by Cerys du Lys
There are six. I do not have the other four. I close the box and return it to its spot on my desk.
Carefully, I take the other box. I open that one and look inside and peer at its contents. There are ten fingernails in this box. They are smaller than Noah's and I have kept them for much longer. I do not remember how long I have had them. A very long time. The person they belonged to is dead. That person was special to me, too.
These nails are perfect and small and painted. They look like the false nails that are sold in the beauty section of many stores, with colors and pictures painted on them. There is nothing extravagant about these nails, because I was not sure how to paint them. I used somber colors, like dark blues and purples, with a hint of brightness now and then. One of the thumbnails contains the image of a shooting star, with sparks flying off of it like fireworks. That one is my favorite.
Losing a thumbnail is the most painful, so I think thumbnails should have the prettiest pictures painted on them. Thumbnails should be more special than any other nail. I consider them a perfect gift.
There is a gem-laden bracelet in that box, too. It is custom-crafted to suit my exact specifications. I like it very much. It is a present. The bracelet has small indents circling it, which look like they are missing something. They are missing something, too. The painted fingernails slip into grooves near the indents, then latch down, held in place with a special hook mechanism. It is easy once you know how to do it. Sometimes I gently place the nails within the bracelet to see what it looks like. I twist and move the bracelet in my hands. The fingernails are small, but the bracelet is thick. It is for a larger hand than my own, too. It fits very loosely around my wrist. I cannot wear it or it will fall off.
I close this box, too, and return it to its place next to the other box. I like my boxes. I know they are odd, but I like them. This is my room and no one will enter here, so it does not matter if they are odd. I need to acquire another bracelet for Noah's fingernails. I plan to get a smaller one that will fit me perfectly.
I must leave now. I will go attend to Noah. I am sorry for what I must do, Noah. Please, you must understand. It is for us. It is necessary.
(Day Seventeen)
*** Noah
I wake up and there's light. I don't remember falling asleep. I don't remember there being light before, either. Fuck. The room's not black, that's for damn sure. Everything's as white as ever¸ except for the fucking lump of black hair and pale skin covered by a pink blanket in the corner. What the fuck is that frilly goddamn pillow under her head?
I stir and my shackles shake and clang together. Angeline stretches like a cat on the floor and turns to look at me. I don't know what the fuck she's doing or why she's sleeping on the floor. I don't know if I'm dreaming or not, either.
I'm starving. My stomach is fucking growling. I can't stop it. I open my mouth to say something and I can't even fucking talk because my throat is dry. Angeline smiles at me, but her eyes aren't in it. She sloughs off her blankets like some butterfly emerging from a cocoon. She's beautiful, but she's also one of those poisonous butterflies. I don't know how that shit works, but that's what she is. Go ask someone who knows something about butterflies.
She's not wearing pants again. This woman seriously needs to get some pants. You can't just fucking walk around pantsless all the time. She's wearing a man's shirt. I'm pretty sure that's my shirt, actually. What a fucking thief. She looks great in it. I want to fuck it off of her slim, sexy body. That's how I got into this mess, though. Apparently fucking and falling in love or lust or whatever the fuck I did is not the answer to any of my problems.
"Hello, Noah," Angeline says. "Are you thirsty?"
I nod, because anything I say will just sound like a harsh fucking rattle. My tongue is so dried up that it's nonexistent. I can barely hear myself think over the sound of my rumbling stomach.
Angeline tiptoes over to a corner of the room on the balls of her feet like the cute fucking deadly nymph she is. I can't keep my eyes of her gorgeous ass. Fuck, I want to grab it.
Yeah, I don't know what's wrong with me either. Lock me up in a room for a few days and apparently I become a sex freak for some bitch who takes sadistic pleasure in ripping out my fingernails. Who knew? I never would have expected it, myself.
She's hot, though. Fuck, her panties are clinging to her pussy, with a little wedge of cloth stuck between those delicious fucking lips. Fuck fuck fuck.
She opens some door in the wall near the floor, which is apparently a mini fridge. This place is well stocked, I guess. She takes out a bottle of orange juice, then moves to a freezer partition and grabs a tray of ice cubes, too.
