by A. Zavarelli
My angel thinks she wants death. But what she wants more than anything is to trust. In me.
I reach up and drag the blade down the sensitive flesh of her throat, scratching at the skin but never puncturing. Beneath the milky soft flesh, her pulse beats wildly for this. For me.
“Harder,” she pleads.
The blade travels lower, down over her breast and ribcage as my fingers continue to move inside of her.
“Do you want some pain so that you can have your pleasure?” I ask.
“Yes, please.”
Her hips are straining up against my palm, her body coming alive for me as I stroke the blade over the tender place on her stomach. And then lower. Down over her hip and against her thigh.
The anticipation is freeing her from the prison in her mind. But I know she will not give in until she has what she thinks she wants. What she thinks she needs.
“You don’t need to be ashamed, my angel,” I tell her. “I want you to let go for me. It is okay to enjoy this.”
She meets my eyes and shakes her head, biting into her lip.
“I need more.”
“I know what you need,” I tell her.
There’s an argument already prepared to spill from her lips. She thinks I will deny her. But I won’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.
I like my fucked up wife. I like everything about her. And I’m going to keep her.
I take the blade and retrace the path back up her body. To the pale flesh of her fingers and over her knuckles until I reach her thumb. I press the tip into the flesh, and her breathing halts. I’m fingering her harder, and she is so wet for me I know she can hold out no longer.
“Now,” she pleads.
With a flick of my wrist, I slice into her thumb. She hisses, and then her head falls back against the pillow as crimson spills from her flesh and she lets go. The orgasm is neither small nor weak when she finally comes around my fingers with her lips parted and cheeks flushed.
Immediately, she closes her eyes and tries to hide from me.
I toss aside the knife and lean over her, my lips a breath away from her face.
“Look at me.”
She does.
“You will like it,” I tell her. “You will like my eyes on you by the time I’m through with you, Solnyshko. Get used to it now.”
She does not reply. But when I take her thumb to my mouth and wipe her blood across my lips, there is relief in her eyes. She craves this from me. My acceptance. And I crave the need she has for me. The need that only I can give her.
I push the material of her shirt all the way up beneath her throat and move up to straddle her hips. My body is much larger than hers, and she looks so small beneath me. So soft and sweet and fuckable.
But breakable too.
When the sound of my zipper reaches her, she opens her eyes and meets mine. Her tongue wets her lips, and I watch them as I reach inside my briefs and fetch my aching cock. It’s in my fist, and her eyes expand as she watches me stroke it.
Once. Twice. And then three quick, hard pulls.
Neither of us says a word. She watches, her eyes flicking from my cock back up to my face again and again. My eyes are on her lips. And then my thumb is too. Pushing inside.
I close my eyes and groan at the feeling of her wet, hot mouth wrapped around me. I want all of her wrapped around me. And I tell her as much as I jerk myself off on top of her.
When I come, it’s on her stomach. Hot and thick, marking her the way I have wanted to since I brought her home with me. I take what’s left on my fingers and push them to her lips. She licks them without being asked, and it makes me want to fuck her all over again. The urge even stronger than before.
I use her shirt to wipe up the mess and then cover her over with the blanket. Ropes still tied, keeping her in place.
When I lean down to whisper in her ear, her eyes are sleepy and the fight is long gone.
“I may not ever be able to love you,” I tell her. “But I can want you. And let there be no doubt, Solnyshko, I am keeping you.”
18
Talia
Alexei keeps me tied to the bed for three days.
Magda comes to help me to the bathroom and allows me to bathe. And then I am returned to my binds. She will not meet my eyes. And I can’t tell if it’s because of her shame or disappointment.
I disappointed her. The way I always do.
But it’s better this way. I tell her as much when she is adjusting my binds this morning.
“You should never expect anything from anyone,” I say. “And then you can’t be let down.”
Her soft brown eyes meet mine, and she shakes her head.
“Talia.” Her hand strokes my cheek, and I try to pull away. “I could never be disappointed in you.”
She sits back on the bed, watching me with quiet worry. I watch her back, wondering why she is nice to me. Wondering why she cares at all. And then disbelieving that it’s true. Because nobody ever cares. Those emotions are only the cover for something else. Something sinister.
I want to lash out at her. To push her away. Because that would be the easiest thing to do.
These aren’t the words that leave my lips though.
“Who is she?”
She blinks, and then asks, “who?”
“The woman in the bathtub. In the photo.”
She glances over her shoulder quickly and then shakes her head. All of the kindness has disappeared from her face in an instant, and instead, something else has taken hold. Fierce protectiveness. Devotion and loyalty.
“You must never speak of that photo,” she says. “Or that woman. Forget you ever saw it.”
I don’t answer her. Because I won’t make promises I have no intention of keeping.
“He’s avoiding me,” I say instead.
Magda nods, but gives me no explanation.
“He’s been drinking.”
Again, she nods.
