AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Fuck them both.
I pick up the vase of flowers and hurl it against the wall. The glass shatters into hundreds of tiny shards. I rip up the card with the number on it and throw it in the trash. I will not play their new game.
9
An entire week passes before I finally clean up the shattered glass, water, and now wilted roses. I feel inexplicably sad that the life has gone out of them. It's another week before I start to regret throwing the card away. It's long gone now and in a landfill.
During the first few days of my freedom I went to the spa and got every treatment on the menu in a full-day pampering frenzy. It was nice, but massages and body masks and wraps and a mani-pedi cannot erase the memory of their hands on my body, their dark voices in my ear.
I've also shopped. I bought a whole new wardrobe. Nice things. I went out to nice restaurants and contemplated how to get myself out of the self-imposed isolation I'd created, how to form some real and lasting social bonds. I need some friends, but I'm not sure how to do that. Maybe I could volunteer somewhere?
I sit on the floor next to the window in the main open floor plan living area, thinking about my options. Part of me wants to open my own ad agency. I've got the resources now, and I could probably get a few of my old clients to come to me. I could even work here from my new home. There’s plenty of room to set up a business and meet clients. But I need time to wallow and ... mourn them.
I feel so wrong and twisted for mourning, but I have so many memories of Seven being so kind. Comforting me. Being gentle. The ugly truth can't erase all the beautiful moments we shared, even if they were never real.
Declan was kind in his own way. He never used violence to break me. He used fear and kindness. Pleasure.
Even if I still had their number, I wouldn't call. There’s no way I would ever voluntarily place myself in their hands again no matter how much it haunts my dreams, no matter how many times I bring myself to orgasm when I wake up to find they aren't there. These men are evil. They are dangerous. And it doesn't matter if they told me they felt some bond with me or that I’m somehow safe. I know I'm not.
And yet, I also know they know exactly where I am. They could come take me back at any time. So why haven't I used this money to flee the country? Why haven't I transferred the money to another bank, something they don't have access to, because they no doubt have access to the account they set up for me. Why don't I ditch the car and get a new one? Sell the penthouse and pocket the cash? Because I'm stupid and pathetic and some sick part of me hopes they'll come take me so that it's not my fault when this inevitably ends in my grisly death. They are still toying with me, still playing a game. I know this, but I make no move to take my game piece off the board.
My piece is still in play. I know it, and I’m sure they know it.
My eyes light on my handbag, the one that went with the little black dress. It's still sitting on the chair beside the elevator. I actually burned that dress and the panties and bra I was wearing, but I haven't touched the bag. It's partly because it's a sleek, sophisticated black Louis Vuitton that I bought as a splurge when I got my first major promotion at the agency. It has sentimental value even as it also has these conflicted memories now attached.
I can't burn it or throw it out, so it just sat there. My phone is also in there. It's kind of amazing how you can get away without having a cell phone in a big city when you don't really have anyone to call anyway. The penthouse has a landline, so it isn't as though I'm totally without communication to the outside world. And I have a laptop now and the internet. I kind of really missed the internet during those weeks of unreality, playing their game.
I've been trying to think of it that way, that I somehow chose to play. I've been trying to convince myself that the contract I signed is somehow the real story of what went down. Just some kinky games and fun. Just a fantasy that went for a few weeks and now it's over. I've been compensated handsomely for my participation. And now I can move on into a wonderful new life. But can I really?
I pick myself up off the ground and cross to the chair and my bag. I open the sleek black handbag to find my wallet with a small bit of cash untouched and my credit cards. I should probably pay them off now that I can afford to. There's also a nude lipstick, a mirror, and my phone.
I pull out the phone. I don't know why I expected after a month to be able to just turn it on. Of course the battery is dead. I sigh. I need to get out anyway.
I go by the closest cell phone store. I was on auto-pay, and I’m comforted to find out that the most recent payment charge went through. I get a new charger and stop by a small corner Chinese buffet for some lo mein, sweet and sour chicken, and egg rolls.
Even with money, the issues in my life haven't gone away. I didn't realize how lonely I was. And maybe that’s why I think of them so much, why I still crave them so much. I return home and charge the phone, determined that I'm going to find a way to reconnect with people.
While the numbers in my contact list weren't close enough to go to when destitute, I can certainly get together with someone for drinks, especially if I'm buying. It's a start.
When the phone is charged, I'm unsurprised to find I have messages and voice mails. All from Andrew. There are about ten text messages and fifteen voicemails.
The texts are basically: “Where are you?” “I can't find you.” “Did you give me the right address?” “Did you mean this restaurant or that one on the corner of Fifth and Main with a similar name?” “Are you fucking with me?” “Why won't you text me back?” “Hello?” “Hello?” “Bitch.”
The voice mails are far more abusive. The words “lying whore” and “worthless piece of trash” are colorfully interspersed with “fuck you” and “bitch”.
As I listen to this unrelenting stream of man-child screaming, it occurs to me that my captors never screamed at me or called me names. I mean, yes, Declan called me a whore, but it didn't feel like this. Somehow, even though I knew he was the bad guy, it felt almost like an endearment from his lips.
I delete all the messages and texts and block Andrew's number. I don't see a reason to respond to him or ever contact him again. I scroll through the contact list to find someone for those theoretical “on me” drinks, when I find there's a new contact that I didn't put in there. The names Seven and Declan are listed as a single contact in my list.
I want to push the delete button, but I can't bring myself to do it. The strongest feeling I have when I see their number is relief. I have access. It's as though the card from the flowers reassembled and flew back to me from the trash. This time I have to keep it safe.
But I won't call. I will not call them. It's just nice to know I can.
That’s the most disturbing thought I've had in a long time. It's nice to know I can? What the fuck have they done to me?
I try to make myself delete it again, but this time, insanely, I press the call button. It rings twice, and I end the call before anyone answers. I spend five minutes staring at the screen, waiting for it to light up and ring, for them to call me back. But they don't.
Maybe they're doing this with someone else now. I waited too long, and now they’re playing the game with somebody new. I shudder at that thought and the actual bit of jealousy it inspires. I should feel sorry for the poor girl, whoever she is, horrified by her situation, not jealous that it isn't me.
