18. Pi
Chapter eighteen
Pi
Astoria
There’s no peace for me anywhere, not even in my mind. I fall asleep, running away from the pain of my reality, but end up relieving the nightmare that is my past because of the fevers. When I'm awake, there’s the realization that I’m in a pitch black cell, where I can’t even see my hand, with a metal collar choking my neck and a heavy chain attached to it. My body is too weak to lift the chain.
I can only move from the bed if he helps me, which is dehumanizing, especially when I have to go to the bathroom. Sometimes I wake up alone which allows the memories of what he did to me to push me farther into despair.
I hate myself so much. A part of me knew he was there but instead of listening to my gut, I locked the front door, sealing my fate. I should've punched him harder in the balls, should've run faster… I hate every breath and heartbeat this body takes, because there's nothing, literally, nothing left for me.I could have never imagined this misery. Where there was once hope of escaping him, now reigns defeat and horror.
The loud clanking of metal tools startles me awake. I can feel his presence, hear his movements and breathing. He sits, and his weight moves the thin mattress, but I don't dare turn to look at him. Because of the slashes on my back, I can only lie belly down.
"Do you want to go to the bathroom first?"
I don’t say a word. He sighs in frustration because I haven't spoken since he whipped me. Sometimes it's out of defiance and anger other times it's out of hurt and fear. My whole body goes rigid at the smell of alcohol. I've learned to fear the smell because of the pain it causes me every time he uses it to disinfect the lashes. Every dab with the gauze is like an acid dissolving my skin. I fist the mattress, and the pain shoots from the spot he's treating. I try to hold the scream inside. My tears leak out while my heart hammers too loudly and my breath dances. I lift my face but then bury it back in the pillow when my breath bursts. I’m trying not to give him the satisfaction of my pain, of seeing how much he's hurt me. The gauze is too coarse and the alcohol is pure torture. A shaking guttural scream rips out of me. I wish I could at least faint, but my body has never been this awake.
The fevers have me sweating and freezing, my teeth chattering, taking all my energy. It's gotten worse. Hopefully, I will die from whatever wound infection I’ve caught.What's that stinging tight sensation on the inside of my elbow? I inspect it and discover he has stuck a needle in my arm, attached to an IV. What the fuck is he feeding me? Even if it's something good, I don't want it. I yank it off and it hurts so bad that I can't help gasping. The bleeding is significant. With my arm hanging from the bed, I lose consciousness.
“God dammit, Astoria.”
My eyes flutter open at his anger. I don't dare move. My heart is too slow. Every breath I take is a heavy challenge. Even though the idea of dying is still scary to me, a part of me is relieved to know my condition has worsened. He can’t touch or hurt me if I’m dead. It shouldn't be long now.
“Don’t do this again!” he yells, and it echoes, making my brain pulse while I struggle to get oxygen in my lungs.
Despite the fever breaking and my strength returning, he hasn't given me any clothes. But I rather freeze to death than ask him for anything. There’s no way for me to know how many days or nights he’s had me here.
The only light I get is when he opens the slab to leave me the food tray or take it; it’s enough to blind me every time. This is why I’ve learned to close my eyes and look to the side when I count his four-hundredth step. He never opens the door or speaks now that I've healed. I only know the sounds of my breathing, my heart beating, the water pipes in the bathroom, the drip from the sink, the door to this place opening, his steps, and the tray he slams and takes.
I have to feel around with my hands and feet to figure out where everything is. At first, picking up the chain to my neck collar is difficult, but as my body gains strength, I get used to it. Five steps to the bathroom, two more to the toilet, one more to the shower. I feel around for a towel. It’s tiny but I manage to dry myself. Then I lie, naked, on the bed, waiting. There’s no way to know what he wants with me. I just hope he kills me, soon and swiftly.
Painful but manageable cramps wake me. I hiss and squeeze my belly, hoping they don't worsen. Usually, I can only survive my period after I've taken two aspirins and two acetaminophens. I wonder if this means he's had me here for a whole month. At least I can still walk to the bathroom and vomit.
After showering, I find a box of pads and three panties underneath the sink. Thank God. The pain returns with a vengeance once I finish putting on the panties. I lie on the bed while holding my belly. “Fuck.”
I am pi because I’ve never added up to anything whole. I’m irrational because in this pitch darkness, in this silence, I’m losing my mind. No. I can’t let him win. I can’t. “Three point fourteen fifteen ninety-two…” (3.1415926535897932384626433832795028 8 4197) I can’t remember the next digit after eight. Come on. Remember! I yell at myself in my mind.
“Fuck, what was it? No. I don’t want to lose numbers. He can’t take that too.” I start counting whole numbers, one, two, three. The square root of four is two. The square root of nine is three. The square of sixteen is four…”
My favorite square is one-hundred-forty-four whose square root is twelve. By going through numbers and mathematical theories, things that have been proven time and time again, and will never change, I distract myself and prove to myself that my memory is still intact. If I can remember those, then maybe, just maybe, I haven’t lost my mind, yet.
Sometimes he breaks me all over again without touching or getting anywhere near me. I bite my lips, bang the chain that holds down my neck collar to silence the bad memories, but there are times… when not even that works, and I can’t help but weep until my head throbs.
