You Loved Me At My Weakest (You Loved Me #2)

by Evie Harper

  And if he accepts me? What life can I give him? Dark thoughts and cowering in a corner crying because I can’t handle my past. Hiding in a bathroom cutting my skin just to give myself some moments of peace. Sooner or later he’s going to have enough. My body sags. I’m so lost.

  I head downstairs and print out the pictures I took at the barbecue. The dining room is now covered in pictures of strangers and now family members smiling and laughing. Living. I hear my cell ding and I look down and see it’s a message.

  Emailed you pictures.

  My body stills. Pictures of him. Am I ready to see him again? It’s been almost three months, the same amount of time it’s been for the last year. Right around this time, I would have to be ready for a party. To be paraded in front of dozens of men and sold for the night. And for the past three years, he has been the highest bidder; he always won.

  I race into the living room and pull the laptop out from under the coffee table. Kanye and I never used it much. Just for paying bills and emails from friends. I click onto the internet and I’m relieved to see we still have WI-FI for the house. I didn’t think to check when I gave out my email address in the phone conversation.

  I open up the email account I created and find an email there with the subject.

  I found him.

  I click on it and find pictures of the man who made my life hell. One of the men, who created this Emily, the weak Emily. The one man who kept coming back to torture me. Donovan. He’s dressed in another expensive suit. He’s talking to man. They are both wearing sunglasses and are in what looks like a park. I read the message in the email.

  I’m in Mexico City. The man he’s with is Marco’s brother, Michael O’Connor. He’s been asking questions about what happened to his brother and there are rumors he’s set to start off where Marco’s empire died.

  From my Intel, I’ve found out Donovan has arranged this meeting with Michael in hopes of finding you.

  Chills run through my body. Starting the collection again? No! And Donovan wants to find me, why? Would he try to kidnap me? Of course he would; he’s a psychopath. I need to prepare. I need to catch him before he can find me, here with my family and with Kanye. I won’t let him hurt them.

  I reply to the email.

  I need you to keep him in your sights. I need to know where he is at all times. When I figure out what my plans are, I will contact you through this email.

  I grab a pen and paper and write list of things I’m going to need.

  Money, passport, ropes, zip ties, gag, knives, gun.

  I see an email appear out of the corner of my eye.

  Consider it done. Will I be seeing you soon?

  I reply.

  As soon as I can get out of Hastings, I will be there.

  A memory of Donovan on top of me, holding me down, squeezing my throat so tight my vision blurs.

  “That’s right, Emily, you stupid whore, fucking pass out on me. You can’t fucking hack it, can you! Worthless piece of shit,” he screams at me as my world turns black. I wake feeling sore between my legs and my head pounding, alone in the room.

  I come out of my memory, scratching over the cuts on my thighs. I need to take it out. I need to remove the poison from me, now. I race up the stairs, two at a time. I slam open the top draw where I know the shavers are. I snap the plastic off from around the razor until all I’m holding is the blade between my fingers.

  I take a seat on the toilet lid. My hand shakes as I lift my cotton shorts, high up my thigh. I see three lines of cuts, all in a row. If anyone ever saw them, I would say they are cat scratches.

  I push the razor to the first line and feel a small sting, my heart starts racing and then I pull the blade through my skin toward me about three centimeters and release the blade from my thigh.

  I exhale heavily as I feel the release run through my body. It wipes out the memory of his face. The memory of anything. My body relaxes and I lie back on the toilet and rest my head on the wall. My eyes close and my mind clears. Peace.

  I come out of my daze to a lone, warm tear hitting my lips. Shame slams into me and I look down and see red smearing the cut. The brightest color in my world yet its mere existence tells me how weak I am.

  I grab for the toilet paper and rip off a few sheets. I press down hard on the cut wishing it would magically disappear. Wishing it never happened. Bile rises in my throat and sweat coats my forehead. I’m so disappointed in myself. Why do I cut? I’m not completely sure. To have proof of my hurt? To match the ugliness I know is inside of me? I promise myself this will never happen again. I say it over and over again in my head. Whispers echo through my mind that I’m lying to myself, but I push them aside.

