Claiming Crusher: Savage Brothers MC

by Marie, Jordan

  “Yes, Michael.”

  “Do you know what I can’t understand, Melinda?”

  I want to answer, but fear has paralyzed me and my vocal chords are frozen as well.

  “Well, wife? Do you?”

  I try to talk, I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a squeaky half syllable. I quickly clear my throat and start again.

  “What, Michael?”

  “How my darling wife could keep something so obviously important hidden from me. Can you understand that, Melinda?”

  I say nothing, by this time the look in his eyes has rendered me speechless. It’s too late. It’s much too late.

  “Furthermore, if a small ratty necklace that is far beneath your station in life is important, I can’t begin to imagine what the other items you’ve kept hidden means.”

  He reaches over and slides the medallion over my head. The cold medal lies against my breast and I have a moment of relief. Is he going to allow me to keep it? That’s the only thought I have before he grabs the hair at the back of my head and fists it so tightly, so painfully, my eyes water. I gasp at the hurt. He drags me from the chair, so I am standing in front of him, my head is forced back, and tears are streaming down my face. I have to strain to keep my eyes on him. I need to know what is coming. My time with Michael has taught me nothing—if not survival.

  “Tell me Melinda, what does the lipstick mean to you? Besides coloring your lips so that you look like some two-bit whore.”

  He doesn’t give me time to answer, not that I could with the way he has my neck twisted. The pain is bad, nowhere near what he’s capable of, but bad nonetheless. He takes the lipstick and paints it hard on my lips, to the point it cracks and twists to the side and I can feel the metal rim of the container biting into my lip and cutting as it goes. I try to pull away, but the pain only intensifies and his grip is so tight there is no breaking free. He then pushes the lipstick itself through my teeth and into my mouth. The sick, faintly plastic taste mingles with the coppery taste of blood and I choke. This only serves to piss him off and he back hands me on the side of the face, hard.

  The impact is jarring and I would scream, but my mouth is clogged and the force of the slap leaves me stunned.

  “Swallow the fucking stuff, Melinda! If you want to be a whore then by god, I shall treat you like one!” He lets go of my hair, but only to use his hand to bite down on my chin and imprison me so I can do nothing but look into his hateful, cold, blue eyes. Ice. Frozen and so unfeeling, they send terror into my soul.

  I choke the lipstick down my throat, doing my best not to gag. The problem is the fear of losing my connection with my mother, of knowing the pain I will soon endure, and the half of a grapefruit Michael allotted me for breakfast this morning, all roll together and combine to tear my insides up and I vomit. I try to clamp my lips and teeth together, but the force is too strong. Michael growls and pushes me away from him so hard and fast that I can’t even begin to stop myself. I fall back into the chair and it slides when my weight impacts it. I feel my back scrape along the metal of the arms as I fall to the floor. The chair continues to slide until my head hits the floor.

  “Fucking cunt. You will pay for that.” He growls, wiping the small amount of lipstick-tinted bile that sprayed on his chin. It’s then that he kicks my stomach. I curl to try and prevent it, but I’m too dazed, too slow and I can’t. One…two…three…the impact of his booted foot slams into my stomach over and over—until it finally stops.

  I’m gasping trying to catch my breath, thankful for the small reprieve when his foot comes at my face. I see a flash of black, feel the forceful hit land on my mouth and taste copper again, only this time a lot more. Another hit, this time on the upper part of my head, it leaves me lightheaded. I pray I will lose consciousness. If I do, maybe he will leave me alone, and even if he doesn’t, I won’t know. Again, my prayers are unanswered. He pulls me up by the collar of my dress. I hear the tearing of the fabric and even in my pained, fearful state, I mourn it. There was a time I adored dressing up and feeling pretty. I vow if I survive this, the only thing I will adore is being cold. I need to be as cold as Michael to survive. Then again, I’m not even sure why I want to survive.

