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Cem’s hands landed on my cheeks and tipped my heavy head back.
His face danced and puddled in my tears.
He looked like a painting. A watercolour. A bleeding canvas where all my hopes had been drawn over, scrubbed out, and now I was empty.
Ever so slowly, he held up one hand.
Two fingers stuck up as he curled the rest into a fist.
With a tenderness that made my shattered heart splutter, he whispered, “How many fingers am I holding up, Aslan?”
And I knew.
I finally understood.
I sighed as blistering, comforting warmth coiled through me.
I get it now.
What a relief.
What a gift to sink into understanding that it wasn’t the answer that mattered but my surrender.
My surrender to him.
To this.
To everything he wanted me to be.
Licking at my tears, I sucked in a breath and whispered with every broken piece of me, “How many do you want it to be, baba?”
My torturer, abuser, mutilator, and capturer suddenly choked on a sob. His forehead crashed against mine and tears ran down his face. “Finally, Aslan.” He kissed me, smothering me in affection. “Finally.”
Leaning back, he stroked my cheekbones with his thumbs as he asked, “Who are you?”
I sank deeper into the surrender where it was soft and suffocating, enveloping and numbing.
Just like the scalpel had been nullified by anaesthetic, my breaking was hidden by my abdication of everything that I knew and loved and ever was.
I’m nothing.
And it was liberating.
“I’m whatever you want me to be.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
“Who is Nerida Taylor?”
“Who would you like her to be, baba?”
“Are you in love with Nerida Taylor?”
“Do you want me to be in love with her?”
“Good boy.” He kissed my cheeks. “Good boy. I’m so proud of you.”