  I flush the toilet paper and put a Band-Aid over my swollen cut. I’m heading back downstairs when I hear my cell ringing. I stop and look around. It’s probably around eight pm, which means its Kanye.

  I race down the stairs to my phone, which is sitting on the dining room table.

  “Hello.” My voice is soft with a slight shake to it.

  “Hey, Emmy.” At hearing Kanye’s voice my chest constricts and tears start falling. I want him here. I want Kanye to hold me and tell me everything is going to be okay. The strength I need for these conversations has already depleted. I need to make this quick or I’m going to fall apart on the phone to him.

  “Kanye, I’m tired can we talk tomorrow, please.” My voice starts out strong but by the end it’s shaky. I berate myself for not being strong.

  “Emmy, is everything okay?” I can hear Kanye moving around while he’s on the phone.

  “Yes, yes. It’s just...” I shake my head trying to think of what to say. But what can I say? If I told Kanye I have pictures and know the whereabouts’ for a man who raped me, he would go ballistic. He would go after him, and that’s the last thing I want. I don’t want the dark part of my life anywhere near Kanye. If anyone is going to deal with Donovan, it will be me.

  “Emmy, what the fuck is going on? You sound scared. I’m coming over.”

  “No, Kanye, really—” That’s all I get out before he hangs up. Damn it.

  My pulse speeds up and I start panicking. I put the phone down and slam the laptop closed. I race into the living room and put it back under the coffee table. I look around wildly and realize I’m being silly. Kanye’s not going to find out I’m tracking Donovan and he’s not going to walk through the door in the next two seconds. I slump down on the couch and try to regain some sanity.

  I head toward the kitchen to heat up some leftovers from the barbecue my mom made me bring home. As the microwave dings at eight minutes, I hear the front door unlocking and Kanye’s booming voice through the house.

  “Emily!”

  “In the kitchen!” I pull my plate out of the microwave and turn as Kanye walks into the kitchen.

  “If you hadn’t hung up on me, I was going to tell you I’m fine, Kanye,” I state.

  I walk into the dining room with my plate and move some pictures over. I sit and start eating my rissole and potato salad.

  “Bullshit, Emily, I know you better than that and you know I do. Something happened. What was it?” he asks sternly.

  Damn, I do know that. I should never have picked up his phone call, but I needed to hear his voice. I needed to remember where I am and that I’m safe. I decide to lie. I do not want Kanye finding out I’m looking for my abuser.

  “I had a bad memory, that’s all,” I state softly.

  Kanye takes the seat next to me. He sighs and drops his head. God, my heart hurts for him. I know how badly he wants to help me. He just can’t. Nobody can.

  Kanye sits up and leans back in his chair, his hands clasped together on the table.

  “I’m staying the night,” he states. My eyes go wide and my mouth drops open. No!

  “No, you’re not, Kanye.”

  “Why not, Emmy? You said you had a bad memory. I can’t go back to Dom’s and sit around wondering if you’re going to have another and no o
ne is here for you. Or fuck, how many moments have you had like that already. No fucking way, I’m here tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  Kanye moves away from the table.

  “I’m taking a shower and getting ready for bed. Luckily, most of my clothes are already here,” he says and smirks at me before disappearing up the stairs.

  Kanye leaves me sitting at the table with my untouched food. I stare into thin air realizing I’ll be spending the night with Kanye. Well, not with him, but in the same house. It’s been over five years. God. I can’t handle this. My body heats up just seeing him. This is going to be torture. I smack my forehead on the table and repeat quietly, “I can do this. I can do this.”

  A few minutes later, my eyes shift to the bottom of the staircase as I hear Kanye’s loud footsteps come down the stairs. Sweat builds on my neck and I lick my lips as Kanye walks to me in just a towel. I swallow and it goes down hard.

