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Chapter 9
Sometimes I’m not angry, I’m hurt, and there’s a big difference. - Curiano.com
Natasha
Another few days have gone by, days where I have yet again been alone, though I see him everywhere. He makes it a point to insert himself in every bit of the tiny life I am living here where all I do is wander around the house all day or sit and watch TV. I guess, on occasion, I make use of his large gym room, keeping in shape and taking out my anger on the equipment. I feel like I am stuck in time, even though it’s passing me by. Before I know it, it will be fall. My summer will have been drained away by this melancholy place where I am stuck inside, instead of enjoying the sun with my bestie, or anyone else that matters.
I am sitting at the table eating lunch. I have tried many times to get Anton’s schedule down enough to avoid him at mealtimes, but he changes it all the time. So, I just eat when I am hungry and sometimes get lucky.
I hear his footsteps and instantly know Anton is on his way in. He has certain heavy steps, authoritative and fitting for his large stature. I don't look up to acknowledge him. I don't want to give him the satisfaction, because I still don't know which person he is choosing to be. That in and of itself should be my answer, but I have always held my head high and thought the best of everyone. Old habits die hard.
“Natasha,” he says, demanding me to look up at him now that he is in front of me. He holds my gaze, and I try to find something redeemable there. I try to find anything, but he is unreadable at the moment. “We are going to a party tonight. I laid a dress out for you to wear on your bed,” he says matter-of-factly, like it is as natural as breathing for him to be telling me what to wear. Lucky for me, he has good taste.
I finish the last bite of my lunch, chewing slowly enough to make him annoyed and impatient. It’s the only kind of true power I have to torture him; that and keeping a distance for as long as possible.
I get up from the table, and I notice how he does not try to help me up or push my chair in after me. I am left to do it myself. It makes me interested in what I am going to be getting myself into tonight. It may be my worst night here yet.
I go into my room, knowing that he is following right behind me, practically breathing down my back. He stops at the door as I go in to take a look at the perfectly pressed, likely brand new, dress on my bed. At first, all I see is the white, but as I get up close, I am in shock and dismay.
It’s a gorgeous dress, I will give him that, but it is completely see through. The white is sheer lace that has leaves going all over the dress, except that they wouldn't cover my breasts or any of my lower regions fully. There is little point for them to be there other than for decoration. I hold it up to my body to test it out, and I do see that it will cover my pussy, thank goodness, but literally, it will show everything else. All my assets will be on display. This has to be a joke or a test, right?
I turn to him and look him up and down as he leans into the doorway so casually even as I am holding this ridiculous excuse for a dress. This is something you wear on a private date with someone you want to tease, to look sexy as hell for. This is something I might have worn for him after we met, but this is not something I can put on my body now, after everything that has happened, especially when I know I am going to be in public.
“Are you serious about this?” I ask, calmly at first. I am hoping he is proving a point, making a cruel joke to get my full attention. I will give in if it ends this would be dress debacle. When he doesn’t answer, I probe him again. I hate being ignored, but then again, that is probably how he's feeling. Shit, what did I get myself into here? “You really want me to wear this?” I take it up to him and show him the dress just in case it puts some sanity back into that brain of his.
“Yes,” he answers. His tone is even, and he doesn’t move a muscle. He is completely serious and unphased by taking a look at the dress in front of me, what it will and will not cover. He really wants to take me around like this?
“Everyone will be able to see everything, Anton. I have curves, I have a body, and this isn't going to cover up shit,” I warn him, threaten him. Shouldn’t that bother him, make him jealous? Even if I am a trophy at this point, he shouldn't necessarily want all of me laid bare, literally.
“That’s the point,” he says flatly, and I openly gawk at him. What is he playing at? This can’t be real. This feels more preposterous than my boyfriend killing my uncle, if you ask me. If he ever really was my boyfriend. “You are a trophy to be shown off, right?” he asks, throwing my words right back at me. I should have kept my pretty little mouth shut. Fuck that, big mouth. I know I have a temper. I know that I have probably not made this easy on myself, but I was really sure that would inspire a change in the way we are doing things around here, that he would change back into he-man I had been falling for, and I wouldn't have to worry about all of this anymore.
I huff and throw the dress down onto the bed, crossing my arms over my chest so he knows that I am aggravated by how he is behaving. When does this end? It has to end, right? “I am not wearing it,” I tell him. It's that simple. Let’s see what he says to that.
He takes two quick strides to close the distance between us. At first, I wonder if he is going to kiss me. I am sickened and surprised by the part of me that still wants that attention from him. But, he cups my neck instead and backs me into the wall. “I wasn’t asking if you wanted to wear it,” he tells me, whispering through gritted teeth. He is totally serious and completely dangerous right now. “You will wear it because you do everything that I say,” he reminds me unkindly. “No questions asked.” I dare to look up into his eyes, and then I look back at where I threw the dress onto the bed.
