by V. F. Mason
I’m sure we’ll never meet in such circumstances again.
Lachlan
“She left,” Levi says next to me, while extending his hand to where the morning newspaper lies.
Shrugging, I run my fingers through my hair and send a message to Shon with the latest details. “Good.”
I pick up the paper and drop onto the couch, while the coffee steams on the table. I have a perfect view from the terrace of the snow-covered garden.
Chance jumps from place to place out there, huffing and then lying on his back with his tongue hanging out. I don’t really have much love for animals—bad introduction to them in childhood—but Chance somehow managed to find his way into my mansion and didn’t want to leave.
The black Newfoundland decided this was his home, and in time, I got used to him.
In a way.
It’s always fascinated me how little dogs need to find happiness. A little attention and freedom here and there, and the human has the most loyal creature on earth.
But people? They are consumed by greed and desire for power that kills their humanity with each passing day, and resisting those desires when they are right in front of you is almost impossible.
Maybe that’s why there is so much evil out there.
“Lachlan, she knows the place now.” Panic and confusion coat his voice, and I finally raise my eyes to him only to find him shifting from side to side, several wrinkles marring his face, especially the deep line between his eyebrows as he frowns at me. “Don’t you think—” The old man just doesn’t know when to give up. With his constant nagging, the only reason his ass is not out of here yet is because I grew up with him and he’s stayed by my side through a lot of shit. It also helps I don’t want to kill him, which in my case speaks about the deepest affection for a human life there can be.
The click of my fingers and a dismissive wave cuts him off. He purses his lips but stays silent. He shakes his head, and then with one last accusing glance my way, he exits the common room and probably goes to the kitchen where he can curse me all the fucking way.
Levi doesn’t approve of my plan, not that he knows much about it anyway. But come to think about it, he never approves of any violence, but it doesn’t stop him from working as my butler.
Leaning forward, I touch my iPad and immediately cameras scattered all over my place come into view in small windows, trailing her every move. She is outside now, walking to the gate while nervously looking around and taking deep breaths, most likely for the courage to face the guards who stand by the gate in their suits like watchful dogs.
A thrill runs through me at the idea of her fear that I can almost taste, but with that also comes anger that, combined with last night’s lust, makes me one dangerous man to face.
My fingers prickle to play with her skin with my most favorite devices, watching the color and bruises appear on it, and how it will affect her head. But the idea of anyone else so much as scaring her?
No, that’s not a possibility, because willingly or not, Valencia is mine.
And until she dies, she doesn’t have to be afraid of anyone but me.
Pressing the number on my phone, I wait for the person to pick up, and then bark, “If anyone so much as touches her, they are dead. Find a cab for her.” More like tell one of the men to drive up in a cabbie’s car. No one has access to my property, but I know she needs to escape after sex.
I know my prey very well; after all, she has been my work in progress for years and the most anticipated prize.
Raging desire mixes with euphoria at finally being close to my goal, of finally destroying her wings and cutting them off her so she can painfully fall and fall until she reaches the underground.
Where she will fight and fight a losing battle and then finally adapt to its rules, burning her soul in the process.
But on this path, she will find the freedom she so desperately needs, even if she doesn’t think so.
And what a magnificent sight this will be.
Run, Valencia, run.
I’ll give her one more peaceful day in the fairytale she lives in, where she hides behind her façade of a perfect life and believes that this world is about faith, love, and fucking unicorns.
But when tomorrow comes, the demons will come to play, to finally introduce and welcome her to the dark side.
Valencia
The pastor finishes his Sunday service, and everyone gets up quickly, increasing the noise that snaps me out of a trance. I follow, hating the pink, floral dress that almost reaches my ankles and scratches against my skin.
As a ballerina, I prefer to have my legs free for movement, but my parents taught me to always show respect and wear appropriate attire, as they called it. And although I’m no longer obligated to come here, I do it for me.
Because I made a promise a long time ago, and in my faith, I find peace. And I desperately need it after last night.
A night I try my best to forget, because it can destroy everything I’ve built through all the years.
“Valencia!” Pastor Aidan calls, and I plaster a smile on my face, walking toward him even though I have no desire for small talk. He is a great guy, but after my turmoil, I’m not sure I’m ready to meet people who always insist that I should be perfect.
“Hi, Pastor. How are you?” I give him a basket with freshly baked muffins, and he takes it eagerly, winking at me.
“I’m good, child. Thank you as always. The kids love them, you know.” I nod, one of the reasons I still do it. Those little munchkins have no one, so baking goodies for them brings me joy. “Want to go with me to give it to them?” he offers, placing the Bible under his armpit, but I shake my head.
“I need to go home. I have an important rehearsal later on.” I finish lamely, not wanting to lie but at the same time not wanting to tell the truth either.
Pastor looks at me for a second, and then asks, “Is everything okay?”
“Perfect.”