  The dress must rip even more, because as quick as he begins pulling me up, I fall back against the cold tile. I feel the cold air of the room hit my chest and down my side. Michael grabs my head and pulls me by my hair. He drags me through the office chairs, but I barely notice the way they rake over my body with their metal legs. He throws me on the couch and my stomach revolts. If I had anything left inside, I would vomit again. I know where this will end. I know how it will end. I don’t want it. Everything in me is screaming out at the injustice, the unfairness of it all. I close my eyes and try to remember something…anything to take my mind away from what is about to happen. Nicole’s face dances in front of me and intermingles with Ray. My only friends in the world. They have no idea how bad my life is here. If they interfered, Michael would kill them. I can’t let that happen. I vow no one will ever touch my friends the way that Michael does me. It’s a weak vow, but still a vow.

  “You want to be a whore my darling wife, I will treat you like one.”

  How can his voice sound so calm? It’s as if he’s talking about the weather. What kind of monster can do that? Again, he pulls me by my hair until he has my face pushed into the top of the sofa. My knees sink into the cushions and I try to reach back to stop him. It’s no use, he grabs my wrist and I feel immense pain as I hear a bone snap. I scream out and he pushes my face harder into the wood on the Queen Anne sofa. I try to move my face to the side, I can feel the teeth in my mouth and they are loose and at least one is chipped. There’s so much blood in my mouth, I almost choke on it. The ripping of my clothes continue, but it doesn’t matter anymore. He grabs the necklace at the back of my neck and pulls. It’s a thick chain and in this instance that is bad, because he pulls tighter and tighter until my head is snapped back and my air is restricted.

  He plunges inside of me. Tearing as he goes, as he always does. My vision starts to dim, the room goes gray and I’m ready for it. I’m ready for death. Anything so I no longer have to endure this…

  As he finishes, the hold on my neck loosens and I gulp in breath. I want to refuse it. If I don’t breathe, I die. It’s a reflex though and I can’t stop myself. He crushes me underneath him and his vile stench is even more prevalent over the scent of blood. I remain quiet, waiting for him to get up and forget about me—as he always does. Only, this time I sadly underestimate him.

  “Look at you, Melinda.” He says as if disgusted. I can hear the sound of his zipper. This time he grabs the back of my leg and pulls me from the couch I use my hands to try and stop myself from being slammed around but one hand is completely useless, and I end up trying to hold it tight to my chest wrapped against the other one to stop it from hurting more. He brings me to the wall that has three large mirrors hanging on them, and pushes my face against the glass. My vision is blurry, my eyes are swollen from the kicks he gave me and being ground into the hard wood of the couch. I make out my form through the mirror. The reflection makes me sick. Not because of the way I look, more for the weakness I see. I hate that word and how often it relates to me… Weak.

  “Look at you! You think you can hide things from me, Melinda? Will you never learn? Do you think you could paint yourself up and people won’t see how ugly you are? You’re lucky I agreed to your father’s request and kept you from being on the streets. The least you could do is know your place and be grateful—instead of being a sneaky, conniving, cold bitch. Your cunt is so fucking dry it’s no wonder I have to fuck other women. You’d freeze a man’s dick off. Then again, maybe you just need more practice. You want to be a whore?” He asks, and his face goes close to my ear and his voice drops down. “I’ll give you exactly what you want, dear wife…DONALD!” He screams and it’s in that moment I know, if this happens, I won’t survive. I won’t even retain a piece of me. He’s be
en slowly killing me since I married him, but this…this will destroy me.

  Donald comes in like the ever faithful dog he is. I can see him through the mirror.

  “Melinda wants to be a whore Donald, so I’ve decided we will teach her. You may fuck her face while I continue to teach my wife how a woman accepts her man.”

  “Yes, sir.” He says and the eagerness in his voice awakens what fight I have left.

  I can’t do this. I can’t. I know I will never be able to stop them, but I have to try. I have to. Donald comes around to the side of me. Michael, uses my hair to pull me onto my knees. He bends down and whispers into my ear.

  “Open for him and suck his cock all the way in. Show us what a whore does, Melinda—since you wish to be one so badly.”

