10. Liliana
I t’s cold. Dark. Pitch fucking black but that’s the least of my worries.
I’ve been down here for a day, maybe longer. Time seems to move funny when there’s no way to keep track of it. And your mind seems to latch onto every sound as if there’s more to it than just a drip of water or a creak in the floorboards.
I know this is part of his game.
That throwing me in here and leaving me to wallow in my fear is all part of his nasty little plan, and yet there’s a bit of me that’s relieved. At least I’ve got time to get my bearings, time to clear my head, to lose the fuzziness of being repeatedly drugged and knocked unconscious.
There’s a bucket in the corner. The level of disgust I feel when I finally have to use it is indescribable, and now, afterwards, the whole cell has a faint aroma of piss, enough to catch in your throat and make you gag.
When I finally do hear the sound of footsteps, I can’t keep the fear from radiating through me.
He’s here. He’s coming.
I force myself to my feet. My legs are shaking, but I do everything I can to still. I don’t want him to see my fear. I don’t want him to think that simply locking me in this basement or wherever the hell I am, is enough to break me.
My arms are still bound but I managed to manoeuvre my legs around so that now they’re at least in front and not behind. I doubt it’ll make much difference, but I have to hope, don’t I?
The door springs open. It’s almost alarming that there’s no noise except a slight whoosh.
If this were a horror movie there would be a creak of rusty hinges, there would be some sort of dramatic moment.
But this isn’t a movie. This isn’t a dream either.
This nightmare is my life and it will be until the monster standing before me grows bored and decides to end it.
My breath hitches at the thought, my adrenaline spikes even more. I feel like this moment here will set the scene for all my days to come. I have to make a point now, I have to prove that I may be caught, but I am not beaten. At least, not yet.
I’ve stared at photos of him for so long, that to be here, to see him in the flesh feels almost surreal. It’s as though I’m finally face to face with the devil. Even in the limited light, the glint in his dark eyes is obvious as is the trademark smirk and dimple. He exudes charm, and privilege and everything you’d expect from a man born into an obscene amount of wealth. It practically reeks out of every damn pore .
For a moment, it’s like my brain can’t compute this, like I can’t do anything. I’m paralysed by my fear and I stand mute, pathetic, as he prowls into the space, getting far too fucking close.
“Not gone all shy on me now, have you?” he says with what sounds like a hint of disappointment.
I turn my lip up and sneer back, only that makes him actually laugh.
Slowly, he undoes one cuff and then the other, rolling his sleeves up his arms to reveal tanned, toned, beautiful skin beneath.
“Wouldn’t want to ruin a perfectly good shirt,” he explains, like the fabric is worth more than my life.
It feels like a taunt, a challenge, and before I can truly consider the consequences, I throw my head back and spit, ensuring it lands right onto that precious white silk he’s so concerned about.
His features morph into anger and he springs forward, grabbing me before I have a chance to get away. His hand wraps around my throat, he slams me back into the concrete, and a flash of pain explodes behind my eyes as my skull takes the impact.
My legs kick out. I’m not even trying to fight at this point, I just need to get some damned oxygen in.
“You really want to goad me?” He taunts.
“You think I’m just going to roll over and make this easy for you?” I hiss back as best I can.
He grins more, dropping his gaze to stare at my naked chest, at where my breasts are heaving with the struggle to just breathe. As quickly as I can I pull my arms up, covering myself.
“No need for modesty,” he murmurs. “Every inch of you is mine now, so I’ll look where I like, touch what I like, break what I like, too.”
“Like hell you will.” I snarl.
He grabs my hair, yanking me from the wall by it and he slams me down onto the floor so that I’m bent over, almost completely incapacitated with his body right over mine .
“You’re going to learn very quickly that I do not like to be contradicted.” he says into my ear.
I jerk my head, ignoring the searing pain of my scalp, and slam it into his nose. It’s not hard enough to break, not hard enough to do anything but make his eyes stream, but it’s all I can do in the circumstances, and I revel in that tiny victory.
He growls, slamming my face into the floor hard enough that for a few moments I think I black out. When I come around, he’s no longer on me, his weight is no longer holding me down. I must have split my lip at some point because my mouth is filled with the coppery taste of my own blood.
I try to crawl away, try to force my body to move, but he grabs my ankle snatching me back.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.
I whimper. I hate that I do it, I hate how pathetic it sounds, but I’m still too dazed to think properly, to think rationally.
He grabs my hair again and it feels like there’s a thousand tiny daggers ripping into my skin. I scream, trying to lash out with my bound hands, but he’s quick to pin them down, to pin me back down under the weight of him.
And then, I hear the sound of a motor. It buzzes as it comes to life and he drags it over my skull, over my scalp, grazing it as it bites inch after inch while I stare in horror as one long mass of bleached hair drops to the floor. I can feel the metal now, I can register the back-and-forth action as he starts hacking away, shaving off my hair bit by bit and leaving it to cascade down to the dirt around me.
It shouldn’t matter.
It’s just hair.
And yet it feels violating.
It feels horrific.
I jerk, I snap my neck from side to side and all that does is grant me a blow to the face and more cuts from the blade .
I don’t understand why he’s doing this of all things, why he’s destroying my looks.
When he’s done, when it’s all gone, he tosses the shaver, and gets back to his feet as if he’s an artist admiring his work. I scramble back, scramble away and as far into the corner as I can get.
“Curious,” he says, tilting his head to get a better look at me, as if he hasn’t stared enough. “I knew the drapes didn’t match the carpet, but I’d never have pegged you as a redhead.”
“Fuck you.”