She places the ice on a white table off to the side, then brings me the orange juice. After she unscrews the cap, she holds it to my lips. Her hand hovers beneath my chin, stopping the juice from falling onto her perfect white carpet. You have no fucking idea how careful I am not to spill that shit. Fuck, she'll kill me.
The acid from the orange juice stings my throat, but it's fucking delicious. She gives me everything, all of it. I drink slowly, quenching my thirst. I don't know what's going on. I don't know why she's being careful and nice again. I don't know why she's not killing me. I wouldn't blame her if she did. I'm just waiting to die.
"We are going to do something important today, Noah," she says.
I can talk again. My throat is no longer made of sand. "What's that, love?"
"You have been bad, Noah," she says.
Fuck. I can't help this shit. "Sorry. What the fuck was it? Mistress Angeline? That better?"
She gives me a funny, adorable fucking look. I can't fucking deal with this. Angeline is too much. She is everything. I am gone. I'm seriously the fucking worst.
"I will blindfold you now," she says.
"Sounds kinky, love," I say. "Whatever you want."
Yeah, that's my good idea of the day. Use a shitty flirty line on the insane psychotic bitch who chained me to a wall. Good job, Noah.
She goes to the same place where she found the knife a long time ago, and gets one of those sleep masks that blocks out every trace of light. I'm about to be locked in darkness again. At least Angeline's here. I can talk to someone. That's more than I had before.
She places the sleep mask over my eyes and makes sure it stays tight. I'm now blindfolded.
"I am going to give you a mild sedative, Noah," she says.
I can't think of any way to make that sound kinky, so I just shut the fuck up. Less than a minute later, she pricks me with a needle. I wince, but take it, because, fuck, it's just a needle.
"I am going to apply ice in order to numb you for surgery, Noah," she says.
I'm not sure what the fuck to say to this. I should say something, though. Surgery? I can think of much better ways to play doctor with Angeline than this. Basically any other fucking way. Literally.
She rattles ice out of the ice tray. I don't know what the fuck she does with it. I can't fucking see, remember? Shit. She comes over to me. I'm about to find out where I'm being numbed for surgery. This sounds bad. Maybe she's going to pull off the rest of my nails? I'm not sure how. We don't have the table or the Dark Ages torture machine. This is bad.
Her nimble fingers unbutton and unzip my pants, then she lowers them to my ankles. My legs are not my nails. What the fuck is going on?
My testicles are not my legs, either. That's exactly where she starts rubbing ice, though. Angeline is applying cold fucking ice to my balls. There are multiple ice cubes in her hands and I can feel my balls shrivel up and fucking die as she cups them in her hands with the ice.
"Ange," I say, trying to remain calm. Fuck that. I'm not calm. Fuck you. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Surgery," she says.
"What the fuck kind of surgery?"
"I will be castrating you, Noah," she says.
I stand there, body aching from standing and being shackled to a wall for days in the dark. My balls are cold as fuck and growing more frozen every second.
"Yes," she says.
"Ange, fuck, please, don't do this."
"It is necessary," she says. "You will hurt me again if I do not do it."
She leaves me. Fuck. She's going to get a scalpel or some shit. How the fuck does this work? I don't fucking know. I didn't know how you ripped someone's fingernails off before I met Angeline, either. She showed me that. Now she's going to fucking show me this. Fuck.
She comes back. Thank fucking God it's not with a scalpel, though. She brings more ice. My balls aren't shriveled enough, apparently. I can't fucking feel anything between my legs.
"Look," I say. "I didn't mean to. I won't do it again."
"You did not ask me if you could release your semen inside of me," she says.
"Who the fuck asks that, Ange? That's not something I ever tell someone. Listen, love, I get what you're saying, but let's calm the fuck down and talk about this, alright?"
"I may be pregnant," she says.
Alright, so... I'd honestly never thought about that. Because, first off, what the fuck? Second, what the fuck? I don't know what my third point is.
