Flawed

by Francette Phal

  God, please…

  Nothing.

  I grip the door handle and push down again and receive only the empty click of a locked door. The loss of hope is utterly devastating. It bleeds out of me and leaves me wilting with despair. My sweat-covered forehead rests against the coolness of the thick wood, wanting to disappear inside it. My tears gather hotly again, they sting my eyes and prick the inside of my nose before falling down my cheeks.

  “I wanted to see what hope would look like on your face,” he remarks in that quiet, unaffected voice of his, like he’s discussing the weather. I stiffen when I feel him directly behind me. He was in the room all this time. Watching me suffer, my attempt at escape his entertainment.

  “Turn.” It’s a command meant for an animal. Anger drives my stubbornness and I fail to obey. He’s quick in making me regret my decision. He slips a strap over my head, wraps it around my neck and yanks me away from the door in one swift move that has me flailing on the ground like a fish out of water. I’m gasping for air, reaching for my neck, scratching at my throat, trying to get my fingers between the strap and my skin to pull it off. But it only tightens, the more I struggle, the tighter it gets, until I come to the understanding that he likes when I fight, when I resist. So I stop. Hoping I have it right. Blood whooshes between my ears. I can hear my heart beating. “I don’t want to kill you…” He crouches down in front of me and reaches out to brush my hair away from my face while he stares at me with fathomless eyes that could eat me alive.

  Dizzy. My head is spinning. It feels full. “It would be too easy for me,” he continues to pet my hair, “very easy and extremely satisfying.” He leans into me, his face close to mine, and licks my tears away with his tongue. “I need you not to push me to that point. Blink if you understand.” I blink, and blink, and blink again. And then, there’s sweet, glorious air! He permits me to breathe, slackens the strap, and I take mouthfuls of air into my lungs. I’m too greedy with it, so it drags along my dry throat and causes a convulsion of coughs that bring tears to my eyes.

  He sits idly by simply watching. He doesn’t remove the strap. It loops around my neck so that it stays exactly where he wants it. There, to no doubt remind me just how quick he can retract this crumb of generosity.

  He takes me completely off guard when he sets an arm beneath my legs and another around my body and picks me up without effort. I don’t know what to think, how to feel, what to do, as he carries me across the length of the bedroom and rather than set me back down on the bed, he bypasses it and makes his way to the bathroom instead. It’s just as big as the bedroom. Everything is simple, uncluttered, made up of clean, sculptural lines and sleek, understated fixtures. Indirect lighting washes everything in a soft glow.

  It reminds me of something you would find at a fancy spa. Stone and tile make up the floors and walls. The dark gray, concrete sink and bathtub are set on the opposite end of the stone wall that houses chrome faucets. A quick shift of my eyes upwards reveals the flat shower head built into the ceiling. When he silently sets me down, my legs buckle beneath me, unable to sustain my weight as I crash to the tiled floor. I don’t land well, and cry out as pain shoots into my left leg—the cracking sound a hint of the pain that’s to come. . My head hangs, fresh tears gather, but I bite down on my bottom lip to keep them from falling. I’m grateful that my hair curtains my face.

  “Hands and knees,” he directs, and I’m not stupid enough to resist a second time. I unclench my tightly-fisted hands beside me and flatten them on the ground before assuming his desired position. The humiliation is nowhere near the fear of punishment, but being so exposed to him, guessing at just what my backside looks like, has my cheeks flaming. I’m still sore from the spanking and the forced entry into my ass. I can even still feel the goopy remnants of his cum still inside me, most of it has dried by now, but it’s still crusting my inner thighs. “Crawl.” The strap that I soon discover to be a belt is within his hold as he takes the lead. He takes me to the rounded stone bathtub and murmurs another terse order of, “Sit,” that I’m required to follow. I’m surprised he doesn’t ruffle my hair for added effect.

