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The voices continue to scream in my head as my body begins to shake.
Whore.
Whore.
Shut the fuck up, you whore.
The voices continue to flood into my head, reminding me that physically I might have escaped, but I will never fucking escape from them inside my head, but before I can take off in any direction, Christian is standing in front of me. His hands cupped my face as more tears rolled down my face. He is forcing me to focus on him. He is forcing me to face him. The shame and guilt start to take me over as the men’s voices start to fucking scream inside my head.
I am a dirty fucking whore.
I am a slut, a broken fucking slut.
Christian deserves better than me. The puppet master Christian killed was right. I am a Whore, a fucking puppet that is only good for one thing: being fucked, being used, being abused.
“Please don’t run,” he begs me. His voice is shaky and pained.
“Christian,” I whisper.
“Nicolette,” his voice makes my heart ache, and his stare makes my body shake. He is so fucking intense, everything about him makes me melt. Even now, as my body and brain are screaming at me to run, he makes me want to stay.
I stand still as I lift my head and look at Christian, his eyes searching mine. I lean forward and rest my forehead against his chest as I lift my hands and grab onto his wrists. I take a deep breath, my nose filling with his comforting scent, his scent that reminds me of who he is, his scent that reminds me of his love and devotion that I don’t fucking deserve.
He doesn’t deserve this; he doesn’t deserve any of this. He deserves to have someone that is not so fucking fucked up inside. He deserves someone that is not a whore, a slut, a fucking puppet, a broken dirty girl. I don’t know if I can ever give him what he is giving me. I honestly don’t know if I can ever actually fucking be happy and at peace.
I want to, I want those things with him, but I am fucking scared. Scared that my trauma will not only fucking destroy me, but it will also fucking destroy him.
“Bambino,”he whispers, pulling me out of my dangerous fucking head. I pull back and look up at him; his touch, his eyes, all of it makes me fucking ache for an entirely different reason.
“What are you thinking about?” He asks. He doesn’t have to tell me he is worried or anxious. I can hear it in his tone and see it in his eyes.
My heart is racing with his question. He thinks he wants to know what I am thinking, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to hear about the memory inside my head right now, the night that three men took me in the ass and pussy, switching out, using me over and over again until I started to bleed, and still, they kept going for hours. No one wants to fucking hear that story. No one wants to listen to that pain and the rage.
His eyes search mine telling me differently, telling me that even though it fucking scares me, he wants to fucking know everything. He wants to open me like an open wound and lick the blood. He wants to lick me, taste me. He wants to experience the rage and pain with me.
Where did he come from?
A fairy tale?
Men like him aren’t supposed to exist. Still, here he is, flesh and bone standing in front of me, loving me when I can’t fucking love myself. Still, I am learning and trying, and he is helping me. Even though I can’t fucking tell him with my words, the only way I can let him in is to try, to fucking try and explain the madness and rage inside myself. Even my fucking thoughts right now don’t fucking make sense; they are back and forth, tearing me the fuck apart.
Going on dates, fucking, laughing, talking, eating dinner, going to the movies, and walking in the park are all such everyday fucking things. Normal things that I never thought I would get to experience, and now that I am with him, I feel out of place, unhinged, and completely fucking out of control. My body, mind, and heart are so fucking used to trying to survive that I don’t know how to do these fucking normal things. But I want to, with him, I want to.
“I am thinking about how normal all of this is,” I whisper, looking into his eyes.
“Nicolette,” he whispers back.
His voice makes me want to cry more. His eyes make me want to look away right now. When he looks at me like he does, does he fucking see the whore? Or does he see something, someone else?
“These things are things I never thought I’d get to experience: eating out, watching a movie, and walking in the park. I don’t know how to do these things, but I want to,” I say, allowing more tears to escape and roll down my face.
Christian leans in and gently kisses my forehead. He takes a deep breath, “I will never let anything happen to you, I promise. Let me show you my world. Let me give you the fucking world, please,” he whispers against my skin, begging me, pleading with me.
“Is it okay to feel happy after what I have been through?” I ask. He pulls back and looks down at me, his eyes searching mine for a moment.
“I will never be able to take back what happened to you, but I can make sure that nothing like that ever happens to you again. It is okay to be happy, bambino. It is okay to let your walls down. You are safe with me,” he confirms, his voice confident but gentle.
I take a deep, shaky breath and nod at his words as they start to take over my head, drowning out the other men’s voices. “I want to move on, but I don’t ever want to forget what happened to me,” I reply in a shaky voice.
