Inescapable

by C. J. Fallowfield

  I still wasn’t breathing when he slowly slid his hands into his grey trouser pockets. An eerie silence enveloped us both as he waited for my answer. He cocked his head. His hazel eyes, eyes that had first attracted me to him, narrowed as unmistakable anger flared in them, almost turning them a demonic sheen of black. Any sane person would back off immediately, knowing what was to come. But today, I’d decided on insanity, and I just hoped that the pay-off would be worth it. So, I made the choice to keep pushing him and sucked in a deep breath.

  ‘But you never say yes on the day, and it’s her birthday. I promised her.’

  ‘Never make a promise that you can’t keep, have I taught you nothing?’

  ‘You’ve made plenty of promises that you never kept,’ I shot back.

  ‘Isabelle!’ His voice was firm and dominant, just like Richard King. What had once turned me on about him, was now the very thing that terrified me. And the more terrified I became, the more it turned him on.

  Charismatic, charming, confident, and generous.

  They were the four words that anyone who knew him would use to describe him. But they didn’t know him like I did. They only saw the persona he’d skilfully crafted to conceal who he really was. Except Shaz. She’d seen it all along and I should have listened to her. Sadly, I’d seen the monster caged in his carefully constructed façade too late to save myself.

  Sadistic, controlling, possessive, and psychotic.

  Those were the four words that I would use to describe him.

  Despite opening my bank account and one in both of our names, as promised, the day after we arrived, I’d never been given access to them, let alone an allowance. I’d never had the chance to send my dearest friend the money she so desperately needed to make her own escape. I wasn’t allowed access to the internet or a phone. I’d never even had the chance to call her and tell her that I was sorry, or explain why she’d never heard from me again. And my precious photo of the two of us had mysteriously “got lost” the day I moved in, along with my treasured penguin and the photo of my parents. The only other promise that Richard had kept, was to show me the kind of life I’d never have imagined in my wildest dreams.

  That was true. It was unlikely I’d have ever pictured the life he’d given me, not even in my worst nightmares.

  The largest part of me wanted to drop to my knees and beg his forgiveness, knowing it would earn me a measure of leniency for crossing him. But there was still that tiny element of strength that he hadn’t quite beaten out of me, no matter how hard he’d tried. I’d kept it hidden, cloaked it from him for the last few years. Let him believe that I’d surrendered to him completely, so that I could formulate my escape. And tonight, my choice was to either accept my life sentence, trapped inside this prison, or put my plan into action and finally break free.

  The acid in my stomach started to claw its way up my gullet to burn the back of my throat. I knew the rules, they’d been indelibly etched into the bones he’d broken over the last nine years. I knew what pressed his buttons, and what I should do to maintain the status quo and protect myself from his cruelty. But if I wanted to catch him off guard, I also knew that I had to give him what he really craved. What really helped him to get his rocks off.

  A reason to hurt me.

  I swallowed hard, focussing on that tiny flame of fighting spirit that was rooted deep in my core. The one Shaz had instilled in me at St. Catherine’s. The one that he’d come to believe he’d already extinguished, and I drew my strength from it. It was now, or never. And I’d be damned if I let this bastard condemn me to a moment more of misery than he’d already inflicted on me.

  ‘She’s my best friend, I won’t let her down.’ If you could call someone you were rarely allowed to see, let alone communicate with, a best friend. But she was the closest thing to it since I’d moved here. ‘You can’t stop me.’ I lifted my chin in defiance, trying to mask the tremor in my voice. His dark chuckle coincided with the shake of his head.

  ‘You should know better than that, Isabelle. I can do whatever I want, and there’s not a single thing that you can do to stop me.’

  ‘I want to leave, now,’ I said firmly, feeling nauseous as I saw his lips curl into a cruel smile, and his cock flex in his trousers. What sicko got off on scaring a woman for God’s sake?

  ‘There she is,’ he breathed. ‘It’s been a long time since my Isabelle challenged me.’