And that’s the end of the conversation. She moves to go back to her chair, but I stop her.
“I want to look at something on the computer.”
She hesitates, checking the door again. Not that it matters. Alexei has cameras in every room of the house, I believe. I’m sure he can see what I’m doing any time he wishes to. But the whole point of avoidance is not to, so I doubt he’s doing so now.
“Only for a few minutes,” she says. “And then I must return you to your binds.”
Magda frees my hands and sets up the computer for me. She has to help me get to the web browser since I’ve never used this type before. Once she’s given me a brief explanation, she gives me the privacy I desire by going back to her chair.
My fingers are shaking as I peck at the keys. My stomach is churning, and my throat tight.
M-A-C-K-E-N-Z-I-E
W-I-L-D-E-R
I don’t expect much. I don’t expect anything at all. She doesn’t have facebook. But she does have an email. One I don’t have any intention of using. I just want to see her. I just want something.
We have so much history together. For as long as I can remember, Mack has been at my side. She was the first person to see past the walls I’d erected around myself. She befriended me in foster care and then took it upon herself to look out for me.
And when we got separated and she discovered what my new foster dad was doing, she came to my rescue. She left her warm bed and a comfortable home to live on the streets with me. So that we could be together. And she taught me everything I know about being tough.
We don’t have to be blood because we are sisters. No matter what anyone says. The only warmth I’ve ever felt in my heart has been for her. She’s the toughest, craziest bitch I know and I love her.
I miss her.
I miss her so much the thought of never seeing her again makes me sick. But how can I?
How can I face her like this?
When she was right about everything. She was right to believe that there are monsters in everyone. I can’t even
imagine what my disappearance must have done to her. How much it would have hurt her. And it isn’t fair to go back now when I’m still in pieces. When I can’t even promise her that I want to live to see another day.
None of that would be fair to her.
So I tell myself as I scroll through the results that I am only seeking validation for those thoughts. That she is happy now. That’s all I need to know, and then it will be okay. No matter how much misery lives inside of me, as long as she is happy, it will be okay.
But what I find hurts more than I expect it to. And it’s also the thing I wanted most. For her to move on with her life. Forget I ever existed or dragged her down with the problems she couldn’t fix for me but desperately wanted to.
It’s her name, on a wedding registry. Mackenzie Wilder and Lachlan Crow.
The name is not unfamiliar. He is my old boss. The man who ran the club I worked at when Dmitri locked me in his sights. I was an easy target.
I always have been.
That’s the dangerous thing about hope and want. Believing that this one might be different. That this one might not hurt you too. Other people have happy endings. But I never will. I was never born to.
Mack is different. She deserves her happy ending. But I can’t understand it. Why him? Why Lachlan? And how?
I know the answers. Deep down, I know she went looking for me.
And she found him instead.
There are no photos of them. I want to see her face. But I know it’s asking too much. My fragile mind can’t handle that. I would want to see her and believe that somehow it would be okay.
That can’t happen.
She can’t ever see me like this. What I’ve become. She will still try to fix me. And I can’t be fixed.
It’s better this way.
Magda looks up at me, and I realize I’ve said the words aloud.
“It’s better,” I repeat. “I’m happy for her.”
I tell myself those same things over and over as I shut the computer. And it’s true.
So I don’t know why it feels like I’m dying inside.
19
Talia
When Alexei comes to see me again, any reminder of what happened between us is gone. His face is calm, vacant of emotion as he studies me.
“Have you learned your lesson?” he asks.
“Have you learned yours?” I reply.
He moves to stand up and leave me again, and I stop him.
“I can’t make any promises,” I tell him. “But I won’t do that particular thing again.”
He returns to sit beside me. The soft gray of his sweater stretches across his muscular frame, and my fingers itch to touch it. To touch all of him. To have him make me forget.
His fingers find my face, hard and unyielding as his eyes bore into mine.
“You won’t try anything again,” he tells me.
It isn’t a question, or a threat. Simply a command. As though he believes I will obey. I have no question about his authority. His power over me is absolute. But it still feels like maybe I have some power too. Like I remind him of his darkest wound. As if I am the very salt that burns it and brings all of that concealed pain to the surface.
He takes my silence for approval, and undoes my binds, rubbing my wrists and ankles when he finishes. His eyes are on my body. Moving over the pale expanse of my legs and the skin hidden beneath the shorts and cami.
These pajama sets are the only thing I’ve worn since my arrival. He’s seen me in them every day. He’s seen everything beneath them too. But right now, he looks like he wants to see it again. I want him to. I want to forget. I want to be reckless and feel the small thrill and warring hatred for myself that I feel when he touches me. When anyone touches me.
But he does not allow himself to give in this time.
“We are having dinner guests this evening,” he tells me as he rises. “They will not like you, but they will respect you.”
No sugar coating. Maybe that’s what I like about Alexei.
“You will need to play the part,” he adds.
