Comfort Food

by Kitty Thomas

  I didn't love him; he didn't love me. But I was his. I belonged to him. That had to count for something. I was addicted to the way he touched me, the contrast between pleasure and pain he always delivered to me. Violence and gentleness. I couldn't get enough.

  I didn't care how I'd arrived at this point. The only thing that mattered was that I was there and I never wanted to leave. I was his willing slave, evidenced by the fact that I only looked at the keys briefly before my eyes went back to the floor, and I waited.

  Nine-thirty came and then ten. Ten-thirty and I hadn't moved from the spot. I was getting hungry. There were snacks and water in the mini fridge, but I didn't move. I didn't want to. I didn't want him to find me not where I was supposed to be.

  Finally, just before noon he stepped into the room. I didn't look up at him. I kept my eyes on the ground as he'd trained me, despite my desperate desire to look into his eyes to find what was there.

  Then he was standing in front of me, his feet in my line of sight. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I refrained. I wanted to beg his forgiveness for whatever I'd done to upset him, but I didn't. I just stayed where I was, my breath coming out in heavy pants, anticipation thrumming through me for his touch, any touch.

  I didn't have to wait long. He gripped my chin and forced my eyes up to meet his. He was angry, and I didn't know why. Finally, I spoke.

  “Master, please, whatever I did to upset you, you know I didn't mean it.”

  Had I ever seen him angry before? Truly angry? No, I couldn't remember a single time over the past months that I had. He'd been so restrained. Everything so calm and orchestrated. Everything following his plans, even my lame attempts at disobedience.

  Now seeing him angry unhinged me, and I found that old fear creeping back again. Not the fear mixed with the arousal until I writhed and panted beneath him. This was more uncertain fear.

  Had he snapped? Was he broken too? What the hell was going on? He turned away from me, standing stiffly, his breath suddenly matching my own previously heavy panting.

  He wore only jeans, and I could see the tension of his shoulder muscles as he forcibly restrained himself. From what? Killing me? Beating me?

  He'd whipped me many times. I had a few scars which I knew would stay with me forever or as long as he let me live, but he'd never whipped me out of anger. It had all been out of desire.

  Finally, he seemed in control of himself. He crossed to the closet and after a few moments returned, tossing a pair of blue jeans and a pale pink T-shirt at me . . . and the silver wedge sandals where the ribbons tied around my ankles.

  I put them on. Had there ever been a day when he hadn't come to me in some way? Was he tired of me now? Early on I had feared this day, waking in cold sweats over it. The day he got bored with me. The day he killed me. Now I couldn't work up the emotion for it. I just didn't want it to end.

  How was it possible, given our circumstances, that he could tire of me before I tired of him? He tossed me the car keys and left the room. He was serious. A thousand thoughts ran through my mind, all whirring through my head at the same time, so I couldn't separate one of them out.

  I sat dumbly still as if it were some kind of trick, that last tiny hope that it was a test I could still pass. My mind refused to accept just yet that passing meant leaving him.

  Moments later he appeared in the doorway again, an annoyed look on his face. He came back into the room and wrapped his hand around my arm, jerking me through the door, pulling me through the house.

  The blindfold was no longer covering my eyes, no longer segmenting the rooms into disembodied pieces of a larger whole. Now, seeing it all at once, the house was even more impressive inside than I'd always imagined it to be. And yet . . . it was only him.

  No servants. Had he given them the day off so he could get rid of me? Did they just come in on alternate days? For a moment, I had this crazy thought we were the only two people left alive on the planet.

  Perhaps the servants were keeping to the shadows. Did they know what he'd done? Did they care? I held onto the wild hope that he didn't want to be rid of me. No, some servant suspected, and he was making me leave so they wouldn't find me. But that didn't make any sense. Why would he set me free on the world? To hide the evidence, wouldn't he have to kill me first?