  “I left my toothbrush in the car.” He grins and walks out the front door. A minute later, he’s back inside, the door closing, and locking. He turns and winks at me and then he’s gone back up the stairs again. Jesus, I think I just stared at him the whole time. Toothbrush in his car? Why would his toothbrush be in the— that man! He knew he was going to stay all along.

  I decide to let it go. He’s here. He’s staying and it’s not going to change by me telling him I know he planned it. I want him here. No, I can’t think like that; he can’t get too close.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I finish my dinner and grab two blankets for Kanye. As I enter our bedroom to retrieve him a pillow, I notice the shower is running in the ensuite. He’s using the ensuite shower. Goddamn it. Now when I go in there, it’s going to smell like him. I snatch up his pillow and stomp out of the room. I swear he chuckles as I leave the room.

  I’m pulling the sofa bed out of the couch, unsuccessfully; this bed is a bitch to pull out, and it appears it hasn’t gotten any better in the last five years. I’m pulling when I see Kanye walking down the stairs in a pair of long, black cotton pants and nothing else. Goddamn him! I put all my anger into pulling the sofa out, but the bed pops right out and sends me flying backward. I hit the floor and then feel an arm behind my back, stopping me from hitting the solid wood TV unit. A grunt reverberates in my ear at the same time I see one of Kanye’s arms reach up and catch the TV before it falls on my head.

  After I realize what’s happened, I look to my right and observe Kanye’s face cringing in pain. I squashed his arm between the TV unit and me. I jump up with a squeal.

  “Oh, my God, are you okay?”

  Kanye pulls his arm to his front and holds it as if it’s broken. “Yeah, baby, I’m okay, but you need to be more careful. You could have seriously hurt yourself doing that. That bed has a fucking huge spring to it when it’s pulled out. Don’t you remember?”

  I search my memories and yes, I do remember. I was just too focused on Kanye’s naked chest and my anger to remember it at the time.

  I reach out my arm and say, “Show me your arm, Superman. You should never have done that.”

  “Whatever, of course I would do that and I would do it every fucking time. But from now on, you let me pop the bed out, okay?” Kanye asserts the question firmly.

  “Fine,” I say with a stubborn tone. “Now, show me your arm, Kanye,” I state with narrowed eyes to show him I mean business.

  He sighs and turns his arm over. I hiss at finding a bruise already forming and he has a swollen welt that’s bleeding.

  “I’ll just go grab the first aid kit,” I mutter to myself as I turn to walk to the kitchen.

  I pull open the cupboards under the sink. There sits our green first aid kit. There are spider webs attached to it and the plumbing. I pull it out and run a tea towel over it. I open it up, pull out the antiseptic wipes and the large square Band-Aids.

  I walk back into the living room and find Kanye sitting on the sofa bed spreading out the sheets.

  “Here, some antiseptic to clean it and Band-Aids if you want them.” I place them on the coffee table and stand back, unsure what to do. Five years ago, I would have cleaned his cut myself and then followed that up with some thank-you sex. I look around the room nervous.

  “What, you aren’t going to clean it for me, Emmy?” Kanye says with a smirk.

  I shake my head at his playful nature and feel my face soften as I admire his smile.

  “You’re a big boy, Kanye. You’ve looked after yourself for the last five years. I’m sure you can handle a small cut.”

  Instantly, my heart dies at my words when I realize what’s passed my lips.

  Kanye’s smile dies a quick death and I feel horrible.

  “Shit, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Kanye doesn’t acknowledge my apology. Roughly, he begins to clean his cut. Then he stands, stares at me with a hard look, and walks into the kitchen. I’m guessing to throw away the antiseptic wipe or maybe cool off.

  I slowly walk to the staircase unsure how to fix what my stupid big mouth just said. I feel a warm hand on my elbow as I take the first step. I turn and see Kanye’s beautiful face.

  “Please, don’t go to bed yet, Emmy. Let’s talk. Please,” he pleads.

  His warm, familiar hand on my elbow is like stepping out into the sunshine for the first time in a long while of being locked up inside a dark room. It’s both agonizing and blissful at the same time. The warmth spreads up my arms and threatens to crack my whole chest wide open and bring down my façade. I nod slowly, unsure if I can trust my voice.