  Kindness, and I use the term tentatively at this point, has not been shown by him to me until just now. He turns on the dual faucets of the tub and fills it to nearly full before wordlessly setting me inside the clear, warm water. I can’t help the initial hiss and whimper as the heat envelops my lower body and I jump up slightly, unconsciously reaching for his arm like a child would a parent. “Shhh…” he soothes, as he lowers me back down. “They will heal soon enough.” There’s no emotion in the way he says that and I quickly push away from him, as if electrocuted, causing water to slosh over the rim of the tub. I don’t know what I was thinking. What am I doing clinging to the arm of the man who just tortured me? Abused me. And he has every intention of doing it again. Twenty-five more times. In that room. What other sort of depravity did he have in store for me? Sex was sex. I know sex. I wouldn’t mind having sex with him as a repayment for the debt he’s paid. But what he did to me in that room and the dark, glimmering promise in his all-consuming eyes of more sadistic acts to come, is so utterly horrifying that I want to sink beneath the water and not come up for air.

  “P…p…please…” I hear myself speak for the first time and I can barely recognize the croak as my own voice. How long has it been? Hours? Days? I swallow to lubricate my raw throat before I continue. “There…there has to be another way…” I don’t think I can handle that sort of torture twenty-five more times. “I can’t…” I lower my head, unable to look at him. But I can feel the cold stare of his locked gaze on me.

  I hear him sigh quietly in the silence of the room. “Believe it or not, you do have a choice in this. You can leave whenever you want to. I will not stop you.” There’s a pause in which I feel his hands once again in my hair. He fists a handful and tugs my head up to meet his unerring gaze. When he speaks again, his words are frank and chilling. “But you have to know that I will recover my payment in other ways. With another body. Your brother’s to be more specific. I will catch him the way I caught you. I will take him to a very special place, not at all like here, and I will strap him down to a table and use a circular saw to cut him open. I will rip his organs out from his body one by one and send them off to be sold for a profit. I will not accept any less than what is owed to me.” He relinquishes his hold and removes the belt with effortless ease. “You will always have a choice with me, Lacey, but you must be prepared for the consequences.” He turns, heads to the sink counter, and sets a white bar of soap at the rim of the tub. “I’ll come back for you,” he says, in parting.

  I don’t move for a long time afterwards, the water grows cold around me and I’m almost sure that it’s from the building frost inside me, slowly seeping out of my pores. I feel disemboweled by his words, words I know weren’t spoken simply to scare me. He doesn’t seem like the type of person to simply say things for effect. My being here is irrefutable proof of that. The question that I have asked myself a hundred times before comes again to the surface of my mind. What has Dante gotten us into? What have I gotten myself into by further engaging this man? It was obvious now that Knox is a deranged psychopath on so many levels. How did I think appealing to his base instinct would get me out of the monumental fuck-up Dante put us in? I was stupid to believe simply fucking him would’ve ended this, naïve to have treated him like any other man. He was different. I knew this. From the very beginning I’d known it, but I’d ignored my intuition and now here I am. His demand for a price I can’t possibly pay has me against the wall.

  He would act on his words. Hurt—God, he’d kill Dante if I walked away. I can’t let that happen. I won’t let it happen. And he knows that. Knox knows that I will do anything to save my family. Go through any hell. He presented it so well, his catch-22 splayed out so perfectly in front of me. My move. My choice. But there is no choice. I would rather suffer in this fucked-up scenario than allow him to torture and kill Dan
te. Protecting my family, providing for them, has always been my cross to bear. This is just another obstacle. Just another hurdle I need to get over before I can move on with my life. I’m used to this. Things have never been easy. Hell, it wouldn’t be my life if it were.

  Pity is an emotion sucking the quagmire that is my life, slowly pulling me down into the depths of hell. I bite down on my bottom lip that’s dry and cracked from abuse, but not even the coppery taste of blood or the sting of my saliva in the cuts can stop the torrent of tears. I raise a hand from the water to cover my mouth, to stifle the sobs that erupt through me like explosions and rack my entire body. My sobs echo in the bathroom, bounce off the walls, so loud that I’m sure he hears them. He doesn’t come. This humiliation is mine alone. But I don’t wallow in self-pity for long. Just as quick as the sobs come, they recede back into my dark little place and I take in a shuddering breath and then another. Being brave, pretending that shit doesn’t faze me is an act, but I guess it’s one that Knox fully believes in since he’s apparently chosen me based off that one artificial trait. I have to believe in it, too, now, make it a reality, because that’s the only way I’m going to survive this.