  He pushes my face towards Donald’s hard member and I refuse to open my mouth. Donald yanks hard on my hair and I yell out and he pushes my mouth down on him. It’s vile. I promise myself that I will never taste a man’s cock again. Never have them in my mouth, and never feel powerless around them again. With the last ounce of rebellion I have, I pull away, releasing him, then I look Donald in the eye and bite. I bite so hard on the head of his cock, I know that it’s his blood filling my mouth now, not my own. I don’t let up. Michael is pulling at my head and my shoulders, but I don’t let go. I bite. I bite and I hold on with every ounce of anger I have inside of me.

  Donald is screaming. That just makes me clench my teeth together even firmer. I know there will be hell to pay. I don’t care anymore. I just don’t care. That’s the last thought I have before I see from my peripheral vision a large bottle of liquor slam into the side of my head. I don’t want to stop biting, but the world goes dark.

  *

  I don’t know how long I’ve been out. It could have been hours or even days. I am in my room. I’m lying on the bed, and I’m not wearing anything. There’s a stale smell of smoke in the room. For a minute, I’m afraid that he has set my bed on fire, but there is no heat. I can barely see. My face is even more swollen and I feel…heavy and drugged. They’ve continued beating me, even while I was unconscious. My sides are sore, I figure I have some cracked ribs. It’s a feeling I can recognize, because it’s happened one too many times. I try to sit up, but I can’t.

  Michael enjoys hurting me, but it has never been this bad…it has never been like this. I know if I don’t get away soon, he will kill me. I drag myself with my good hand up the bed, pulling on the sheets beneath me. I reach the edge and look down and there’s a waste basket with the burnt remnants of my box. My things are gone… on top of them is the medallion. It’s unrecognizable now and is charred from the fire. I’ve been out awhile, because the metal is no longer hot. I stare at the medallion. I stare at the charred, unrecognizable medal of Saint Alexander. The patron saint of bachelors, victims of betrayal and torture. If that is not irony, I don’t know what is. I grasp it in my hand and pledge to get away. I don’t know how long it will take, but I will get away from Michael Kavanagh. It’s the last thought I have before I go under again and lose myself in the darkness.

  Melinda

  Six Months Later

  Six months…I have tried to get away for the last six months. I haven’t stopped trying since my rape. Every time…every damn time…he finds me. You would think in a city as big as Manhattan and in a state as populated as New York, I could find safety. It makes me feel stupid that I haven’t. The truth is, living with Michael and listening to him talk about me, I’ve not felt smart in a long time. I’ve not felt…able? I feel alone. I have no one, save Nicole and Ray who are friends left over from TOA days. It hasn’t been that long since I was at Three Oaks, but it feels like another lifetime. I’m not that person anymore. I will never be that person again. The name Melinda makes me physically sick. I hate her. She is weak. She is stupid.

  Melinda is a failure. Melinda tried to run away again, got to Maine and…got caught. Michael owns the police. He owns….everyone. I know this for sure now, because he carted me back to New York and I’m currently locked in the basement of Michael’s house. It has never been our house, or my house. Everything belongs to Michael…even me. I’ve decided this after a week of being beaten, and having him show me over and over just exactly how stupid I was. Those were his words. Melinda is too stupid to know when she has it made. Melinda is too stupid to know when she has everything other women would kill for. Melinda is too stupid to live.

  My bloody hands reach up to touch the leather dog collar around my neck and move it around just a little to get air on my neck.

  If you’re going to act like a dumb animal Melinda, I shall chain you like one.

  My hands are raw from trying to protect my body against Michael’s and Donald’s blows. My eyes are swollen shut and my lips are busted and cracked, from both the abuse and the fact that Michael hasn’t really been feeding me or giving me water regularly. I’m having trouble breathing and I’m pretty sure I’m running a fever.

  I hear the door at the top of the stairs open and I know I must be really sick, because I can’t drum up the courage to care. The creaking noise of the wood can be heard with each heavy footstep. I can’t see, so I don’t bother raising my head off of the cold cement floor. I prepare myself for more abuse. That is all I can do. Because Michael is right, I am stupid. No smart person would be trapped like this—would be living in this hell.