  Kanye moves his hand away as I walk back to the living room and immediately my body begs me to recapture his touch.

  Kanye takes a seat on the sofa bed and I sit on the single sofa.

  “What do you want to talk about?” I ask.

  “You. I want to know how you’re doing, Emmy.”

  I sigh, “I’m still struggling, but I’m always going to struggle, Kanye. That’s why you need to move on. I don’t want this life for you. This gloomy, miserable black world I live in. There’s no color, no smiles and no happiness in store for me. It kills me to think this could be your future, Kanye, when you deserve so much more.”

  “I deserve more? Emmy, you deserve just as much as anybody else. And the gloomy, miserable black world you live in can become color. You can be happy again. You just need to let me help you. We can make enough good memories to fade out the bad. You just have to let us try, baby. You’re not the only person who went through hell while you were gone, Emmy. My world was black before I found you. Now I’m stuck in gray and I’m fighting to bring us into color.”

  “I know. I’m sorry Kanye,” I softly say.

  “I don’t want you to be sorry, Emmy!” Kanye shouts and jumps up from the sofa bed. “None of it is your fault, but you need to let me in. I just crawled through the last five years of my life. I want to get back up on my feet, or at least to my knees and start rebuilding my life with you.”

  Kanye takes two steps, kneels down in front of me, and cups my cheeks with his big, soft hands. Tears fall fast from my pained eyes.

  “Baby, I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you cry,” he says softly as he wipes away my tears with this thumbs.

  Warmth surrounds me, sweeping through my veins. My body recognizes it. The beautiful sensation reminds me I’m safe; I’m loved, and reassures me that one day I may be okay.

  I meet Kanye’s eyes and I crack. I love this man. I want this man. Reach out and take him! I do. I ignore the screaming in my mind to keep away and my arms reach out and around Kanye’s neck.

  As I pull him close, I hear Kanye’s sharp intake of breath. My heart’s racing as I press my lips hard against his. The pressure is only coming from me as he is stone still. It’s just one, hard, long closed-lip kiss.

  I pull back breathless, adrenaline shoots through my body and I feel as if I could do anything right now.

  Our eyes meet, and I watch as a shocked Kanye stares back at me.
His eyes flare with hope and that’s all it takes for me to bring him close to me again.

  This time Kanye’s hands move to my waist and grip me tightly. He picks me up and I wrap my legs around his hips as our mouths clash together in a hard, hungry, painful kiss. Our teeth clash and we bite each other’s lips.

  Kanye lays me down on the sofa bed gently, careful not to break the kiss. Our hands are everywhere. I’m digging my hands into his ass and Kanye’s fingers are making a slow perusal under my top and up to my breasts. When his warm hands cup my breasts, I sigh into his mouth. Bliss. We stay like this for what feels like hours, but is probably only minutes. When we need to breathe, Kanye breaks the kiss and moves his lips along my jaw and down my neck. “Emmy,” he whispers over and over again against my skin. Then he takes my lips again and everything disappears except the feeling of Kanye’s soft, wet lips on mine, and his warm calloused hands gliding along my skin.

  Kanye releases my lips again and our heavy breaths echo around the room. He kisses along my jaw and down to my neck.

  Abruptly a powerful flash of a faceless man appears in my mind. His hands wound tight around my neck. My breathing accelerates.

  Kanye’s head darts up from my neck and searches my face. The faceless man is laughing. His grip on my throat tightens. I bring my hands up trying to free myself so I can breathe.

  “Emmy, baby. What’s wrong?”

  Hands to my neck and with crazed eyes, I stare at Kanye. Panic flashes on his face as he realizes I’m stuck in a memory that’s grabbed hold of me and isn’t letting me go. Kanye’s eyes dart to my hands rubbing on my throat.

  “Emmy, no one’s hurting you, baby. It’s just you and me here. No one is ever going to hurt you again. I promise.”