He gives me another long stare but then pats me on the back. “Okay, then. Won’t bother you with it. I’m sure you’ll be great at the show.” He picks up his glasses from the table and is about to move in the direction of the Sunday school where the kids from foster homes come every week to play, when my question stops him.
It spills out of me before I can control it. “Pastor Aidan, if we don’t follow the rules, does that make us sinners?” Clearing my throat, I add, “Does it make… less… less…. Do we get punished?” I finally let out the words that have been in my head since that fateful day with Jason. I’ve always played in my mind my sins, as they call them, and that’s the only time in my life when I did something outside the norm.
And my dad died.
Was that divine intervention telling me what to do?
“For not following the rules?” he supplies, and I nod, crossing my arms tightly, lost under his surprised gaze.
“Yes.”
He motions to the bench in the front, right under the altar, and I follow, sitting next to him as he places the basket between us.
“I’m sorry if that’s a weird thing to ask.” I’ve been coming to this church almost my whole life; he had been one of my father’s close friends, so he probably wonders why I even question our faith and religion.
I should know better, but lately all those voices from the past don’t make much sense to me.
“When I was your age, I toured through Europe. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. The whole package.” My jaw almost drops from this information, because imagining Pastor doing any of those things is… well, unimaginable; that’s what it is.
He smirks at my shocked expression. “Yeah, I thought life had nothing but endless possibilities, and no one should ever place any holds on me. I even dropped out of college, because I considered it too restricted.” I don’t say anything, just blink with each new piece of information. “It was a great experience. I’ve met many people, visited so many places. In about the third year, I understood I couldn’t drift forever
and came back home.” A beat, and then, “I visited the church, and I just… found peace. I wanted to make a difference, and I felt like this job allowed me to.”
Shifting my hands on my lap, I finally speak past the shock. “Did something happen that made you come back home and choose your faith?”
His brows furrow, and then he chuckles, amusement crossing his face. “No divine intervention or life threatening injuries that made me turn to God, no. Religion doesn’t punish, Valencia.”
“My dad said it did,” I whisper, and he exhales heavily, running his finger through his hair while gazing ahead.
“Your dad was obsessed with right and wrong.” My heart stills with this information, because that’s the same thing I thought back when I was sixteen. “We joined the church together, but he thought everyone should follow a specific path, a path he thought was right. I didn’t agree with him, which ultimately led to our dispute.”
“But we always came here.”
“Your mom allowed you to come here even after the divorce, but we lost touch with your dad long before he died. He was a fanatic, Valencia. If people didn’t live the way he thought was right, then they lived wrongly to him. He wanted a perfect society, a society where he was always right.”
I swallow past the bile in my throat at all this, and flashes of the past come crashing back at me. How Dad never listened to anyone if they weren’t following religion. How he forbade me to hang out with kids if their parents didn’t attend church. How he always claimed that love is pure and right only if it follows the rules.
I always thought he just followed the religion blindly, but what if he lived on the extremes of it, preaching something ugly instead of truthful?
“Faith is about love. It doesn’t really matter what you believe in or what you call it. If you have that in your heart and look at everything and everyone through that prism, then life is happiness. We came into this world to learn how to be happy. And sometimes for that, we need to experience pain, heartache. There are lessons to be learned for sure. But we didn’t come here to get punished. Or to follow paths that bring us only pain and sorrow.” He touches my chin and lifts it so our eyes meet, his silver ones holding nothing but kindness as always. “Valencia, you didn’t come here to follow the rules your dad placed on you. You live this life only once. Make the most of it.”
A tear slides down my cheek as I inhale deeply, pushing through the memories that only bring pain. “Last time I tried to do that, Dad died. I fell in love with the wrong boy and—”
He shushes me. “Who said he was wrong?”
“Dad.” Maybe it’s irrational and maybe I should have found professional help a long time ago, but he always said that if we follow the rules, life is nothing but bliss.
The minute I stepped outside the boundaries, he died and my life was never the same. It was impossible for me not to connect the two things in my traumatized teenage brain.
“Did you love him?”
“I did, yes.”
“Did he do anything?”
“No.” Only if one looked through the prism at perfection, otherwise Jason was like every other teenage kid with hopes and dreams. “I left him after Dad died. He moved to another city, and the last I heard, he has a successful band. I think he even has a daughter.” I don’t lie in bed wondering about what ifs, because ultimately I don’t think we were right for each other, but sometimes I wish I would’ve taken his offer and moved far away from New York. As much as I love this city, I don’t think I’ve truly been happy here since Dad died.
Since their divorce really. No matter how much I asked though, Mom never explained what made her do it. Maybe she was fed up with Dad’s teachings as well.
I should talk about this with her, to put to rest all those puzzle pieces in one picture.
“That’s good. Love is what keeps us alive and what makes us choose our faith. Don’t come to church to atone for sins. Come here, because it’s what you want. Otherwise, it’s a punishment and that is not what it’s about.” Pastor finishes and stands up while patting me on the head, just like he used to when I was five. “I’ve got kids to feed now. I hope our talk helped you.”
