44. Brynn
T he room is a silent witness to my madness.
The walls are closing in with each passing second.
Conrad cradled me all night like he had no shame, no remorse.
In the morning, he had the doctor check me and he confirmed what I already knew. That my lower spine was broken enough to damage my spinal cord.
I’ll never walk again.
I’ll never dance. I’ll never feel the grass beneath my feet or the sand between my toes.
I try to wiggle them; to force my body to do something and the hollowness, the emptiness that follows feels worse than any of the abuse Conrad has inflicted on me before.
I’m paralysed. Or as good as.
The doctor gives me an injection. ‘For the pain’ he says. I don’t want that pain to go away. As much as it’s unbearable, I need to feel it. I need to feel something.
And as that icy nothingness slips through my veins, I feel more broken, more useless, more trapped than ever.
Conrad fucks me as soon as the doctor leaves.
He pulls my body around, he spreads my legs and then he’s shoving himself into me, grunting and grinding and using me exactly for what I am now.
A toy.
A doll.
A living, breathing womb and little else.
When he comes, he slumps on top of me, and I’m almost grateful that his weight no longer crushes me now that I can’t feel the pressure on my lower body.
He raises his hand, cupping my cheek and that look, that joy in his face, it makes me feel sick. How can a man possibly do the things he’s done to me? How can he even think of them?
“You’re so beautiful.” He says softly. “So fucking beautiful.”
A tear escapes my eye, it streaks down, hot against my cheek and he brushes it away quickly.
“Don’t cry, Brynn. It’s all going to be okay now. This is how it was meant to be. It’s what God wanted for you.”
That’s a lie. How can anything be okay, and how can God possibly want this?
He doesn’t even tie me up anymore.
I’ve laid here for days, unmoving. Like a human statue. He lifts me up, carries me to the bathroom each morning and then puts a nappy on me like I’m a fucking baby when he goes to work.
When he comes home, he takes it off, washes me down and then fucks me.
And all the while he’s telling me that he loves me, that I’m so perfect now. That soon I’ll be fat with his child, and everything will be as he planned.
Every time he leaves, he makes sure the TV is on, that that recording is playing. I may not be able to physically fight him, but he still clearly wants me to be a brainless addict all the same.
I hate the way my legs just lie there.
I hate the way I feel like a literal deadweight on this mattress.
And worst of all, I hate the way I can still feel that need.
You’d think that sensation would have gone. You’d think God would have granted me at least that small kindness, but no. I feel everything. EVERYTHING. Between my legs, inside, I feel every time his cock pushes into me, every time he touches me, and I can feel even now, that toy working away, trying to make me nice and needy for his return.
My hips no longer move, no longer chase that hateful ending. But I know that I’m wet, that on some level, I’m still so horrifically aroused.
I guess that’s the one kindness he has given me in not tying me up. I can sort this. End this. Alleviate this awful tension.
I reach down, grabbing the vibrator and yank it out. It shakes in my hand enough that I almost drop it, and it’s slick with my arousal.
I need to come.
I hate that I need it. But at least this way, I will feel something.
I circle the thing, focusing on that spot that my husband has caressed and tormented in equal measure. It doesn’t take long. My body thrums almost immediately and I swear I can hear my blood rushing in my ears, my heart pounding as I get closer and closer.
I’m disgusting. I’m fucked up. I’m everything he wants me to be.
But I can’t stop now. I have to do this. I have to end this, and in truth, I want to feel something other than pain, even if it is a sin, if it does damn me.
The shame of it all crashes over me in waves, each one more potent than the last. I sob, the sound of my own despair filling the room like a cacophony of sorrow that no one will hear.
I can see his face before me, I can taste him on my tongue, I can feel his lips peppering my skin with kisses.
I don't want this. I don't want him.
And yet, my body betrays me, responding to the phantom memory of his touch, the ghost of his presence haunting my flesh.
I can't let him win. I can't let him put a baby into me, to grow and fester into a person that would bind me to him for eternity.
The thought of it, of carrying his progeny sends me spiralling further into the abyss of my own mind.
I become feral, clawing at my body, my nails digging into the soft skin as if I could somehow reach in and tear out the very essence of my womanhood.
My hand is slick with blood; the coppery scent fills my nostrils, fuelling my frenzy.
I have to rip it out. I have to rip it all out.
I don’t know where the toy went. I don’t know when that disgusting pleasure turned to pain but now that I’m here, now that my hand is buried inside me, I know that this is the answer to it all. This here is my salvation. My pathway back to redemption.
The pain is a distant echo. My screams of fury seem to drown out everything else.
I will not be his broodmare. I will not bring a child into this world to suffer at the hands of a monster. If this is what it takes to end it, to force Conrad's hand and bring about my own demise, then so be it.
I will mutilate my body, I will claw out my own womb if that is what is necessary.
The room around me blurs, my vision tunnels as I spiral deeper into my own personal hell.
I am no longer a person with hopes and dreams. I am a creature of despair, a wretched soul caught in the throes of a battle I may not survive.
But there's a strange sense of power in my defiance, a perverse strength that courses through my veins alongside the pain. I am marking myself, reclaiming my body as my own, even as I defile it in my madness.
This is my choice, my decision, the one act of autonomy I have left open to me.
So, I claw, and I rip, and I mutilate, until my arms can no longer move, until I’m too exhausted to do anything more.
Is it enough? Is the damage enough to ensure my destruction?
Because I know what he will do, I know how he will act when he sees this, when he realises his precious little doll cannot be bred after all. He will end it. He will end me.
I should feel some fear in that, some concern, and yet now, in this moment, all I feel is acceptance.
And in the quiet that follows, a strange calm washes over me. I have made my choice, I have drawn my line in the sand. Whether I live or die, I will do so on my terms, not his.
He may have shattered my spine, may have shattered my body but I am still here, still fighting, the only way I know how.