenever she sees me naked I see the fear in her eyes. If she uses the bathroom after I've had a little stroking session in the shower, she hueys. It seems just the smell of it is anathema to her now. Nice one Matthew, thanks so much for fucking up a good thing. I'm going to show her she can trust me, I'm going to wait for her to come to me. She's like a wild wounded animal that has to learn to trust and love again. Matthew perfectly illustrated that force does not convert, it suppresses. And he's too blind and ego-infested to notice spiritual pain.
There's a fresh faced girl in the flock, she's his new favorite. He finally has someone else to target. But he effectively crashed my world and I need the jaws of life to get me out of this one. Blossom lets me hold her, she has since the second day, we watch TV, we eat, we play games, and I use Playstation games to sharpen her eye -attack reflex, by getting her to play Assassin's Creed and its ilk. I've got her a Kindle with enough money loaded into Amazon that she can order a book anytime she wants it. And beyond this I'm out of ideas. I have no clue what chicks dig to do for fun.
It's a cold November afternoon when she surveys me, finally broaching the dreaded conversation, “So, when are you going to ask me about it?”
Just the mention of it makes me want to go postal. My instincts bellow for justice, to kick in the lodge door and snap that shitwit's neck. “I don't need to ask about it.”
“Did he tell you then? Bragging to his buddies about what a man he is?”
I shake my head, getting up and walking to the window, keeping my back to her, fisting my hands in my pockets so she can't read how rattled this makes me.
I'm looking out the window but I'm seeing those first two weeks, saying, “You vomited uncontrollably for days. I knew what it was because Matthew is like god, he doesn't feed his prisoners. Your anal passage was ruptured and it was a bitch and a half to prevent that from getting infected. Your throat had lesions and was so swollen that I had to insert a breathing tube. I cleaned you out, removing all of it; I know one man alone can't deposit that much in the bank without help, a lot of help. You had a fever that almost had me taking you to hospital, and your nightmares have filled me in on the rest. You don't wake but I do, you don't hear the screams but I hear them, and it fractures me.”
Not to mention the few fading scars that will always remind me of how, as a man, I failed epicly. I can't turn around, I determinedly stare out the window, hiding my own fragility.
I can't continue, my voice has cracked and my tears are shaming me. What a mighty man I am. She needs me to be strong, to support her, to bolster her confidence, not this girlie shit that will make her feel guilty and responsible.
“Is that why you're being so nice?”
It's a fair question but it's a knife through my gut. Sniffing, I shake my head, talking to the window that condenses when I breathe, “What Matthew never told you, is in the bible there is a little significant sentence: Love endures long and is patient and kind.” 1 Corinthians 13:4
Grabbing my courage I swivel, facing her prettily curled up on the sofa in leggings and a fleece jumper, “Love is not ill-mannered or selfish or irritable; love does not keep a record of wrongs. Love never gives up; and its faith, hope, and patience never fail.” 1 Corinthians 135. I shrug, “I can only show you. I can only prove it. We're in this together, Blossom. When they hurt you, they hurt me. I know my suffering wasn't anything like yours but the emotional pain of losing you was a death that refused to cease inflicting suffering.”
She stares unwavering, “You didn't lose anything, I'm still here. You could have let me die but you didn't. Because you're selfish.”
My first reaction is to get angry, to
shout, but I hold my temper and state, “Is nursing you, operating on you, tending you in every possible way, selfish? Was teaching you how to defend yourself, even against me, selfish? Is providing for you and being compassionate, selfish? Has this all been for naught? Is loving you, selfish?”
She looks away, biting her lip, the telltale trickle of moisture wicking her cheek. I know this mission has taken more courage and patience than all of my work under god's law has, combined, but I refuse to give up. Crossing the carpet I sit next to her, wrapping my arms around her and holding her, rocking her. No words can fix my fuck ups. We have to get past this, we have to rejoin society before they come looking for us. I have to induct her so the next time Matthew goes on a power trip I can legitimately destroy him.
He's cunning, he knew with her being 'unwed' she was fair game. But he struck so soon, so early, I didn't have the opportunity to even get that close to her before he shot it to hell.
My pulse accelerates when she turns into me, burying her face in my chest, hugging so tight that her nails dig in.
At last! Fucking praise god! It's a life buoy, and I'm accepting it.
Kissing the top of her head, I whisper hoarsely, “I read the docket Matthew left here for you. In it is says and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness. Ephesians 4:24 It may sound trite but that's how I feel. Being in love with you has transformed me, it's changed my worldview, it's made me care about things I never cared for, it feels like I have put on a new self. Maybe that's why god gave Eve to Adam, maybe she was the part he lacked, the part he needed in order to become a fully functioning whole. A man with compassion, who worries and cares about more than just himself, giving us someone we want to protect, and when we don't guilt dogs every step, it haunts our minds so we can't sleep, it festers like septicemia. A part he took out so Adam had to face it, daily, not hide it away because it was covered by blood and bone.”