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“The doctors informed us that my vision would begin to wane over time. That when I reached adulthood, I would most likely lose it completely. That's when my dad bought me the apartment, the place where he thought I would be safe forever. Sure enough by college, my vision had gotten progressively worse, but thankfully it was not lost completely like the doctors predicted.” I sigh, crossing my legs on the bed.
“But that didn’t stop me, you know? If anything, it fueled me. I got a lot of assistance from different therapy programs at the university, met a group of awesome friends that helped me through my depression. And during that entire time, I worked on my photography portfolio. I became best friends with my camera and exposed myself to as much as I could, took pictures of anything that I could. That way when I graduated college, I’d have a strong enough portfolio to at least try to apply to jobs,” I look over at him, his body remaining immobile on the bed.
He may seem uninterested, probably not retaining a single word that I said, but I don’t care. I just keep going.
“Luckily, the marketing firm that I work at now, liked my work so much that they hired me on the spot. They gave me a chance before they even knew that I was blind, because they liked what they saw. They liked my art,” I smile as I remember my interview, tears pooling in my eyes as the memory stands tall in my mind.
“How are you able to take pictures? With your disease?” He asks suddenly, stunning me as I look up at him.
He’s wearing his glasses again. I wonder why he hasn’t worn them before these last couple of days, but I don’t voice that wonder out loud. Instead, I answer his question.
“Light. It hasn’t always been my best friend, since it makes my condition worse, but I use it to my advantage,” I answer honestly, his face turning to the window that sun continues to burn through. For some reason, the air feels weird when he turns back to look at me.
“How does it make your condition worse?” he asks, his voice low and containing an emotion that I cannot identify.
“My eyes can’t adapt when the lighting is too strong. It makes what vision I have left even weaker and eventually gives me an insane migraine I can barely alleviate. The windows in my apartment are tinted because of this and when I go outside, I always have to wear sunglasses. Sometimes a hat if it’s bad,” I admit, my heart fluttering at his curiosity, which is stupid.
Almost as stupid as me talking like this.
He doesn’t say anything else, just goes back to seeming uninterested. This makes me nervous, to the point that I stumble over my next words.
“I mean, I-I have an awesome editing team that helps me with my shots so that... that I don’t have the chance to, um, give bad photos and stuff to my... to my boss.” I blush, feeling like a fucking idiot now.
He’s quiet for a moment, his head aimed towards the door as the silence stretches. Just when I’m about to give up on this whole talking thing, he surprises me again. This time when he speaks, he gives me a little insight on himself.
“My father had this old camera when I was a child. He loved taking candid photos. He loved capturing memories and displaying them all over the house,” he says, his voice low, less of a harsh edge to it as he speaks.
“Your walls... when you first brought me here, one of the things that I noticed was that they were so bare. Where are all of the photos? Mariella told me this is your childhood home, so I assume they would still be—”
“I had them boxed up the day of his funeral,” he says, cutting me off and causing me to fall silent in one fatal swoop.
Because there it is, the daily reminder of why I am here in the first place.
In this moment, I want to remain mute. I want to forget everything that I just said and put my hands out for him to tie me up again. And as much as I want that, another part of me wants to unravel him more. To peel away his dark layers and expose what really lies there on the inside.
“Can you tell me about him? About your father?” I know when I ask the question, it can go one of two ways. He will either tie me up and hit me or walk out.
But he does neither. He doesn’t move an inch or even look in my direction, he justtalks.
“He was a powerful man. Scary and intimidating, even at home. I remember being terrified of him as a young child, afraid to ever cross him in the wrong way. I didn’t really get to know him until I was able to understand him, until I was able to understand the business that this family started. Once I was able to do that, I realized that he was one of the most important men that I would ever know. I had a lot to learn from him and I was ready to spend my entire life soaking up every bit of knowledge that I could. So that this family could continue for generations. Untouched, unscathed... happy,” he says quietly, his voice low and dark as he stares at the floor.
I don’t say anything. Mostly because I don’t know what to say. I can feel his pain though. It is strong and palpable, filling the air with its intensity. It makes me afraid to ask anything, to say anything else. All I can do is sit and wait for this overwhelming desire to reach forhimpass.
But of course, for some stupid reason, I don’t listen to myself. No, instead, I scoot over to him and place my hand on his leg. I feel the warmth of his body and fall into it, letting it envelope me. He looks up at me, his glasses askew. I let my hand rise and straighten them, resting my palm against his face when I’m done.
I wish I could see the details of his gaze right now. I wish I could see what emotion is on his face, if it’s anger or surprise. If he looks like he hates me. I wish I could just see.
I think back to what he said to me yesterday, how he accused me of baiting him. A part of me wonders now, while he’s exposing this softer side of him, whether he’ll take me if I give myself to him. Maybe, if I let him have that most special part of me, he’ll see that I mean no harm. That I’m not a dangerous person that’s capable of inflicting pain like he’s endured. Maybe if I give myself to him, he’ll see my purity and let me go. Maybe I’ll have a shot at saving my family.
I run my hand down his arm, my fingers circling the bunched muscles as the strap of my tank top falls from the movement. The top of my breast is immediately blasted with cold air, his head turning and gazing down at it. When I follow his gaze, I can see that nearly half of my breast is exposed and instead of fixing it, I leave it.
I look back up at his face, shrugging my shoulder to let my other strap fall, my nipples hardening against the cotton tank top as a low growl leaves his lips.
“Lori,” he says, his voice harsh as he says my name.
“I want to... feel you,” I say, my other hand now gripping his left arm.
“I know you said that if I’m well behaved, if I listen, that you’ll give me what I want. And at first, I was confused. Because I didn’t know what I wanted. But now... now I do,” I whisper as I look up at him, the closeness we share causing adrenaline to spike inside of me as if I’m sitting next to a lion.