  I stumbled a bit, and my ankle twisted under my foot. Stupid wedge sandals. These weren't the shoes for women with tiny ankles. I cried out and he turned, the smallest shadow of concern on his face before he masked it again and was back to the business of expelling me from his house.

  We were in the entry hall, the front door just feet away. He seemed to have every intention of throwing me out onto the lawn and leaving me to my fate with the elements if I was too stupid to use the car keys to leave. The keys now clutched in my hand. I couldn't remember how they'd gotten there.

  When we reached the door, I panicked and jabbed him in the ribs hard with my elbow. I'm sure it hurt some, but it wasn't what caused him to let me go. It was simply shock that I still had enough fire left to in any way seek to go against his wishes.

  I moved away from him, but he latched onto my arm with one hand. I didn't hesitate. The keys were in my other hand, and I drove them into his skin. I expected him to cry out, but he didn't. Instead, he let go of me and cradled his hand like a wounded animal.

  I felt the smallest amount of pity well up inside me and an almost compulsive urge to bandage him up, despite the fact that I hadn't drawn blood.

  He gave me a look of shocked betrayal as if he had any right to it after everything. I was the one that was being betrayed. I was the one being thrown out without explanation. I turned and ran down the hallway.

  It did remind me of a castle. The stonework, the extreme ornateness, the woven tapestries on the walls. I ran to the end of the hallway until I came to an open door. To call it a living room or den would have been to understate it. It was more of a home movie theater. A giant screen played CNN on one end of the room.

  I stopped to watch for a minute, wondering if I was old news or if they would mention me. I wondered if they would flash my picture across the screen, back when I'd been another person. They didn't. My momentary distraction allowed him to catch up to me.

  Strong arms wrapped around me like a vice, and for one insane moment I sagged back against him, soaking up the feeling of being in his embrace, even if it wasn't really an embrace. I could feel his hot breath on my ear as he bent down.

  “Please don't make me leave. Whatever I did wrong I won't do it again. Just don't throw me out.”

  I know how this sounded, how completely pathetic, but I couldn't make my mouth not form the words. I think there was something left of me that knew this was all wrong and that I should take the opportunity for freedom that he handed me, but I didn't want that choice anymore.

  He continued to hold me, everything pausing, the universe just stopping while he decided to keep me or make me go.

  “Please . . . ” I whispered.

  He turned me to face him, his eyes locking with mine. And I couldn't read him. After months of his eyes and his body being my only signs of anything, I couldn't read him. He shoved me away onto the couch and left the room.

  I sat there, numb, the keys and my freedom finally in my hands. I was afraid of him again. Actually afraid. I hadn't been actually afraid in months. Obedience had always brought reward. I learned my lessons from the cell and never repeated the mistakes.

  One would think that in itself would set up a constant fear, but it didn't. After the day he'd made absolutely plain that all he expected was effort, after he proved that time and time again over months, I came to trust him more than I'd ever trusted anyone. Because even if he was a monster, he followed his own rules. And he was my monster.

  He was stable in his way, dependable, predictable, and in complete control. But as I sat on the couch on the verge of a panic attack, I knew this wasn't the case any longer. He was finally behaving in the manner in which one expects
a psychotic to behave, and that was truly frightening.

  In this state it wouldn't take much for him to kill me, and I wasn't so far gone I would rather die than be free. Was I?

  I laughed, a hollow little sound against the droning backdrop of CNN. What kind of a complete mental case has to weigh whether they would rather die or be free? Die or be a slave? Yes, that's logical. Die or be free, no.

  Still I didn't move. I wondered if I was in shock. It was as if I was just beginning to realize the danger I was in.

  That wasn't true.

  I'd realized early on, but he'd made me forget. I'd forgotten because I'd fallen into that fathomless gaze of his and the way he made me feel everything so strongly.

  He returned a few minutes later, and I tensed. He stood in the doorway, a red leather book in his hands. My journal. I didn't want to read that now. I'd just kept writing straight through without going back to reread.