I don't want to wear it. I can’t wear it. It's not that it isn't beautiful. It is a gorgeous dress, an exquisite piece of fashion, but I know what people will think of me when I walk into some party with Anton wearing that dress. I know what his goons will think when they see me in it. I know what they will all think I am.
I am desperate. I cannot allow myself to go out wearing that. “They’ll all think I am a whore if I wear that, Anton,” I mutter to him, dropping my eyes downward. I am trying to be humble and reasonable. This is too far. He needs to know it’s too much.
“That’s exactly what you are,” he tells me, and I choke on his words like a searing hot poker down my throat. I don't know if he realizes the cruelty of what he just said to me. He knows so little about my past, about this scar on my jaw. Maybe I should have told him while I had the chance, but how would I ever trust him with that information now.
I look at him again, and yet, I don’t see Anton. I see someone else entirely. I thought I was done with that man, with the flashbacks and the pain he caused me. I thought I had dragged myself out of the hell he had left me in to burn, but I guess I was so wrong about that. Instead, the flashbacks come to me so fast. I am lost in the memories, and I can’t claw my way out.
“You are such a fucking whore Natasha. Why did I ever love you?” he says as he pulls out his knife, bringing it up to my jawline and making a slash. I bleed out and cry on the floor, unable to do anything else. I know it will scar. I know he won't let me get help, get stitches, do anything. This is not the first time he has hurt me, and I doubt it’s the last. I want it to be, though. I don't know how to leave. I don't know how to get away. I know my father will just call me weak, which is what I am, He won't care. I think of my uncle, Jan. Will he help me? I don't know, but I have to try.
“Stop fucking crying, you bitch!” he screams at me, his knife still in his hand. I get up off the floor, my feet slipping in my own blood. I reach out to him to catch my balance, but he moves his arm away and laughs as I fall back down, my arms barely catching me. “Yes, fall to your knees just like the whore you know you are. That's where you’ll always belong. By the time you’re 30, you’ll have bruises there.” He spits on me, and I feel the phlegm catching in my hair. Will I be allowed to shower to get that off, to get the blood off? I really don't know. Part of me wishes he had hurt me worse so I could lay there and pretend to be dead. That way, he would leave me alone. I could change my identity or something.
I flash back to reality with Anton still cupping my neck. Rusev, my memory is of Rusev, of a man who drew me in with his good looks and maybe a bit of his bad boy ways. He constantly called me a whore, and he would hit me and beat me. This is why what Anton has said hurts me so much. It brings all of it back, when I promised I would never be that woman again.
Rusev was the kind of man to break a woman down and strip them of all their strength. He called me a whore so many times I started to believe it. I wasn’t the strong woman I am now back then. I was battered and beaten. Broken. That's the right word for what I was. I was a pathetic excuse for a human, the lowest of the low. I will never be that girl again. I can't be. But I am so afraid that this is where I am headed, yet again. I can’t get off the tracks. I made a stop for a while, but now I am back chugging along apparently.
It's been a little over a year since I have seen Rusev, since I did go to my uncle for help. I have grown strong and learned to live up to my last name; Kolosov. Jan saved me, gave me the means to support myself and get out before it was too late. He wasn't here to save me now, and he would be so ashamed to know I landed myself back with another man who would do it all over again.
My eyes begin to water at the thought. I do not cry ever, I am too strong for this. At the very least, I can’t cry in front of him.
I shove him hard, getting out of his grasp before I grab the dress back off the bed and go into the closet. I shut the door to it behind me, before sliding slowly against it down to the floor. My knees come up to meet my head as I let the tears fall slowly and silently out of my eyes.
I know at some point I have to stand up and get ready. He is not going to let me stay in here and sulk all night even if I want to. I am going to be forced to go to that party in this dress.
So, I stand up, sliding back up the door for support. I feel blotchy and know I will need extra time to fix my face. I pray that when the dress is on, and I have to come out to put on makeup, he is gone from my room.
I strip my clothes off and go to the small drawer in the corner digging through it, glad when I find some white panties. At least it will be something. Not much, but something. I don't dare wear a bra with this, though. I slip them and the dress on, looking in the mirror on the opposite wall in disgust. The panties still don’t do much, but they blend in rather well with the dress. Some might even think they are a part of it, connected to it somehow. My tits are right there though, bursting out the top and my nipples are left uncovered. There is nothing I can do about this, and I am resigned to it.
I leave the closet and look around. He is not there, but I know if I don't hurry I just might get a repeat of a few minutes ago, which I am not emotionally up for. I need a moment to shut myself off to prepare for the rest for the evening at this party.
I go to the vanity and pull out all of my makeup, just dumping it out so I can see what all I have there. I picked the darkest colors as always. I like it that way, and besides, if he wants me to play the part for a whore, then I am going to lay it on real thick for him. I make my eyes even darker than usual, surrounding them with black. My liner, shadow, and lashes are all black, all the way up and down. I hardly recognize myself. My lips are a blood red, and I do a great job of making my scar barely visible. I am ready for a show.