Yeah, it's a real risk, and I get that. You know what I do? I make sure the bitch I kidnap is on birth control before the initial fuck, then I slip pills into her food while I've got her in my possession. If she fucking begs me not to fuck her because she might get pregnant, I make it seem like I don't care and that's a part of why I'm doing it. She's not going to get pregnant, and I know this, but it's easier to get them to listen to you if they think you're doing some horrible shit to their bodies. Who the fuck wants to have a baby with some fucked up kidnapper asshole?
I don't want to have kids, either. How fucked up would that be? It's an unnecessary trail, anyways. DNA and shit. Some of the sick fucks I sell the girls to want to get them pregnant, but that's on them, not me. I deal with that shit separately. I can only do so much.
Anyways, there's no fucking reason Angeline shouldn't be on birth control. What the fuck is she doing here? This confuses the fuck out of me.
"Love," I say, "that doesn't make sense. You don't fucking use condoms when you're fucking the guys you train, do you? Why wouldn't you be on birth control."
"I do not have sex with the men I train," she says.
Well, fuck.
"Fuck," I say.
"I do not enjoy sex," she adds.
"You sure fucking looked like you enjoyed it," I say.
"I did," she says, with some faint hit of a smile. I can't fucking see her, and that pisses me off, because this sounds real for a second. She sounds happy. I want to see that. "I do not usually," she adds.
"You're going to fucking castrate me because I fuck well?" I ask. "We had good, enjoyable fucking sex, and you're going to castrate me. Fuck off, Ange."
"I am sorry, Noah. It is for the best. You could hurt me if I do not do this."
"Yeah, well, fuck. You know what? I don't fucking want you to be pregnant either."
"I am glad you understand," she says.
Her hands leave my balls, and I really can't feel shit anymore. No fucking sensation whatsoever. They might as well be gone. They're going to be gone soon anyways. Is she just going to snip some shit or remove the entire testicle? Both testicles? I feel like I need those, but if you asked me why I couldn't fucking tell you. They're necessary for something. Testosterone or some shit. Also, I really fucking like them. Sticking your hands in your pants and holding your balls while you're doing absolutely nothing is basically the most relaxing feeling in the world. Me and my balls are good friends. We understand one another.
"I don't fucking understand," I say. "Ange, love. Mistress Angeline. Fuck. Fucking fuck. Stop. Seriously. This isn't the nails. I can live without my nails. I don't even fucking want them. Take the rest. You want my toenails? Fuck. Take those, too. Take everything. Fucking shave me bald while you're at it. Just... please? No sex. Fuck. Never. I'll never have sex again. I can't even fucking begin to explain how much I do not want you to do this."
She's standing next to me. I can feel her body pressed tight against mine. Her arms are roaming over my chest. One of her hands moves towards my balls. There's something in her hand, I can feel it. The sharp blade of a knife skims across the shaft of my cock. I'm not erect. No fucking person in the entire fucking world could be erect right now. No fucking way.
She uses the flat of the blade, so as not to slice me, but I think that might be more terrifying.
"What did you say, Noah?" she asks. "Do you remember?"
"I'll remember, love. I swear. I'll remember to call you Mistress Angeline. No sex. If we have sex, or whatever the fuck we do, I won't cum in you. Never. No kids. Fuck. Angeline, seriously, please? Fucking reconsider."
"That is not what I meant," she says. "I did not know if you remembered. I do not think you have."
"Angeline, I don't know what you want me to remember," I say. "If you tell me, I will, though. I'll try. Please, just don't fucking... don't do this. I know I'm not in any fucking position to ask you anything, but fuck. I just can't fucking... I can't fucking do this. I can't even fucking imagine it."
I start to tear up, because, fuck, what the fuck would you do? "I'm sorry. You have no fucking idea how sorry I am. I deserve this, alright? I understand that. I can't fucking beg and plead with you like I've done nothing wrong. I've done a whole lot of bad shit. I'm an asshole. I already fucking know it. I still think you're kind of fucking crazy and psychotic, but maybe you aren't. Maybe I deserve someone like you to do shit like this to me. I probably do. Fuck. Just do it. I'm done. I deserve it. Fuck. No, please don't. I can't. I don't know what the fuck I'm saying anymore."
