Beautiful Victim

by Claire C. Riley

  “It’s over now. He can’t hurt you now.”

  She nods in agreement and turns her face to her arm to wipe away her tears.

  “Here, let me,” I say, and I go to her bathroom to get some toilet paper to wipe up her tears with. I catch a glimpse of myself in her mirror and I don’t like what I see, so I look away. But I know it won’t always be like this.

  We might not end up married, with children and a beautiful home. But I still want to help her. I still want to fix her. To make her life better.

  I go back in the room and she’s exactly where I left her. She hasn’t tried to run away this time.

  Her tears are still wet on her cheeks.

  Her bruises are still prominent on her pale face.

  Her sadness is still all-consuming. Just like it always was.

  I sit down next to her and I reach over and I wipe the tears away from her face. I shush her and I tell her that everything is going to be okay, and I let go of my anger for her. As much as I can, anyway.

  ‘Anger isn’t good for anyone,’ Mr. fucking Jeffrey, my counselor-slash-therapist used to say. ‘It eats you up from the inside and destroys everything good.’

  Better to be sorry than angry.

  Better to be dead than mad.

  Better to be sad than filled with hate.

  I swear, the more I think about it, the more I realize how much sense he made.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. And it’s so sincere that my heart aches for her. Literally fucking aches for her. I swear I can feel it swell and throb in my chest. “I’m really sorry, Ethan.” She reaches for me with her bound wrists, and she takes my hands in hers and she gives them a little squeeze. “I honestly never wanted to hurt you.”

  “But you did,” I say. And I can’t help the sad tone in my voice. Because it’s true, she did hurt me. And she should know that, if nothing else. You have to own your mistakes, your actions.

  “I know.” She looks away with shame on her pretty face.

  “Why, Carrie?” I ask, my voice sounding desperate.

  She doesn’t answer, and I wait a long time to see if she will.

  “Carrie?” I say her name. And I honestly, truly love the sound of her name as it comes from my mouth, my lips perfectly forming around the letters. The way the word runs out of my mouth, like it was made for only me to say.

  “Because it was the only way,” she finally says, and takes a shuddering breath.

  “The only way?” I repeat.

  She still isn’t looking at me, so I reach across and I put my fingers on the bottom of her chin like I’ve seen Cary Grant do in several movies. And I tug her chin, ‘lightly, Ethan, gently,’ until she is looking at me again.

  “It was the only way to make it stop, to give myself half a chance to survive.” She looks so pitiful. “I would have died if I had stayed.”

  A tear slips free and glides down her cheek. I watch it until it drips off the end of her face and vanishes as it’s absorbed into the duvet. Like it never even existed. Just a small blot on the cotton, almost invisible to the naked eye. But you can feel it if you touch it. It leaves its mark in the way it feels.

  “You should have asked for help,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “He was so convincing, and when he wasn’t convincing he was frightening. You’d be surprised how many people look away from the ugly things they see.”

  I nod like I understand. And I guess I do.

  It’s like my mom and dad not visiting me anymore. It was ugly there and they didn’t want to see it anymore. It hurt, but I got over it, sort of.

  I’m glad we’re at this place, that we’re finally opening up and being truthful to one another.

  And maybe there is a chance for us, I think. Maybe we can still make this work after all.

  Hope.

  You can’t help but have it, even when you don’t want to.

  Even when you know it will probably kill you in the end.

  Hope.

  It lives on when everything else dies.

  I am silly for having hope. But it’s there all the same.

  I have hope for Carrie. And for us.

  There is still time, I think happily. There is still time for us.

  Chapter thirty-six:

  “Can I have some water?” she asks.

  I nod, of course, and I go downstairs to her kitchen and I fill her only glass with water from the kitchen faucet. I go back up the stairs, and I wonder if this is all a lie again. I wonder if she is trying to lull me into a false sense of security once more. But when I go back in the bedroom, a little out of breath because I was worried and I jogged up the stairs in case she’d tried to escape again, she is still where I left her.

  She’s like a doll as she stares into the empty space in front of her.

  She doesn’t hear me when I sit down next to her.

  She just stares and stares until she finally comes back from wherever she just was. And then she even offers me a small smile. I help her with the water, and she says thank you. And she’s using her manners now, and this is much better than how it was yesterday or the day before. This is how it should be.

  “Why did you go?” I finally ask. It’s the question that I’ve wanted to know the answer to more than any other. Because it’s the one that sent me away. If she would have stayed, she could have told the truth. They wouldn’t have blamed me for everything.

  She shrugs like it’s not important, but it is and I tell her so.

  “I…” she begins. “I just wanted to get away from everything. From everyone.”

  She looks nervous. Her eyes flit away from me. And I know that there are more secrets to be told.

  “From everyone,” I say, the hurt evident in my voice.

  She doesn’t deny it, and I’m glad that she’s being honest with me, even if it hurts. It means she cares enough about me to be truthful.

  There’s something to be said for honesty, I think.

  “From me?” I swallow down the lump in my throat after I say that, because I don’t want it to be true, but I’m not stupid. I just need to hear her acknowledge it.