“It did,” I reply. With one last nod, he goes to his destination while I’m glued to the bench, his words playing in my mind on repeat.
What if life is not about punishment, but love?
What if life is not about fear, but freedom?
What if life is not about pain, but happiness?
I have some thinking to do before I reach a final decision, but I think I’m going to use that ticket of Bella’s sooner rather than later.
Lachlan
“Everyone out,” I say in the conference room, and Alex pauses midsentence, as he was in the middle of his finance report in front of the board of directors.
My CEO wanted to implement some modern changes that will triple our income according to him, so I found time for it, but it doesn’t matter now.
“Lachlan—” Alex starts, but he must read the barely contained fury on my face as he hastily picks up all the papers while addressing everyone. “How about we move it to another day? Something came up.” The board of directors give me side-glances, but they listen to him, their chairs scraping loudly as they get up, slightly annoyed. As much as they don’t like my behavior, they will keep their mouth shut, because they like their bank accounts too much.
The minute the door closes after them, I crush the phone in my hands after reading the information of Valencia’s whereabouts.
I throw it against the wall with a roar, along with everything else nearby, a wild beast raging inside me from her going to church to cleanse herself of her sins.
A sin being me.
May this holy water wash away all the devil’s thoughts from your head, Lachlan. It’s the only way for you to live in Heaven.
I roar again, slapping the table with my palms as I take deep, calming breaths, blocking away the voice from the past that nags at my sanity and threatens to strip me from my carefully held control.
I never had issues with anything until Valencia showed up in my life, until she awakened unfamiliar emotions of wanting to own every part of her while dirtying her in a way she’ll never be able to wash away.
I’ve always needed to catch her in my trap so she’ll become a broken angel who can never get her wings back.
But now?
Now I want to drown her in my darkness so she will never find escape from me, keep her in my dungeon forever to punish her, not only for the sins she did not commit, but for the weakness she has become.
The game has gone on long enough.
She doesn’t get a day longer.
Tonight.
It ends tonight.
Somewhere in the world…
Fall 2018
Valencia
Digging deeper into the pillow, I cover my other ear with my free hand, hoping to eliminate the sounds of the Newton’s cradle that have been going on for hours, but I can’t. My body is exhausted, reminding me of the sleepless nights that always greet me in this place.
Then the sound of the lock turning snaps my attention, as it’s exceptionally loud in the room, and the thud of heavy leather shoes echoes through the space and my heart stills.
Why did he come? He almost never visits me here, finding my “terrible state,” as he calls it, too disgusting to look at for long.
I swiftly turn around to face him as he graces me with a tentative smile that doesn’t reach his cold eyes when he scans my appearance. “Valencia,” he says in a patronizing voice, and fury penetrates every bone as I sit up on the bed despite the pain, only to be pulled back to my side because the cuff is not long enough.
At one time, they used a chain that allowed me to move freely, but I tried to get free by hitting the caretaker in the head and taking his key so I could escape.
They found me on the second floor, where I stumbled on the slippery floor. That had brought more punishment, using knifes to leave p
ermanent scars on my back.
Disobedience is the one thing he hates the most, and I was nothing but that for the last eight months.
He clicks his tongue, placing his hand on my head, and I move it to the side, doing my best to evade his touch, but it’s useless as he pulls my hair, sending prickles of pain through my scalp. “If you’d just learned a little bit of discipline, we wouldn’t be in this situation.” His voice is filled with regret, as if he truly believes his words.
The man is insane.
“Don’t touch me,” I say, but instead of listening to me, he pats my head, removing the strands of hair that have fallen over my face, and lifts my chin so I can meet his stare head on. I can barely talk through my dry throat, as they give me water only every six hours, too afraid to leave it with me. God only knows why. What can I possibly do with it? “I will never accept this,” I hiss in his face, hoping determination coats my features so he’ll have no doubts left about my intentions.
His fingers on my chin tighten and I wince in pain, but I hold back a groan, not wanting to give him even the slightest satisfaction. “Be grateful for your condition, Valencia. Otherwise, the consequences would have been severe.” He leans forward and stops the cradle. The silence that falls on the space is almost deafening and the ringing in my head slowly stops. “Another twenty-four hours should be sufficient punishment, and for the sake of—” He doesn’t finish, his voice halting as if even the idea sends a tremor of anger through him. Darkness crosses his face, a look I don’t know or recognize. “Matilda will come to you tomorrow.” He lets go of me and leaves while I sink back into the pillow, breathing heavily, my heart beating rapidly against my ribcage.
I don’t have all the time in the world. I have to think of an escape before he destroys the thing I hold dearest to my heart.
So I do the one thing I have always done in situations where hope was an illusion with no solution in sight.
I pray with all my might. My faith and prayers are the only things that keep me sane in this never-ending nightmare that my life has become.