  ‘It took a long time for my bones to heal the last time I did.’ If the venom I felt towards him on the inside could be propelled with the daggers I threw in his direction from my eyes, Richard King would have succumbed to an early death by poisoning, on the spot. Years ago.

  ‘Then it’s time I reminded you who’s in charge here.’

  I didn’t have to fake the shrill scream that left my throat as he stepped towards me. I dropped my clutch bag and ran towards the front door. Even if I had the advantage of time, there was no way I’d have made it out of there. The brownstone would have rivalled Fort Knox for security. Multiple locks on the doors, and the only keys to it were kept in his locked safe, which I didn’t know the code to. Soundproofing in the walls to ensure that no neighbours heard my screams. Locked tempered glass windows, in case I broke free of the restraints he used on me when he left me alone in the house and tried to open them, or smash them to escape. My shaking fingers fumbling at the deadbolts weren’t faked either, as the steel toe taps on his leather shoes rang out a loud warning signalling that he was approaching me from behind. I was seconds from unimaginable pain.

  His palm connected with the back of my head, slamming my forehead against the front door, making blinding stars dance before my eyes.

  ‘Please,’ I cried, blood coursing through my veins, the roar in my ears almost deafening as my heart tried to keep pace with my hard and fast pants for air. Fisting his hand in my long hair, he yanked on it, snapping my head back and forcing my gaze up to the pristine white ceiling with its coved cornicing. This was why he’d insisted on keeping my hair long, so he could use it to control me. If I ever got away from him the first thing I’d do would be to cut it short.

  ‘Why do you defy me, Isabelle?’ he murmured as he ran his nose up my exposed neck and along my jawline, inhaling deeply, then exhaling slowly. ‘You want me angry, don’t you? You want me to hurt you, that’s why you test my patience. You always protest, but in the end, you know that you can only get off on the rush of adrenaline that saturates your body when I force you to submit to me. That’s why you continue to push me, isn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ I whimpered, closing my eyes and trying to prepare myself for what was about to come. But nothing I did ever prepared me. It amazed me that I was always left in a state of shock after his abuse. Wasn’t the definition of madness repeating something over and over, expecting a different result?

  Hundreds of times over the years, I’d been subjected to his need to get off on sexual violence. Anyone looking in from the outside would have assumed the same, that I must be crazy to still be here, that I must love the pain he inflicted on me, otherwise I’d have run. But worse than the physical torture was the mental one. Of knowing that I had no one, that it would be his word against mine, unless I was allowed out when I had the bruises to show what he had done to me. But most of all, it was the knowledge that if I did escape and run, and he found me again, it would be so much worse.

  He’d twisted our love, if that was what we ever even had, into something unrecognisable. I’d come to realise that sex with Richard had never been an expression of the depth of our feelings for each other, something to be cherished and enjoyed, the way sex should be. Memories of when I thought we’d been happy in the early days, were in the long distant past. As faded and worn as that old bedroom carpet back in my Glasgow flat. He’d lulled me into believing that the way he treated me when we met, was the way he’d always treat me. That illusion had shattered the moment I stepped foot in America and crossed his threshold. Sex was now something I dreaded. Something I endu
red.

  I tried to pull my head forward, to ease the strain on my neck and back as he almost tipped me off balance, but it only made him tighten his grip, making it feel like thousands of needles were piercing the back of my head. He sucked part of my lower lip into his mouth and bit down. I winced as the metallic tang of hot, sticky blood saturated my mouth when he moved his away.

  ‘Come on, darling, keep fighting me. My cock’s getting harder at the thought of hurting you, of you getting off on it.’

  ‘I don’t get off on it, you sick, twisted bastard,’ I screamed. I lifted my foot and slammed it backwards, forcing the heel of my shoe to connect sharply with his leg. He immediately cursed and spun around, still maintaining his grip on my hair as he began to walk, dragging me backwards as he headed towards the stairs. I fought him every step of the way as I blindly stumbled to try and get out of his grasp.