  “Oh honey! What has he done to you?”

  I hear a woman’s voice from somewhere above my head. I know the voice. It’s Mrs. Marten’s voice, from next door. I don’t know her that well. She’s an odd bird in her fifties, with purple hair, who wears yoga pants and tank tops with in your face sayings like ‘Sucking Cock since 1959’. I have always liked her, Michael refused to talk to her. He would have forced her to move years ago, but she has more money than him.

  I want to talk, but I can’t make my throat work. It’s so dry and sore…

  “Don’t you worry honey, we’ll get you help. I knew when I hadn’t heard from you this past month that fucker was up to something. Someone needs to cut off his balls and shove them down his throat. Yes, indeed…Hello? I need an ambulance and the police right away at 103 Pleasant Hill Drive. Yes! It is an emergency! If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have called!”

  I want to warn her, to tell her to stop. The minute the police are contacted, they will let Michael know. I can’t manage it though. I hear some noise and I wish I could see, but the room is black to me. There’s so much pain and my head is too foggy to make anything out. Hell, maybe she’s not really here. Wouldn’t it suck if I am dying and my last dream is of Ms. Martens? Jesus, couldn’t I at least have Johnny Depp save me?

  I don’t know how much time passes. I feel someone brushing my hair along the side of my face. I want to scream at them to stop, because even that faint touch…hurts. Eventually there are more footsteps and voices. I want to try and stay awake to find out what is happening. I can’t, no matter how much I fight it, darkness beckons.

  *

  It is days later when I wake up in the hospital. I don’t know how Michael explained things, but somehow he managed to. I know, because his face is the first I see when I come through. I look around the room for help, but it’s empty. I reach out for the nurse-call button and Michael grabs my hand, exerting so much pressure I feel like he may re-break the fingers which are already splinted.

  “I wouldn’t do that, darling wife of mine.”

  I lick my lips and try to speak. At this point, I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve spoken, but obviously awhile, because my voice comes out dry and cracked.

  “I didn’t Michael, I wouldn’t…”

  He leans down closer to me, so that his lips are beside my ear. He’s wearing some expensive cologne, which might smell great on another man, but the scent is what I associate with Michael and it makes my stomach burn in revulsion.

  “I must play nice while you’re in here my dear, but I thought you would need a reminder of why you shouldn’t try
to upset me.”

  “A reminder?” The fear is thick in my voice. I hate it.

  “Oh yes, Melinda”

  He holds his phone in front of me. I’m relieved, because I thought he was getting ready to beat me again. I honestly don’t think I can survive another beating. Then he pushes a button and a video plays on his phone.

  Ms. Martens is tied and in a porcelain bathtub, gagged. Her large, eyes are wide with fear. I know, because it is an expression that is permanently worn by me. My heart kicks up in denial and a moan of sadness escapes me. My hand goes to my mouth to keep from screaming, as I watch Donald place her fingers in this metal tool and with one push of a lever a finger is cut off. Donald continues, one by one with such a perfect, cold precision until all that is left is her hand from the knuckle down and blood is everywhere. I gag and try to turn away, but Michael grabs my hair and pulls my face back around and it gets worse. I watch as he stabs her, slowly and shallowly at first and then with more vehemence. I watch as the life drains from her eyes. I don’t cry. I want to. I don’t scream. I need to. Instead, I let the weight and truth settle upon my shoulders. I am the reason this woman died.

  Michael says more words. I have no idea what they are. I am in shock. I don’t even react when he puts pressure on my chin and forces my lips and gives me his cold kiss. He leaves and I’m sitting in the bed, listening to the beeps of the machines around me and crying. That’s how I am when the orderly comes in. His voice works through the haze surrounding my brain.

  “He’ll kill you next time. You need to leave.”

  I look at him. He’s older, late forties maybe? His dark hair is definitely more salt than pepper and he has kind green eyes. But, then what do I know of kind?

  “I know.” I whisper, because I do. I just don’t care anymore.

  “You have to get away.”

  “I’ve tried. He always finds me.”

  “Do you have any friends to help you? To help you leave the state?”