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But the heartbreaking thing about dreams is that you always wake up, and they burn away like mist in the harsh light of day.
Bastien stirs, stroking my arm with infinite tenderness, and then all of a sudden, he wakes up and jerks away from me. It’s a violent move, which proves his hatred for me is still alive and well. He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, leaping away from me like I’m poison. I don’t dare say a word. Through the curtain of my hair, I see him cast one violent glower at me, and then he stalks off to the bathroom.
For once, he was the one whose body betrayed him. In his sleep, he was soft and vulnerable. Loving in the way he stroked my arm. I listen to the shower blasting him and blink back tears. I know he’s going to punish me for piercing his armor and exposing his tender heart.
He’ll be extra cruel because it’s his nature. Bastien will punish me for his own actions by convincing himself thatIcaused him to do it. The monster within won’t allow it to go unpunished.
When he comes out of the shower, he just growls, “Don’t leave the house,” and stalks off.
I’m relieved, but I’m more curious. It appears as though my torture is delayed, but why? Like the idiot I am, I can’t just let it go.
“I don’t have any clothes!” I yell after him. He ignores me, and I’m left with so many questions.
What will he do when he gets back?
Will it be worse as he’ll have more time to think up the worst sort of punishment?
Where did he go?
So. Many. Questions.
I’m forced to rifle through the drawers in his dresser and borrow a T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts which I cinch tightly around my waist. I need to be dressed if I’m to wander around this place. Who knows who I’ll find lurking around. The guards might take advantage of Bastien being gone.
Not if they value their lives.
In Bastien’s messed-up head, I’m his to torture. His to touch. He won’t allow anyone to put their hands on me without doling out an agonizing amount of pain.
I head out to explore the house. The security guards ignore me completely; when I try to talk to them, they won’t even say hello. It only proves my earlier thoughts. He’s threatened their lives if they speak to me.
I guess I should be grateful for that.
I’ll get nowhere with the guards, so I go in search of the kitchen and make myself a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee. My appetite seems to be back. A false sense of security has clearly fallen over me. I’ve duped myself into thinking the worst of my terror is over. I can eat, and I can sleep.
For now.
I gorge myself until I’m full to bursting. I’ll need my strength for whatever’s to come.
By lunchtime, I’m bored and settle for reading a thriller from the bookshelf in the living room. There’s no rhyme or reason to what types of books are on the shelves. I get the impression that someone just walked into a bookstore and bought every current best seller, but that’s fine by me. I enjoy reading just about everything. Choice is something I’ll get very little of here, so I’ll take it while I can.
Around six o’clock, he comes into the bedroom and throws a plastic bag of clothing onto the bed. “Yours, when I choose to let you wear clothing, anyway,” he says.
I snort. “I’m not going to walk around this house naked.”
His smile is nasty and his eyes harsh and cold. “You’ll do whatever the hell I tell you to, when I tell you to. Right now, you’re going to put on a dress and join me for dinner.”
His tone and his words remind me of a Disney movie I once watched. A girl forced to live with a beast to save her father.
“Move,” he barks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I obey him, picking a black and green tropical print rayon dress with a plunging neckline and asymmetrical hemline. I tried to find something more modest, but every single dress in the bag shows off a lot of boob and leg. I’m just grateful he included underwear and bras, even if the panties are much more see through and skimpier than the boy-cut cotton shorts I prefer.
I’ll get them taken away if I dare complain, so I keep my mouth shut.
As we head down the hallway to the dining room, I say, “I’d like to call my mother.”
His eyes narrow in on me. “Why? She hates you. The bitch has been nothing but terrible your whole life.”
I wince. It’s true, but it still hurts to hear it. But this isn’t about wanting to speak to her. It’s about needing to tell her just what I think of her. To shove it down her throat that as much as I despise her, I’m trading my life for hers. I’m the better person.
