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Voice full of regret, Max says, “I’m sorry, for not stopping.”
With some memories returning it’s hard to separate what happened to me in October and what happened tonight. And even though Max’s actions were dubiously consensual, I remember far more harrowing occasions where consent didn’t feature at all. “Don’t apologise. I didn’t like it at first, but then I did. And then I was upset that I did. I liked being . . . pushed. Praised. And seeing you enjoy it felt powerful.” I have no idea how to process what I’m now coming to understand about myself, about what my preferences might be, especially in light of my abduction.
He pulls me against his chest. “There’s nothing wrong with liking it with someone you trust, or love.”
“I know,” I reply, snuggling into his neck.
“It’s normal for many people. It can be normal for you too, if that’s what you want.” My breathing thins as I wait for him to ask the next logical question. “Do you think that you do?”
So many answers enter my head.Yes. No. Categorically no. I settle on, “Maybe. Is it something you like?”
“Like? Yes. But I don’tneedit. And if you never wanted to test your limits again I can accept that.”
Held in his strong embrace, I’d like to believe that six, twelve months from now his words would still hold true, but I’m worried I’m not enough for him. That my baggage is too heavy.
Against my body, I feel his deep inhale, his question coming from somewhere deep and damaged. “You ran from me.”
I drop my head, remembering how he told me I could never do that. “Not far.”
He pulls away from me. Looking troubled, he rakes a hand through his tousled hair. “Am I too much? Ben thinks I am,” he adds despondently.
Worried about where this is leading, I shake my head. I fear if I give him any hint that I’m struggling, that he’ll retreat, and that idea fills me with dread. “No, Max. You’re exactly right for me. And we’re making progress, so don’t you dare start thinking I want this to end because I don’t. At all.”
He said that we’d unlock the strongbox of my head together, and we will. The icing on the cake is that I’m doing it while dating this incredible man. Max has helped me more since I met him than I’ve managed in months. It makes sense to remind me of past behaviour. Deplorable behaviour that isn’t part of my normal day. If you repeat the behaviour, maybe you can repeat the reaction to that stimulus.
I’ve come to need and rely on Max so much. And I’m falling for him. The thought of this breaking us has me feeling unmoored, flailing around for stability. And while I know Max balances me, importantly, he gives me much more than just that.
“Don’t leave me. Already, I can't imagine not having you in my life. I need you on so many levels.”
“I’d never leave you,” he tells me, his voice cracking. “Never ever.”
We head back upstairs,passing his unmade bed. I can categorically say that the dubious sex is tolerable for the pay-off.
I need to break apart in order to heal.
We enter his office/workshop, both of us quiet. Underneath the colourful, soothing images of hellebores, peonies and other plants, Max sits next to me, both of us angled towards the computer screen.
Steeling myself, I begin to type.
I’m in a simple room. There’s a skylight. It’s dark outside, just moonlight casting soft light to see by.
I’m groggy, weak and thirsty. My throat is sore.
My wrists are tied to the bed frame and have red, sore cuts around them. I think I’ve been here a while.
The last thing I remember is being struck across the cheek and stuck with a needle.
Elsewhere in the building, I can hear some far-off, indistinguishable sounds.
I can detect no street noise.
My heart beats frantically as quick footsteps sound on bare stairs.
I hear a lock twist and a man I recognise as my owner enters, wearing a cheap, dark suit. My body floods with dread. I feel nauseous, my limbs shaking. I know he’s hurt me, I can sense it, pain blooming in parts of my body in remembrance. He has a trim build, looks Mediterranean, and is in his mid-forties. He talks to me in English with an Italian accent.
He closes the door behind him, using the key to re-lock it.
Fear consumes me.