He laughs again, undoing his belt slowly, like that too is a taunt. “Since you’re asking so nicely…”
He lunges at me, and I scream out. I slam my bound wrists into his back and I pound it over and over, but it’s like he can’t even feel it. Like it does nothing.
His entire body weight swamps me once more. I’m strong but this man’s strength seems otherworldly. As if he really is possessed by the devil himself.
With one hand he gets himself free, and with the other he wrenches my legs apart. As he forces himself into me, he groans.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “Who would have thought Miss Goodey Two-Shoes would feel like this?”
I can’t think.
I can’t speak.
My tears start to stream down my face even though I knew this was coming, I knew this violation was going to happen. I’d even tried to reconcile myself to it, tried to reason that it wouldn’t matter, that whatever he does to me, it wouldn’t matter.
He slides himself out, I’m not wet, not in the slightest bit aroused and, as he slams himself into me again, I can feel my insides ripping with the brutality.
Can he feel it?
Can he feel how he’s violating my body or is all this pleasurable to him ?
“Ahh fuck,” he groans as if answering my unspoken thoughts. “This tight little cunt is too much.”
He starts slamming into me harder, he’s so big that every movement tears me more.
I scream out, I continue to fight, even though it’s pointless now, and all the while he’s groaning as though he’s never had better sex before in his life.
“You’re a fucked-up piece of shit.” I curse, refusing to give in, refusing to become just another victim, even though that’s exactly what I am now. What he’s making of me.
He laughs. “Am I, now?” he replies, grabbing my throat, forcing me to look right at him. “How does it feel, then? To know I’m your future, that every breath you take, every moment of pleasure, of pain too, everything is decided by me. I’m your God now. I’m who you worship.”
I screw my face up, wanting to reply, wanting to say something hateful, but the way he’s assaulting me is stopping my brain from functioning. It’s all I can focus on, all I can see. Even when I try to close my eyes, it’s like he’s there, taunting me, hurting me.
His thumb brushes against my cheek and I realise I’m still crying. I don’t want to cry, I don’t want him to see it. I want him to think I’m the hardnosed bitch I’ve pretended to be. I want him to see me as defiant, strong, not something he can simply take and break within a day.
“Your tears are so beautiful.” He groans. “Do you know how much it turns me on more to see you cry?”
“Fuck you.” It’s the same insult. Same pathetic line. But it’s all I have right now. It’s the only defence left to me.
He snorts before moving me around, trying to position my body so that I’m no doubt angled better for him. Every thrust feels like a knife tearing me up. He continues to fuck me, harder and harder, like he’s trying to actually split me open and when he finally comes, I almost want to feel relieved .
Relieved that it’s over.
Relieved that he’s going to get his god damn body off of mine.
But as he slides out, I feel a wave of shame. Shame and revulsion too. I can still feel him, the heat of him, the pain, all of it.
He keeps me there, pinned down, staring between my legs while I lay there, trying my hardest not to tremble.
“I think I like this version of you best.” he comments. “Your big mouth silent for once and your cunt bruised and battered and leaking out my come like you couldn’t guzzle enough of it.”
“Like hell.” I spit. “It doesn’t matter how many times you rape me, how many times you beat me either. It doesn’t change what you are. If anything, it only proves it.”
“Proves what?”
“That despite all your advantages, despite all your money and power, at your core, you’re a piece of shit. You don’t have any decency, you don’t have any morals. There’s nothing about you that anyone wants. That’s why you do what you do, because deep down you know the world hates you, you know that without your name and the Brethren, you’d be a nobody. You’re pathetic…”
He grabs my throat, tightening his grip to the point that he cuts off all my blood supply and my eyes bulge.
“But I do have money, I do have power. God has granted me everything, while you have nothing.”
“I’d rather have nothing than be like you.” I gasp.
His hand loosens. I splutter as I try to catch my breath, heaving over into the dirt. And then I realise he’s stood right over me.
“You think you’re so good, so noble, so fucking self-righteous.” he states. “I’m going to break you down piece by piece.” He bends down, picking up a clump of my discarded hair and he tosses it at my face. “Don’t you get it, Liliana? You’re no longer a person, you no longer have an identity, you don’t have any rights, you don’t get to control how this goes. You’re a toy, a pet. You’ll stay here as long as I decide, you’ll entertain me in whatever fucked up ways I wish, and you’ll thank me for it, you’ll thank me for every bit of attention.”
I shake my head, snarling back at him. Like hell I’ll ever do that.
He squats down, with that smirk right across his face. “Wanna make a bet on how long it will take before you’re begging to suck my cock?”
I shouldn’t do it. I shouldn’t react. That’s what he wants and yet I refuse to take this lying down. I throw myself at him, landing one good punch before I’m slammed to the floor, and his boot meets my ribs with a sickening crunch.
I cry out, gasping for air as it feels like my lungs have suddenly collapsed and I can’t get enough oxygen in.
“Let’s start with the basics,” he says. “From now on, whenever I come down here, I expect you to be ready for me. I want you on your knees, back arched over, thighs spread wide open, ready to receive me, do you understand?”
I gulp as that mental image plays in my mind. Like fuck I will ever do that.
He tilts his head like he’s expecting me to agree, only I don’t think I have enough fight in me right now to argue. Instead, I drop my gaze and he must take that as some form of submission.
“If you behave yourself, you’ll find I can be kind.” he adds.
“And if I don’t?” I know I shouldn’t ask, I know I should just keep quiet but I can’t.
His eyes glint like he gets off on my disobedience in some way. “Then you’ll be punished severely.”