Work In Progress (The Unpublished Story #1)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Lola Barkley

H e pulls my hair, and I bite my lip hard to stop the scream from escaping.

No screaming, that only makes it worse. So much worse. But he sees the weakness in my eyes and slams his fist into my side again. And again.

Pain explodes through my middle as black dots begin to cloud my vision from him practically dragging me by the ponytail. So much pain. He continues to drag me along, and I shuffle my feet, attempting to get purchase and alleviate the burn radiating through my scalp. I manage to get one leg out, but he kicks it from under me. Again.

Something somewhere on my body snaps. I know the sound can’t be good, but with how much I hurt–generally everywhere at this point–I really can’t pinpoint the location of the new injury. I’ve finally mastered the art of holding back my tears and swallowing my screams.

What kind of excuse am I going to make this time for all of my new bumps and bruises that will likely show in just a few hours?

Blame it on my clumsiness. I’ve done it so much that no one seems to even question it anymore. I suppose it helps that I am supremely clumsy as well. If only they knew the truth.

He opens the door to the basement and drags me at a half-crawl down the stairs. At this point, an almost calm settles over me. Most people would be afraid of being locked in their own basements, but I’ve grown to take comfort in the escape it offers.

The escape from him.

I can’t believe how naive I was when we first met. Everyone claimed to love him, and they were all so excited and encouraging about our engagement.

And the wedding?

It was beautiful. Hundreds of people came, most referring to it as ‘the event of the year.’ Thousands of gifts and words of encouragement were shared with us. Songs were danced. Embraces were made. Promises were whispered.

But I don’t remember that.

I remember the thirty-pound dress my now mother-in-law had insisted was more my style. How would she know? She never even tried to get to know me. She tried to mold me. Make me what she wanted me to be for her son.

I also remember the emotions—or rather, the ones I kept waiting for. Everyone was excited and happy, crying tears of joy. Even my groom was teary-eyed as he spoke words of love and commitment. I regurgitated the words that were written for me by someone else’s hand and followed the instructions recited by the Reverend. But those tears never came. That fluttering in my chest and butterflies in my stomach were still as elusive to me as the undying love he proclaimed to have for me.

Now I know the truth of it all was... I never loved him.

I tried, assuming there was something inherently wrong with me when I failed to feel that way toward him. Part of me was even convinced that I may, in fact, be so cold-hearted that I was incapable of love.

But now I know the real reason why.

Deep down, I could never love someone I was scared of.

Granted, not once in our entire pre-marital relationship had Darick ever laid a hand on me. He was sweet and doting. He cared and listened. He even pampered me.

As the wedding got closer, he became a bit more distant. I blamed the reaction on his nerves or even stress. Weddings aren’t cheap, and ours was quite the affair after all. At least our shared account that he had sole control over certainly showed an influx of money leaving as opposed to what was coming in. But that was two weeks ago.

Newlyweds are supposed to enter this glorious honeymoon phase where their appetite for each other is insatiable. In fact, in my mind I had jokingly pictured little hearts for eyes as a representation of what I thought this stage would be like.

Instead of a honeymoon vacation filled with romance and sex, Darick ate his way through our alotted vacation money. Spending it on anything and everything he could possibly want. And in lieu of sex or even cuddling, he demanded I shower every night before bed while he looked at porn and jerked off, falling fast asleep by the time I was done. Letting hundreds of dollars in lingerie go to waste.

I thought that trip would be the worst week of our lives together and that things could only get better from there. But our first night back in our own place? That’s when I learned first hand that were no laws in my state against raping your wife. Nor would the police officer I tried to talk to even take pity on me or offer comfort. Instead he simply reminded me of my marital duties to my spouse.

In a span of two weeks, I had been reduced down to a fraction of the woman I had ever wanted to be.

At first, the punishments were mind games. He started off by saying things that he knew would make me feel horrible about myself. Sending texts to friends and family, telling them lies, cancelling plans, and causing them to alienate me.

Then, he started using the threat of self-harm.

I’ve never been one to stomach the idea of being the cause of someone else’s pain, so I complied. For a few days at least.

This time, even holding a knife to his own throat and drawing a tiny prick of blood didn’t stop me from pushing back against the bully. Of course, he didn’t like that very much, and with him being twice my size, fighting against his hold was nearly impossible.

And the more I fought back, the rougher he got.

And the more he seemed to enjoy it all.

When we reach the cold, damp cement floor of the basement, he finally releases me. I throw myself on the rug in the middle of the makeshift living room he had designed down here. Supposedly, it was for playing games with his friends and not having to worry about being too loud for our only neighbor within hearing distance, as the cement absorbed a lot of the sounds. But since we haven’t used it for that purpose even once, I can only surmise that a comfortable prison was what his warped mind had actually planned all along.

Looking up at him, I catch the change as his sneer turns into a smile that holds no warmth, before he turns and stomps back up the stairs. The door slams closed and a lock slides in place.

And only then do I finally let myself breathe.

With a fierce determination, I begin rummaging through the few boxes we still haven’t unpacked, even after six months of living here together. Hoping against all hope to find something I can use to get the locks opened. Yes, there are more than one. He tells any guests it’s to prevent the door slamming due to wind gusts blowing through the house.

Since he’s sweet, and they all adore him, they stupidly believe him.

And I never say a word.

Why don’t I ever speak up?

Why doesn’t anyone ever notice the strange things that don’t add up?

Why can’t I just be stronger?

“Lola!”

Whose voice was that? Is someone here?

I have to get out of the basement now. I heard him leave in his noisy car, but what if he comes back? What will he do to me then?

“Lola! Wake up!”

Wake up?

I would gladly wake up from this fucking nightmare if I could.