  “Yes, Ethan, from you too,” she agrees. And her voice isn’t hard, and her face isn’t angry. She’s soft and calm and caring—nurturing, almost, as she reaches for my hand again. “I’m sorry.”

  I stroke my thumb across the back of her hand while I think. It helps to do that. It makes the pain of her words more bearable.

  “Okay,” I reply, finally. “And now?” I ask.

  “Now?” she replies in confusion.

  “Do you want to get away from me now?” I can’t help the edge of hurt that is in my tone this time. And I don’t miss the panic flash in her eyes either. “I think we could be great together, Carrie. I think I could make you really happy. I have a job,” I say proudly. I’m desperate. I’m a desperate man, pleading with her to stay. To not run away again. To not leave me to rot like she did all those years ago. “I don’t hate you for what you did, Carrie. I hope you know that.”

  Don’t go, Carrie. Stay with me, please, I’m silently begging her.

  “I—” she starts, but I hear the hesitation in her voice, and while she hesitates there is still a chance.

  “Please,” I rush on. “I never stopped loving you.”

  “Never?” she scoffs.

  “Never!” I agree. “Not once.” (maybe once) “All I cared about was that I knew you were alive, no matter what they said. But I still protected you. I never told them what I knew.” (maybe a little in desperation) I kiss the back of her hand, and I am crying now, because I can feel her slipping away from me.

  Ain’t that always the way?

  “It’s always been you, Carrie.”

  Little puppet on her string…

  “It’s only ever been you!” I plead.

  She is the master of you…

  “I’ve only ever wanted you. Only ever loved you!” I cry.

  Under the thumb of the controller…

 
“I dreamt about you all these years. I knew we’d find each other again.”

  She’s a user… My thoughts are wild and unrelenting, pounding away at my skull.

  I need some aspirin.

  Drum drum drum…

  Carrie pulls her hand out of mine. “Don’t, Ethan. Please don’t.”

  “Sorry,” I say. But I don’t know why I’m saying sorry. She should be the one to say sorry. “I just…” I can’t finish my sentence.

  “You can’t go backwards,” she says.

  I look up at her, trying to fathom what she’s saying. “You can’t?”

  “No,” she affirms. “You can only move forward. Backwards is where the bad is. Forward is where the good is. Somewhere.” She swallows. “I’m still searching for it. For the good,” she clarifies.

  “Me too,” I say, to show her that we have this in common, even though I know it’s a lie. It’s only a white lie though, and white lies are okay to tell if they are for a good reason.

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Really,” I say. “I’m looking to the future, trying to find the good. The past is where it’s bad, and I’m still running from that.”

  I’m not.

  The past is over.

  I’m glad.

  I miss my mom and my dad and Carrie.

  And I know that they will be in my future, so I’m running flat-out toward the future and I’m smiling because I know that I’ll get there in the end. I know everything will work out okay.

  “We can make this work,” I say, reaching for her.

  She moves, and the covers slip. Her breast is on show, and I can’t help but stare at it, transfixed.

  “You’re so beautiful, Carrie.”

  She sees my stare, but can’t do anything to cover herself.

  Or maybe she can and she chooses not to because she wants me to see her.

  She wants me like I want her.

  Like I wanted her in the bathroom but I wouldn’t take her because she wasn’t ready.

  But I think she is now, so I reach out and I touch her breast and she shivers, and I sigh.

  She doesn’t try to stop me, and I look into her face and it shows no fear of me so I gently squeeze her breast, and then I reach over and I pull the covers down so that I can get to the other one.

  And how did this happen?

  And wasn’t I mad at her?

  I lean over and I wrap my lips around the breast I exposed. Her nipple is soft but it grows hard and puckers as I lick my tongue against it. I groan and sigh all at once because she is perfection. And she groans too. Because my Carrie is perfect and she was ready.

  I’m panting, and I’m hard against my jeans, and she is soft against the mattress. I pull the covers away—out of our way—and I pull my T-shirt over my head. Her fingers trace the many scars across my chest. The ones I got in the hospital when I first arrived. The ones from when I was a pussy and they used to beat me and kick me and burn me and hurt me all the fucking time.

  “It’s okay,” I say against her skin. “I’m not a pussy anymore,” I promise.

  Chapter thirty-seven:

  I sit up and I pull my jeans down my legs. I let them fall on the floor and I don’t even bother to fold them up like I normally do. That’s how urgent this moment seems. That’s how much she brings out the crazy in me.

  I pull my boxer shorts down, freeing myself, but she doesn’t look down there, even though I really want her to because I want her to see that I’m a man now. She has changed too; her body has more curves than it used to. Her breasts are rounder, larger and heavier, her ass is firmer, and her stomach is taut. But I have changed too. I am bigger now. My stomach is hard and muscled. My arms are strong and defined.

  Her body has changed and so has mine.

  We’re both grownups now, not children acting so.

  She is naked on the bed, waiting for me, and I’m coming, Carrie, I’m coming. Because I’ve waited for this moment for twenty years.