  In the beginning it had been a way to salvage sanity after a fashion, or else a way to document so someday when I was free I could remember all he'd done to me and make him pay. Now I couldn't go back and read it all. I wanted to keep moving forward, writing new diary entries, never looking back to what had gone on before.

  He watched me. He was so conflicted I could feel it rolling off him. It was as if he didn't want to let me go but for some reason was almost compelled to do so. Was he sorry?

  No, don't be sorry.

  Why wouldn't he just talk to me now? If he was letting me go anyway, what purpose did these mind games serve?

  Finally, he tossed the journal at me and sat in a nearby chair. Was this why he was throwing me away? Had I written something between these pages that was so unforgivable that rather than keep me in the bad cell, he'd throw me away completely? I held the soft thick leather book in my hands and opened it.

  But it wasn't my journal. It was his.

  Nine

  August 26th:

  Today I found something beautiful and decided to break it. I wanted to see it shatter in my hand and crumble at my feet. Her name is Emily Vargas. She's bright and educated and stunning. Articulate. She'll want someone to talk to her.

  I was at a convention in Nashville, one of those boring meetings where we judge the health of the company and all the stockholders bitch and whine. I really couldn't give two shits about the business, but it was my father's. I'm a fucking household name but no one knows my face, which is fine by me. I'd rather have my privacy.

  Even the servants are only here once a week. They already know I'm idiosyncratic. I'm a hermit, so even as the plan was forming, I knew I could get away with it. I hate being around so many people because I have to have an interpreter like some sort of foreign person. I generally just sit in these meetings like a statue, waiting for them to be over with.

  Walter does all the talking. In fact, most people believe he owns the company because he's always the one speaking for it. Most of them don't know about my handicap. I think some of the people in the meetings think I'm his bodyguard. If I was some pale scrawny kid I'm not sure how exactly we would explain my presence.

  Whatever explanations would have to be done, Walter would have to do them. He's about the only person I trust not to screw me over and to keep my secrets; though my new secret is too sensitive even for him.

  After the meeting was over, I wandered the hotel and sat at the bar. A woman came up and started speaking to me. She was attractive in her way, legs that ran on for a few miles at least, and cleavage I wanted to bury my face in. She smiled. I smiled. And that was about as far as the interaction could go.

  “Hi, what's your name? I'm Veronica.”

  God, even her name dripped sex. Here was the moment. I used to just smile pathetically. Instead, I turned back to the bar.

  The bartender knew me and knew what I liked, so I found a whiskey straight sitting in front of me. I threw the shot back and slammed it down on the counter, and the barkeep filled it again. I knew I'd be happiest if he just kept them coming.

  “God, you are such an asshole!” she said, and then she flounced off, her ass swaying delectably as she retreated. That's when I had the fantasy I always have. I'd chase her, grab her and slam her against the wall, and just fucking take her. Forget all this social bullshit. And it is bullshit when you can't participate.

  Then I saw her, Emily. She came up to the bar. “Sam, can I get a martini?”

  The bartender smiled and made her drink. She put a stack of brochures next to her, and when she looked away for a moment, I took one and slipped it into my jacket. The brochure contained her tour schedule. She drank her martini and never spoke to me.

  I didn't know if I was glad about that or not. I'm not sure why she should have spoken to me. I could have been some stalker fan, and it was obvious she just needed space.

  For the next twenty minutes, I listened to her lyrical voice as she flirted with the bartender, and he bantered back. It was a sexual dance that was socially acceptable to perform out in the open, the modern repressed equivalent of a Roman orgy.

  When she left, I studied the brochure. I think I just snapped, but I've decided to take her. I'm so fucking tired of being alone, of paying whores or seeking out women who know sign language. In the end, they all feel sorry for me, even the whores. I've got all this money, and it doesn't mean a goddamned thing because I can't carry on a relationship with anyone without them treating me like I'm slow because of my inability to speak.

