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It was a beautiful day, one of those rare unseasonably warm days the south sometimes gets in December.
The sun was shining, the birds chirping, a light warm breeze blowing, and yet it felt stifling. Too open. Unsafe. Finally, the door opened.
Somehow I’d imagined he’d fall apart without me. He’d regret releasing me and be glad to have me back. But there was nothing disheveled or unkempt about his appearance. No hair out of place, and he was well-dressed. As always.
He regarded me with that arrogant coldness that somehow hadn’t seemed so cold when I’d been on the other side of that door. And suddenly I wasn’t so sure I had a place here anymore.
“Master, please . . . ”
He shut the door and locked it. I banged on the door for at least twenty minutes but nothing came of it. I slid to the ground on the massive porch and leaned against the heavy dark-stained wood. Had he really gotten bored with me?
He was just done? It was over because he said it was? I knew I should have gotten back in the car and gone home. I could intercept the letter when it arrived at my parents’ house and burn it. No one ever had to know any of this. I could go back to my therapy appointments and resume their plans for me. To get better. To recover. To survive.
I was angry he would turn me away like this. I should turn him in if he wouldn’t take me back, but I still couldn’t do it.
My knuckles were bleeding. The last time they’d bled, I’d been begging to be set free. I let out a hysterical peal of laughter. A few minutes passed, and the door opened a few inches. Before I could get up, it was shut and locked again. I looked down. A water bottle, soft washcloth, ointment, and bandages for my hands.
Now I knew the game. I could see no reason he would help me if he really had lost interest. He’d never been that cruel. As with everything, the choice was up to me.
However sick, twisted, or perverse it was, this was the most free choice I’d ever been given. I’d been completely safe, not in any way dependent upon him, and yet, here I was a month later, begging on his doorstep like some stray to be taken in.
A month out in the world and all I had to show for it was a lot of mindless television and a few visits to the shrink’s office. I carefully poured half the bottle of water onto the cloth. I gritted my teeth as I cleaned the torn skin on my knuckles. Then came the soothing aloe gel and the bandages. I drank the rest of the water and waited.
I reread my journal, the original. The other one, the sanitized copy, was still in the car. Here it was, every single thing he’d done to me and every single thing I’d submitted to so he wouldn’t put me back in the bad cell. Emotions, feelings, degrading sexual acts.
I knew how I was supposed to react, but I couldn’t call forth those feelings. Reading each scene described in vivid detail like erotica, I could feel the wetness pooling between my legs.
A couple of hours passed. I thought about knocking again, but my hands hurt too much. Besides, I had no doubt he knew I was out here still. If I kept banging, he might keep me locked out longer.
I carried on with the persistent belief that he’d open the door and let me back in, that this was the final test. I just had to prove my worthiness.
Finally the door opened, and he slipped a bowl of chicken noodle soup, crackers, and another bottled water outside before closing the door and locking me out again. I couldn’t stop the smile that spread over my face. God, I’d completely lost my mind. I crumbled the crackers into the soup and ate. Everything was turning around on me. The soup was comforting again because it meant hope. He was engaging with me.
That night clouds rolled in, and it started to rain. Thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed across the sky. The winds picked up and started to blow rainwater onto the porch.
The night and the rain brought a dip in temperature; it wasn’t quite cold, but it wasn’t comfortable anymore. I shivered and huddled into the corner of the porch, farthest from the path of the blowing rain.
I stared longingly at the Mercedes sitting a few feet away, unlocked. I could get inside and turn on the heater and lie curled on the back seat until the gas tank ran dry. But I didn’t want to be farther away from him, in case he let me in.
Around midnight the door opened again, and pillows and heavy blankets were tossed out.
I moved back to the corner of the porch and huddled in the blankets until I fell asleep. When morning came, there was a new chill on the air, weather much more befitting of December. I snuggled deeper into the wool fabric, wondering if he’d let me freeze to death on his porch.
Soon, strong arms scooped me up and carried me into the house. He sat me down on the couch in the room we’d been in that last day, and left. He returned several minutes later with fresh clothes from the closet of the good cell.
I held them uncertainly.
He crossed his arms over his chest and raised a brow at me. I hesitated for just a moment. Being free for weeks had caused bits of my modesty to come back, but my desire to stay with him, whatever the cost, overcame that false wall I’d re-erected around myself.
I peeled the old, still slightly damp, clothing from my body. I was aware of the consuming way he stared at me, as if assessing whether I was worth keeping, as if I were a slave up at auction. If he let me stay, it might be a long-term investment.
I was oddly proud of myself for maintaining the shaving and how it displayed my obedience to him even from a distance. I put the other clothes on and then sat on the couch, looking up at him expectantly.
Finally, he signed.Why are you here? I told you to go. I released you.
“I don’t want to be released. I want to stay.”
It’s wrong to keep you here.