  I climb back on top of her and I reach between us, feeling her body beneath me. I see tears in her eyes because she’s so happy that we’re finally here, at this moment after so long apart. She’s crying because she’s ready for me, and I am ready for her. I probe between her thighs, I find her warm spot, and I touch her there and she sighs, and her tears fall, and I sigh and I push in deeper, feeling her tight ring of muscles around my fingers. And I am gentle and I am caring as I caress her sensitive place. I am not rough or quick. I take my time and I make sure she is almost there, at that point. The point that makes your stomach tighten and your heart quicken, and that delicious feeling wash over you that makes you know you’re alive.

  She is wet; my fingers are dripping with her. And I did that!

  She is tight as I move my hand out of the way and I press myself against her entrance.

  She bites down on her lip to stop herself crying out as I slowly push inside her.

  She lifts her hands over my head, her wrists locked at the back of my neck as I pump into her. Slowly at first, to get her used to me. Because I am bigger than I was then. I am thicker and bigger and harder than she’ll remember.

  I’m a man now, Carrie, I show her.

  I move against her, in her, on her. I press my face against the crook of her neck as my stomach tightens and the shivers trail down my body. I look up and I kiss away her tears and smile and she smiles too. Then I press my lips to her perfect pink mouth. My tongue pries her lips apart as my cock moves within her. I brush my tongue against hers and this is everything!

  I’m a man now, Carrie, see? I’m better than Adam. Look how good you feel with me.

  She murmurs something against my mouth and I move my hands over her body. Over the soft peaks of her breasts, over her silk-like thighs, over her hips as her body clings to me, and I give and I take and I need and I want and she loves it and so do I.

  We are one.

  We are everything.

  She loves me.

  She needs me.

  I’m branding her body with my own.

  I’m eliminating Adam.

  I’m owning her.

  And I’m keeping her this time.

  Chapter thirty-eight:

  It’s a crazy thing, love.

  It can be rewarding and it can be smothering. You get to choose which you want it to be. My love for Carrie is blistering. It scorches every ounce of me. It carries me away on a cloud of euphoria. It makes everything worthwhile.

  I can’t deny that I wasn’t worried for a while.

  I can’t deny that I didn’t think we would get to this point.

  That our love wouldn’t come through in the end.

  I believed, rightly or wrongly, several times, that she was a fake, a phony, a fraud.

  But I understand now why she’s acted like she has. She’s built a life for herself, a way to survive. It’s just like I thought when I first saw her with Adam—she doesn’t want any of this. She’s using it to camouflage herself. To hide from what she was. To escape from her past. From everything and everyone. Even me.

  But not anymore.

  My arms tighten around her. She sleeps soundly, peacefully. I did that.

  I took her nightmares away, like I always used to.

  I helped erase the pain. Like I always used to.

  Something has changed, something significant. Not only have we both grown older, and wiser (yes, I’m wiser than I was, but not as wise as you, Dad), but we’ve both adapted to our pain, and our pasts. We’ve each learned our coping mechanisms. They help us to survive.

  Because I get it now, I see! She had to do what she did to survive. Because above everything, even love, is our will…no, our drive to survive. And hers was strong, no matter what life threw at her. She wanted to survive, at any cost. And who am I to say that what she did was wrong?

  Who. The. Fuck. Am. I?

  I’m almost angry with myself for being so judgmental of her. I stare up at the stained ceiling, the light slowly filtering out of the room as
night falls. I don’t know who I am anymore. I honestly don’t.

  I used to be Ethan Cowells. I was a good boy. I was a student. A son. A friend to a damaged but beautiful girl named Carrie. I was her confidant. Her lover. Her secret-keeper. Her friend. I was her slave. I was her chef. I was her world. I was her victim.

  But I didn’t mind. I accepted those titles without prejudice. I still do.

  I kiss the top of her head, and know that it doesn’t matter who I am; it’s only who she wants me to be that matters. I’ll be whatever she needs me to be. As long as she loves me. As long as she allows me to be a part of her world again.

  I can’t lose her this time, I think as the thought comes unbidden into my mind. The image of her turning her back on me again. Of never seeing her beautiful smile. Or her eyes that spark with fire when she’s angry. Or her lips that tremble when they say my name. Or her body that tightens around me as I make love to her.

  I can’t live without her. Not again. Not ever again.

  Love is everything. It’s our everything.

  I might not know who I am anymore. She may not be certain who she needs me to be this time around, but the one thing that is cemented in my mind, the thing that I know to be true and real and never-ending, is my love for her.

  “Ethan?” She whispers my name so quietly that I’m not sure if I imagined it or not.

  I don’t answer right away. I’m still in a daze over the day’s events. I’m still lost within her body. Every contour, every inch of pale skin.

  She moves, and I squeeze her. She freezes and I kiss the top of her head again.

  “You’re awake,” I say.

  “Yes,” she replies. Still quiet. Like a sleeping lamb.

  I stroke her hair and I kiss her head and I hold her close. I can never be too close to her. If I could live inside her, I would. If I could go about my days with her lithe body wrapped around mine, I would. I never want us to be apart.

  I hear her swallow.

  She’s thirsty, you fool.

  “Water?” I say.

  “Yes,” she replies.

  “Manners?” I tease.

  “Yes, please, Ethan,” she teases back.