  When I reach for the bar of soap, I catch a glimpse of my left wrist. My gaze bounces from one arm to the other, taking in the identical markings, the patterns from the rope have cut red rings around my wrists, forearms, and upper arms. The abrasions at my wrists are the rawest, the water has washed some of the blood away but I can still see crusted remnants. There is a violent beauty in the braided patterns that compel me to touch them. I feel the grooves of the torture that I endured and know that more will come. I release a sigh and take hold of the soap. If my arms where this bad, I couldn’t possibly imagine the rest of my body. I wash myself thoroughly and every wince and hiss of pain is a reminder of Knox’s cruelty. He returns just in time to see me return the bar of soap to the rim of the tub. “Stand up.” Another terse order brings me unsteadily to my feet.

  His gaze is as invasive as his touch and as it runs the length of my body, an unwanted stroke of desire hardens my nipples and spills liquid heat in between my legs. I want to raise my arms to cover myself but he doesn’t permit it as he extends a hand that I hesitantly take. He helps me out of the tub and doesn’t seem to notice that I am dripping water on the pristine tile of his bathroom floor. He takes the lead, my hand still in his grasp, and guides me out of the bathroom. In the short walk it takes on the journey to the bedroom, I do nothing but stare down at our joined hands and mindlessly notice the differences between them. There is no mistaking the largeness of the hand enveloping mine. Palm to palm, my fingertips only reach the tops of his second knuckles. There is a roughness there, too, like he works a lot with his hands. The cuts on the outside, fresh ones and old ones, have left behind a road map of scars.

  “Kneel,” he commands. I kneel. We’re in the bedroom now and the carpet provides a much needed cushion for my bruised knees as I drop down in front of him. The hand that has contributed to my pain, to my torture, with its long, thick fingers and rough palm, retrieves a large, blue towel from a chair behind him and together with the other hand, he works to dry me off. The show of kindness brings tears to my eyes, but I have the fluffy shroud of the towel positioned over my head to hide them. My chest feels like it’s in the clutches of a python.

  A crumb of affection, a sliver of gentleness, and I’m ready to curl on the ground and lick his feet. The emotion comes from that dark place, it trickles warmly in my veins like hot syrup, its sugariness making it seem like it’s natural, like this is how it should be. But it’s wrong and it sickens me to know that I am even capable of feeling like this toward a man who wants nothing more than to hurt me, to destroy me.

  He doesn’t let me keep the towel but the belt makes a return. He fastens it around my neck, inserts the longer end into the buckle before tugging me along behind him. Out the bedroom door, there are a set of black, iron stairs that he mercifully doesn’t make me crawl down. I shuffle behind him, wordlessly, silently, his steps are measured, slow, for my sake? I can’t be sure. I’m not too sure of anything when it comes to him. But it seems like he’s cognizant of the effort it takes for me to walk so he’s shortened his strides so that I’m not running after him to keep up.

  “Get down on your knees and crawl.” That moment of grace is short-lived as he gives me the cruel directive once we’re on the first floor. I’ve done what he’s commanded so far out of fear of being punished, but I hesitate to carry out this order now. A shift of my gaze goes to the black strap of the belt he holds almost carelessly in his left hand and I shiver, reminded plainly of the cruelties he’s capable of. Would he drag me back to that room again if I say something I shouldn’t? Will he tug on the belt and cut off my air supply? A hand beneath my chin tilts my head up to meet his inquisitive stare. “We wouldn’t want me to repeat myself, would we?” His softly-worded inquiry is almost a seduction, but I know better. It’s danger wrapped in enticement. I’m starting to understand that nothing is ever what I expect with him.