  I'd rather have fear than pity.

  ***

  I felt numb. I could vaguely remember that bar and the bartender. I had thought the man beside me might be a stalker fan, or more likely someone whose wife had left him and for whatever reason he blamed me for it.

  Sometimes women in less than stellar relationships were moved by something in one of my books, developed self-esteem, and left their boyfriends/husbands/whatever. Often I got blamed for it.

  I looked at him, wanting to say something. Maybe he didn't know as much about me as he thought, because surely he would have communicated with me if he did. I knew sign language, because of my sister.

  Of course, I could understand why he might not know that. When Katie died, mom and dad were so upset that after a few months they just erased her. Like she didn't exist. It was too hard on them.

  I thought it was cruel at the time, but thinking about her just hurt too much. I considered telling him, but he was pointing at the book and the pages he'd dog-eared. The ones that held all the explanations I'd waited months for and finally had stopped believing I would get.

  I wasn't sure sign language would help me now anyway because I did feel sorry for him. Maybe it would get me killed. He'd been in charge for so long, and now that he was showing vulnerability, surely his self-control wouldn't hold out. The edges of it seemed frayed already. Things were unraveling. So instead I went back to the journal and flipped to the next dog-eared page.

  ***

  January 30th:

  I know I'm fucking crazy. I've left Walter to run things for awhile. I'm never home. I've been following her tour schedule.

  I understand there's something wrong with this. And I know what's wrong with it isn't so much that I'm doing it, as that I don't care it's wrong.

  When you're a part of society there are certain behaviors that aren't okay. If you do these behaviors and then feel nothing, that's worse. But I've been trying to determine when I've ever been a part of society.

  Even before I had a house built on what feels like the edge of the known universe, even when I mingled, I wasn't a part. I was always on the outside looking in. There was one small group of people who I could speak with through sign language, rather than just looking at them dumbly.

  And now I'm fucking feeling sorry for myself. Or maybe I'm justifying. No, because I intellectually know it's wrong. I'm not an idiot. I had the best schooling that could be bought. I just don't care. And I know I'll get away with it.

  During my time at home, I've converted some rooms for use
when I get her. I've sound-proofed them because I'm not sure how much she'll scream, and the servants are rarely there anyway, but just to be on the safe side. I set the rooms up to look like labs, except the room with the monitors. That seems normal. And I've got the doors labeled as such.

  The staff knows I used to work on product research, and they'll think it's a good sign I'm starting it again. I hear them talk amongst themselves. Sometimes I catch snippets about how I don't go out much anymore and don't do anything. Well what the fuck is there to do?

  As soon as the electrical people get the security system in place for the rooms, I can start getting rid of all the lab stuff and moving in what needs to go in. Except one room I'll keep bare.

  That's probably the best way. I thought about using drugs to make her comply, but that leaves more of a potential paper trail. And something could go wrong, some unforeseen side effect or allergic reaction, and then I'm left with either letting her die or risk getting caught. Plus having a druggie on my hands isn't overly appealing.

  Although I have no moral problem with the course I've chosen, I don't believe I would be so cavalier about taking a life. I'm just not an overly violent person, except for the occasional sexual fantasy. I don't want to physically harm her; I just want her.

  I suppose I could always do one of those pathetic attempts at a relationship again. But then we're back to me being pitied. For once I want a goddamned woman to know I'm not helpless just because I can't talk to her. I really don't think I'll have to hurt her though. I know her weakness.

  I've never seen anyone drink up social interaction in quite the starved way she does. If I deprive her of everything, she'll comply.

  I watch her at these conferences she does, careful to keep to the shadows so she doesn't notice me and realize that one face is always there amidst the ever-changing sea of them. She flits around, and one can see where the term social butterfly comes from. She has the most musical laugh, and once or twice I almost felt guilty.