"Are you truly sorry?" she asks.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," I say. "I thought we were having a nice time. I know it was fucking rough, but I thought you liked it. You looked so fucking beautiful, Angeline. I'm a fucking asshole basically all the time, but this one time I didn't actually mean to be an asshole. I'm sorry, love. I am. I promise."
"You are so sweet," she says. Then the craziest fucking thing happens. She says my name. She says it, then she says I'm fucking sweet again.
I'm not sweet. I don't know how to be sweet. I don't know why or how she thinks I'm sweet.
She didn't call me Noah, either. She said my real name. I'd almost forgotten I had one. I barely fucking remember it myself. She knows it, though. How? How the fuck should I know.
I don't know what happens next. I black out. She shoved a needle into the side of my neck. That's the last thing I remember. I don't think she accepts my apology. There's no fucking way I can even begin to apologize for my existence. I am a sick and twisted individual. I'm going to die. I'm already fucking dead.
Goodbye World.
*** Chastity
I wasn't going to let her do it. That woman couldn't stop me from seeing Noah. She didn't own him; he wasn't hers. He was his own, his own person, and he could do whatever he wanted to do.
I didn't know what she did, but she did something to him. Why else would Noah try to tell me that he didn't want to leave? That made no sense. Of course he wanted to leave. She treated him so badly and she hurt him.
I knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to turn Noah into one of her men. The men that wandered through this lonely, isolated house.
I knew something else, too. Sometimes the men talked to each other. I didn't hear what they had to say most of the time, but sometimes I saw them talking. They spoke quietly, barely breaking through the ominous silence surrounding them. Sometimes if I asked them questions and they needed words to answer me instead of gestures, they spoke, too. Just a little, but it was enough for me to figure out what they were like.
That's what she wanted to turn Noah into. That woman wanted him to become a quiet, lone figure wandering through her mansion, rarely speaking, bound to her service and her whims.
She was dangerous, though. She wanted to hurt him. I watched her hurt hi
m the first day we came here, and I heard screams echoing through the halls days after that, too. It was him, I knew it. I didn't know how, and I didn't know what she was doing to him, but I knew it wasn't good. She would hurt him unless he gave in to her. If he didn't, I thought she might kill him. If he accepted her and caved to her demands, he would become like all the rest of these men.
I couldn't let that happen. I needed to save him before she hurt him again. I needed to stop her.
I knew something else, also. I knew more. I knew how to stop her and how to save Noah. I didn't want to have to do this, but she didn't leave me any other choice. This was my only option.
*** Angeline
I bring Noah to my bedroom. I arrange for someone to carry him most of the way, but I do not allow anyone to intrude on my personal sanctuary. This is not like the white room, which is also a sanctuary to me. The white room is a sanctuary for anyone who wishes to use it. My bedroom is my own, only for me.
No one has been in it but me. I make certain of that. There is another room before it, acting as a gateway. It is considered a salon, but I do not keep much there. I allow people in that room if I need to, but they must leave before I enter my bedroom. They are not allowed to see anything beyond what I wish to show them, and I do not wish to show them that.
The man carrying Noah brings him into my gateway room and leaves him on the floor. Noah is sleeping again. I do not know what to do with him. The nameless man who carried him leaves and closes the hallway door behind him. Now it is Noah and I, alone, by ourselves.
"Noah," I say to him. "I do not know what to do with you."
He is sleeping. I have drugged him. I hope he dreams of wonderful pleasantries, but I do not know if he will. The last time I placed him into a forceful slumber, he did not seem to have good dreams. Does that mean he had bad dreams? I hope not.
Nightmares frighten me. They burn into my soul and my body until they become a part of me, so that when I wake, they remain. They cut and pull and drag me into darkness, forcing me to remember all the pain and anguish I have ever dealt with. My body shivers and shakes and I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to move, my eyes transfixed on one spot, gaze wavering and quaking from the force of my trembling body.