  I worry, gnawing nervously on my bottom lip, before shaking my head negatively. “Good,” he says, approvingly. “Then you know what to do.” Self-preservation tempers my rebellion. I must pick my battles. This is one I will lose. So I prudently lower myself to my knees. The carpet from the bedroom is clearly absent here. There is nothing but gray, polished, concrete floors spanning the entirety of the wide-open space that frames an elegant living room, a dining room, and a kitchen. The color palette of the furniture, fixtures, and walls consist mainly of beiges, white, and black. Everything is comprised of clean, crisp lines that run along the same minimalist features of his bathroom. The incredible skylight that makes up the ceiling and the immense quartet of towering windows positioned around the living room provide me for the first time a glimpse at the outside world. The sun is barely noticeable in the overwhelming grayness of the sky. I can only guess at the time, maybe four or five p.m.? What day? I haven’t been with him that long and yet, it feels like it’s been years. The entire place lacks warmth, it’s aesthetically beautiful, pristine, and featureless, but the coldness radiates throughout the entire residence in a frightening manner. Just like the man who lives here.

  We come to a stop in front of a black area rug. The room we just entered is a square space comprised of two matte-black ottomans placed on opposite ends of a similar matte-black, leather couch that sits low on the ground. The white stone coffee table at the center is the only break of color in the sea of black. But it’s what’s on the table that catches my attention. My stomach clenches painfully and then releases a rumble that brings instant heat to my cheeks. The sight of food, a plate of pasta and two bottles of water, splayed out in front of me, bring my immediate attention to the fact that I haven’t eaten in a long time. But even more than that, I realize just how thirsty I am. “Come,” he invites, taking a seat on the ottoman closest to us. A slight tug on the strap of the belt brings me nearly in front of him. “Sit up…kneel for me.” I sit up and recline as much as I can, setting my weight on my bent legs. My head remains lowered, not because he has made it an order, but because I can’t bear to look at him. I can’t bear looking into that face of stone and into those fathomless eyes.

  I feel him move past me and extends an arm to the table to grab something. There’s the sound of a crack, the seal of the water bottle breaking, before I hear, “Look at me.”

  Slowly, I raise my head and inevitably become a victim to the terrifying beauty of his gaze. “Here.” I can’t hide my confusion. It’s in the frown that brings my brows together as I stare first at the bottle he’s holding out to me and then back at him with uncertainty. “Take it before I change my mind, Lacey.” The whispered sharpness of his tone sends a shudder through me. I avert my gaze, bite down on my lower lip, and blink furiously to stop the fall of tears. They don’t fall, thankfully, but my nose burns from those same tears, causing me to sniffle reflexively.

  He grips my chin wit
h firm fingers and turns my head back to face him. “Always the brave girl.” And he grins devilishly. It’s a softly-worded reprimand that he accompanies with that dark smirk. “Open your mouth.” It takes me the span of a few seconds to comply and when I do, he sets the open bottle on my lower lip and tips it gently so that water trickles slowly into my mouth. Warm water has never tasted so good. And I’m suddenly a fiend who can’t get enough as I grip his hand. I take the bottle’s opening in my mouth and suck the water down. The plastic warps, crunches with every pull I take. My eyes are closed shut and I can hear myself moaning with every pause for breath. Water dribbles down my chin, down my throat, snaking down the narrow valley between my breasts but I don’t care. I don’t stop until…until it’s wrenched away from me. It’s his grip of my face that pulls my eyes open. He’s suddenly on his feet, a menacing giant towering over me. My face fits his entire hand, but it’s the painful grip of his fingers digging into the hinges of my jaw and cheeks that has my mouth falling open as I cry out in pain.

  “So fucking enticing…” I’m a deer in his headlights. There’s no left or right for me. No up or down. No chance of looking away from the disaster that’s about to happen to me. “I’m going to hurt you now…I need to hurt you…” he murmurs with chilling giddiness, bringing fear tumbling back into my battering chest. I hear the shuffle of movement as he releases himself from his trousers with his free hand.