  I blinked back some tears that were threatening to roll over my lower lashes, as I reminded myself that this was what I’d wanted tonight. This was the plan. I needed him angry and lust fuelled, I needed to turn him on enough that he would alternate between fucking me and beating me, or even better both at the same time. Only when he’d really lost control did he follow his post-high comedown ritual.

  He’d chain me to the bed, cut, bruised, bloodied, and broken, both physically and mentally, then go down to the kitchen to pour himself a large glass of scotch on the rocks. He’d come back to sit in the armchair in the bedroom, specifically positioned so that he could savour his drink while taking the last of his pleasure observing me shackled and trembling. Surveying the injuries he’d inflicted on me.

  I’d come to learn that he took even more pleasure from that ritual, than he did from the act of sex and violence itself. It was almost as if he got lost in those moments, that the rage formed a hazy red mist over his eyes. Only when he sat with that scotch did the haze lift and he could enjoy observing his latest masterpiece.

  At some point I’d stopped fighting back, and it had been a long time since he’d had a scotch, but for my plan to work he had to have that drink. Because hidden in the ice cubes I’d prepared in the freezer, was a massive dose of sedative that would buy me the time I needed to get out of the house.

  Out of his life for good.

  A shimmer of light bouncing off the metal handcuff lying on the bed broke me out of my thoughts. I’d barely even registered that we’d made it upstairs and into our bedroom. That light, making the bed shackles gleam, brought me back to the stark reality of what I’d have to endure before I even got as far as him pouring his drink. He released his grip on my hair and shoved me away from him.

  ‘Get on your knees,’ he growled, as his hands moved to work on opening his suit trousers.

  ‘No.’ The tremor was still in my voice and the swift backhand across my face told me that it was justified, as I fell onto all fours and screwed my eyes shut to try and stave off the pain radiating through my cheekbone. One he’d fractured more times than I could count.

  ‘Look, Isabelle, look how hard you’ve made me, darling,’ he purred.

  ‘No,’ I cried again as he gripped my chin and forced my head up to look at his crotch, his cock angrily pulsating as it jutted out from his trousers.

  ‘Oh, how I’m going to enjoy fucking that pretty little face of yours, before I whip your backside, then fuck that. I’m going to screw you so hard that your tiny pink pussy and asshole will be ripped to shreds and you’ll wince every time you move, stand, or sit, for weeks. I’m going to take so much pleasure in hurting you tonight, Isabelle.’

  ‘I hate you,’ I hissed.

  ‘Good girl, let it all out. It’s cathartic, isn’t it? The rush of giving in to the anger is like no high you’ll ever experience. I don’t know who I love more. Is it meek, feeble, broken Izzie, who just lies there and takes whatever I give her, who knows that she’s the inferior sex? Izzie reminds me of how powerful I am to have turned you into someone so pathetic you’re too scared to fight back. Oh yes, I do love Izzie. But then there’s strong, feisty, angry Isabelle, who thinks she’s my equal, tests my patience, and makes me furious. On the rare occasions Isabelle shows up, it just makes the victory of beating you back down into submission taste even sweeter.’

  ‘You want angry Isabelle, you’ve got her,’ I yelled, seconds before I clamped my teeth as hard as I could around his appendage. I took satisfaction from his yelp of pain as the taste of blood hit my tongue for the second time that night.

  ‘Oh yes, tonight I think I love Isabelle just that little bit more,’ he snarled. He gripped the back of my head to hold me steady, and swiftly brought his knee up to connect with my face. I screamed as I felt my nose shatter and my own blood fill my mouth.

  I slid off the bed as quietly as I could, grimacing at how painful each movement was on my battered body. I’d done as he’d wanted, and he’d done as he threatened and ravaged my body. I’d fought with everything I had, and he’d hit me harder, and in more places, than ever before. There were times when he was slamming into me, with his fists and his cock, that I thought I wanted to die. Only the thought of Dawn, who would be waiting outside to take me away to start my life over, kept me from passing out, giving in to the darkness that was trying to claim me.