I splay my legs apart a little wider, drawing his attention there as I speak. “The doting wife? Or the reformed whore?”
His eyes flash to mine, his lust barely concealed by his equal annoyance.
“Clean yourself up,” he orders.
“Do you have a fire?” I reply. “Because I’ll need one for that.”
I don’t know why I’m baiting him. But his indifference towards me today is annoying me. And all of the emotions I don’t want to feel are bubbling to the surface.
“A shower will do,” is his terse reply before he leaves the room.
I don’t know where Magda is at. She must be busy preparing dinner. Because usually, she is always near when I have a shower.
Today, she is nowhere to be found. And since Alexei stomped back to his lair, I am left to my own devices.
My eyes move over the bathtub with a dark sense of longing and despair. My fingers trail over the white porcelain, and like clockwork, I hear my mother’s voice in my head.
I kneel and put the stopper in. The same way she must have done that day. I wouldn’t know. Because I was last. But I should have known. Because she was happy that morning. And she was never happy.
I hum the song to myself as the water fills the basin, ripples distorting my reflection on the surface. The water is lukewarm when my fingers weave through it, just like it was that day.
My clothes come off in a heap beside me, and I grip the edges of the tub as I lower myself inside. Flashes of my mother’s face emerge from the darkest places of my mind. She was smiling and singing. And I was still dressed.
There was nothing on her face when I saw them lying on the bathroom floor. The horror washed over me when I realized what she’d done, and I wanted to die too. I didn’t even put up a fight.
I was in a daze when she pushed me under the water. I grasped at the distorted sound of her voice beneath the water. But then it was in my nose. My lungs. Choking me. I thrashed, and she held me under.
Like I’m doing now. My eyes are closed, and I’m floating. Perfectly still.
Silence.
I can’t hear her voice anymore. I can’t see the angel’s faces. The memories have stolen them from me. Distorted them.
I only remember their innocence.
And that it was my job to protect them.
I failed.
And that’s why I’m still here. Being punished. My little brother and my sisters got to fly away, but I never will. Because I didn’t protect them.
In this moment of clarity that’s what it all comes back to. I always thought that it was punishment. That’s why I survived. Why I was left behind.
My hair is a halo around me, like silk beneath the water, tangling over my face and arms. Just like mom’s was that day. A bubble of air escapes my lips. A test.
An urge to be close to them.
But something keeps pulling me back. Into the light and away from the darkness. A nagging hope. That maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’ve always been wrong. And maybe it wasn’t my fault.
But hope isn’t what saves me today.
This time, it’s a strong pair of hands, heaving me out of the bathtub and shaking me from my stupor.
When I open my eyes, it isn’t Alexei I find. It’s someone else. A small boy. Horror and unforgiving pain etched onto his face.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he roars.
The force of his grip is painful. His muscles are shaking, and it isn’t me he sees when he grips my face and screams at me.
“Why?”
When I don’t answer, he discards me on the floor and bends over to drain the tub. And then he pauses, breath heaving, and punches his fist into the porcelain with a level of violence even my eyes have not seen before.
When he turns around again, I’m in the corner, watching him cautiously. His fist is bloodied and swollen. Fingers probably broken. Because of me.
But it’s
the expression on his face.
Hurt and rage.
I did that.
It bothers me. And it is my fault.
As soon as I come to grips with that, he is gone.
20
Talia
Magda’s radio silence is bothering me.
She’s dressed me carefully. With a flashy black dress and tiny sheer strips of fabric that show my skin beneath. Black heels, and jewelry too. My hair is washed and curled and falling in a veil around my shoulders. Makeup carefully applied.
And yet I’m not looking at myself when she pulls me to the mirror. I’m looking at her, in the reflection.
“I told you,” I say to her reflection. “I told you I would disappoint you.”
She meets my eyes in the mirror, and her shoulders sag.
“You have not disappointed me,” she states. “You have reminded him.”
Of what, she doesn’t say. But I know now that it’s true. I’m the salt in his wound. And I should have seen it before. That Alexei is a masochist, like me. Trying to drown his sorrows in the cognac he drinks. Trying to lock himself away from the world and whatever it is he doesn’t want to face.
People cope in different ways.
And when those ways are not what society deems respectable, then you are pushed even further to the fringes. Like Alexei. And like me.
They all want me to be scared. To be timid and soft. To whimper and cry when men touch me.
Only, I want the men to touch me. I want them to fuel my self-hatred. And I use them to do it. I want to use Alexei too. I want him to fuck me and use and degrade me like the trash that I am. Like the trash society always said I was. It would make me feel better. I crave that validation from him.
But when I look at Magda right now that isn’t what I see in her eyes. It isn’t shame, or frustration, or the inability to understand. It’s the complete opposite of all of those things. It is love and acceptance.
My lip trembles, and I want to push her away. The way that I always do. Because hope is the most dangerous thing of all.