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“Please don’t make me leave. Whatever I did wrong I won’t do it again. Just don’t throw me out.”
I know how this sounded, how completely pathetic, but I couldn’t make my mouth not form the words. I think there was something left of me that knew this was all wrong and that I should take the opportunity for freedom that he handed me, but I didn’t want that choice anymore.
He continued to hold me, everything pausing, the universe just stopping while he decided to keep me or make me go.
“Please . . . ” I whispered.
He turned me to face him, his eyes locking with mine. And I couldn’t read him. After months of his eyes and his body being my only signs of anything, I couldn’t read him. He shoved me away onto the couch and left the room.
I sat there, numb, the keys and my freedom finally in my hands. I was afraid of him again. Actually afraid. I hadn’t been actually afraid in months. Obedience had always brought reward. I learned my lessons from the cell and never repeated the mistakes.
One would think that in itself would set up a constant fear, but it didn’t. After the day he’d made absolutely plain that all he expected was effort, after he proved that time and time again over months, I came to trust him more than I’d ever trusted anyone. Because even if he was a monster, he followed his own rules. And he was my monster.
He was stable in his way, dependable, predictable, and in complete control. But as I sat on the couch on the verge of a panic attack, I knew this wasn’t the case any longer. He was finally behaving in the manner in which one expects a psychotic to behave, and that was truly frightening.
In this state it wouldn’t take much for him to kill me, and I wasn’t so far gone I would rather die than be free. Was I?
I laughed, a hollow little sound against the droning backdrop of CNN. What kind of a complete mental case has to weigh whether they would rather die or be free? Die or be a slave? Yes, that's logical. Die or be free, no.
Still I didn’t move. I wondered if I was in shock. It was as if I was just beginning to realize the danger I was in.
That wasn’t true.
I’d realized early on, but he’d made me forget. I’d forgotten because I’d fallen into that fathomless gaze of his and the way he made me feel everything so strongly.
He returned a few minutes later, and I tensed. He stood in the doorway, a red leather book in his hands. My journal. I didn’t want to read that now. I’d just kept writing straight through without going back to reread.
In the beginning it had been a way to salvage sanity after a fashion, or else a way to document so someday when I was free I could remember all he’d done to me and make him pay. Now I couldn’t go back and read it all. I wanted to keep moving forward, writing new diary entries, never looking back to what had gone on before.
He watched me. He was so conflicted I could feel it rolling off him. It was as if he didn’t want to let me go but for some reason was almost compelled to do so. Was he sorry?
No, don’t be sorry.
Why wouldn’t he just talk to me now? If he was letting me go anyway, what purpose did these mind games serve?
Finally, he tossed the journal at me and sat in a nearby chair. Was this why he was throwing me away? Had I written something between these pages that was so unforgivable that rather than keep me in the bad cell, he’d throw me away completely? I held the soft, thick leather book in my hands and opened it.
But it wasn’t my journal. It was his.
NINE
August 26th:
Today I foundsomething beautiful and decided to break it. I wanted to see it shatter in my hand and crumble at my feet. Her name is Emily Vargas. She’s bright and educated and stunning. Articulate. She’ll want someone to talk to her.
I was at a convention in Nashville, one of those boring meetings where we judge the health of the company and all the stockholders bitch and whine. I really couldn’t give two shits about the business, but it was my father’s. I’m a fucking household name but no one knows my face, which is fine by me. I’d rather have my privacy.
Even the servants are only here once a week. They already know I’m idiosyncratic. I’m a hermit, so even as the plan was forming, I knew I could get away with it. I hate being around so many people because I have to have an interpreter like some sort of foreign person. I generally just sit in these meetings like a statue, waiting for them to be over with.
Walter does all the talking. In fact, most people believe he owns the company because he’s always the one speaking for it. Most of them don’t know about my handicap. I think some of the people in the meetings think I’m his bodyguard. If I was some pale scrawny kid I’m not sure how exactly we would explain my presence.
Whatever explanations would have to be done, Walter would have to do them. He’s about the only person I trust not to screw me over and to keep my secrets; though my new secret is too sensitive even for him.
After the meeting was over, I wandered the hotel and sat at the bar. A woman came up and started speaking to me. She was attractive in her way, legs that ran on for a few miles at least, and cleavage I wanted to bury my face in. She smiled. I smiled. And that was about as far as the interaction could go.
“Hi, what’s your name? I’m Veronica.”
God, even her name dripped sex. Here was the moment. I used to just smile pathetically. Instead, I turned back to the bar.