  True to form he’d wanted to gloat. He was currently slumped in the armchair, the sedative in his ice cubes having taken full effect. As I moved tentatively towards him, the chain that linked the handcuff on my right wrist to the bedpost, started to slither down from the mattress. Sex was the only time he entered my bedroom. He preferred to sleep in his own room, so he always chained me at night. During the day, he worked from home, so I was allowed the full run of the house and walled garden, with the exception of his study. I was never allowed in there. If he was called into the office for a meeting, I was handcuffed again. I was only able to get from the bed to the en-suite while I was tethered. I was literally a prisoner in my own home. Or his home. He made sure he controlled everything in my life. Or so he thought.

  He’d been stupid enough to try and pass us off as a happy couple, by occasionally socialising with his co-worker Victor and his wife Dawn.

  He’d been stupid enough to let me befriend Dawn, a woman so astute that over the years she’d come to see through the lies and sensed my anguish.

  He’d been stupid enough to let Dawn accompany me to the toilets on nights out, unchaperoned, where in the last two years she’d pressed me to tell her what I was hiding, and had helped me to come up with my escape plan. It had been hard to convince her not to involve the police, but there was no guarantee I’d be safe while I still lived here, under his control.

  And he’d been stupid enough not to search me after we’d socialised with the couple, giving Dawn the opportunity to slip me a single sedative at each of the last few social events we’d attended with our partners. I’d smuggled the pills into the house, tucked in my bra, and hidden them under a floorboard in my en-suite, until I’d collected enough to completely knock him out.

  He’d also been stupid enough to ever raise a hand against me.

  It was true what they said. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

  He’d set us on this path, it wasn’t my fault that it had led us here. I was no longer the impressionable young teenage girl that had fallen for his charm, his looks, and his affluent lifestyle. The little girl so desperate for a father figure in her life. I now saw him for exactly what he was. My only regret was not seeing it, or having the courage to act on it, sooner. I’d wasted over nine years of my life, nine years spent living in a constant state of fear, just how he wanted it. He’d already broken my body too many ways to count, but his arrogance had prevented him from seeing that my spirit hadn’t been broken. And that was his biggest mistake of all.

  I held my breath as I undid the leather cord that circled his right wrist, which the key to my cuff dangled from. He grunted and his head lolled to one side, causing my body to freeze, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, hoping that
fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to let me come this far, only to fall at the last hurdle. I felt as if my heart was going to break even more of my ribs, it was hammering against them at such a fast tempo.

  ‘Come on, Izzie,’ I warned myself, my hand tremors so out of control that I just couldn’t get the small key into the lock. If he woke up now, that was it, I’d never leave this house again. For the first time since he’d touched me tonight, I let some hot tears of frustration and pain break free of their enforced restraints and slide down my face. He knew how scared I was of him, but I’d resolved from the first time he’d hit me, when I’d seen how much he’d loved making me cry, to never give him the satisfaction of my tears again. He’d already taken enough from me.

  I sobbed with relief as the metal binding around my wrist finally opened, then I stilled again and held my breath as he stirred in his chair and muttered something unintelligible. I could barely breathe, the stress and tension of the last few hours had formed a tight noose around my chest. I needed it to be over.

  His fingers twitched and his eyelids fluttered. A flash of white, hazel and black appeared as he seemed to stare right at me, before the colours vanished again and his eyes shut.

  My breath released on a stutter, and I quickly snapped the metal handcuff shut around his right wrist then hurled the key out of the bedroom door. I heard it ricochet off the wall and bounce down the stairs, out of his reach. Glancing back to see he was still out of it, allowed a temporary wave of relief to wash over me. But until I stepped beyond the entrance to this room, I was still within his reach if he woke up.

  Moving as fast as my battered body would allow, I slid my feet into some flip-flops and grabbed some sweat pants and a T-shirt from my dressing room. Shoving my blusher brush into a large shoulder bag I tiptoed past him. Those last few seconds before I made it to the family bathroom, out of his reach, were the longest seconds of my life.