Between the darkness, silence, lack of movement, and not knowing anything, I’ve lost my appetite. Sometimes I hum the song that Romeo and I slow-danced to, Madrigal . It’s so soothing that it helps me sleep. I try not to think of Romeo although I know he’s interlaced in the comfort of the song. It hurts too much to have lost the first glimmer of happiness. While hoping that Mindy is not too worried about me and that she’s carried on with her happily ever after with Fernando, I sing Las Ma?anitas .
Then the memory of Dr. Michaelson hits me, those perfect blue eyes, the way he rescued me, kissed me but didn’t let it be more. He doesn’t have a song, because we never were two. We… never were two. We weren’t even. We could have been two, even three if only he would’ve given me a chance. It hurts so bad I break down. Why does it hurt so bad?
He obviously couldn’t help himself last time and felt so bad for it. He was my first. The first time I consented. If only he knew how good it felt to have come for the first time, because I actually wanted it. With such gentle fingers, such beautiful eyes making sure I was fine, his voice, asking me to confirm I wanted it, wanting my clear consent. My beautiful doctor, so serious, so righteous. Him, I can think about because there was no hope with him and he wasn’t flawless. With Romeo, everything was still amazing but at least Dr. Michaelson had shown me some darkness.
I avoid thinking of Mom because it hurts too much to know that she’d only be calling for more money. She wouldn’t really be worried about me.
I miss so many things, the feel of the sunlight on my skin, clothes, the sound of birds chirping, eating delicious seasoned food, and music. What I would not give for some french fries. My stomach makes a sound and cramps letting me know I'm hungry, but that's not the worse thing I'm feeling. It's the loneliness. It's the lack of human touch. I'd ignore the fries if I could talk to someone, anyone.
My name is Astoria Torres. I am pi because I’ve never added up to anything whole… I was too broken… even for Julian… and now I’m here, forgotten. “Three point fourteen fifteen ninety-two….” (3.1415926535897 9 32384626433832795028 8 41 97 ) I can’t remember the next digit after ninety-seven.
I'm sitting on the floor right up against the door. I'm losing my mind. How long will he have me here like this? Why hasn't he killed me yet?
“Julian! Julia–n!" My screech echoes. I bang the chain against the iron door and cry myself into another headache. The slab opens, blinding me. He pushes the tray in.
"Julian? Wait–" The slab closes. "Wait don't go. Julian! No!"
The sound of his steps softens. I throw the tray across the room, and hear its contents crash, then lean my head against the wall with tears drowning me while I hum, " This little light of mine… "
I've given up. He won and I lost. He won't talk to me. He won't even open the door. Lately, the cup of water he always brings me has been lighter in weight. Each day it feels emptier.
He has stopped coming. It’s not like I was eating much food anyways. My throat is as dry as as sandpaper. It burns for water. I start cupping it from the sink, but eventually, he shuts it down.
What sends me into a panic is not my stomach twisting on itself due to starvation as horrible as it is, it's the thought that he's forgotten me. Deep inside, there's a sense that I’m so worthless that even he , the man who lost his fucking mind over me, has forgotten me. Like Mom used to forget me in the bathroom.
As I run my fingers through my sticky hair, I remind myself that my name is Astoria Torres. I am pi because I’ve never added to anything whole… Three point fourteen fifteen ninety-two…. (3.1415 92 ).
Julian, please. By the time I finish making two braids, a pathetic sob pours out of me. Even though I know weeping is a waste, especially when I’m so dehydrated, I can’t stop it. My emotions are too vivid and raw.
I don’t know how many days it takes to die from dehydration, but there's a dry burning sensation from my throat to my chapped lips. I can’t swallow anymore and I’m so dizzy. The world swirls when I move. This is how he's going to kill me. He made my worse fear come true. I'm locked in the dark, and forgotten. Three point one…. What’s the next digit? No. No, I got it. March fourteen, three point fourteen. March fourteen. March fourteen. March fourteen. March fourteen. March fourteen.
The sound of the outside metal door opening wakes me. My heart hurries. I can’t form the words, but in my mind, I’m begging him to give me something to drink. It takes forever for me to sit up, preparing to get the tray from the slab. Instead, the door opens. The light stabs my closed eyes. I’ve become more comfortable in the darkness. He enters and the light goes away, but I hear him breathing and smell his glorious aftershave. His steps come closer to me and I think I’m going to die from the terror.
“I brought you a gift,” he says as he gathers my hair to the back.
I take in his deep voice. I'd forgotten how deep it is and the effects it has on my body. It raises goosebumps on my skin, wakes something in my lower belly. A subtle heat rises in me. After not hearing anything other than his steps for too long, his words alone feel like a gift. A silky fabric covers my eyes shut. The knot is tight in the back. No chance of me seeing anything. I tell myself hearing his voice, smelling him, and feeling the heat emanating from his body is enough.
Without a word, he pulls at my hair until I lie down, yanks down the sheets, and holds my legs wide open. Immediately, I lose control of my breathing, but I'm so scared to piss him off that I don't dare move or defy him. What is he going to do? His warm spit slides down my pussy. I’m so thirsty I wish he would’ve done the same to my mouth.
“Sit up.”
I obey him. He pinches my nose then widens my mouth. "Stick you tongue out."
When I do as he says, he pushes my head further back so it's directed at the ceiling. His spit drags down to the back of my tongue, wetting it, comforting then filling my throat. Usually I would vomit just at the thought of it, but it’s the only liquid I’ve had for far too long. Like the first gulp from a refreshing drink, I feel it go down my esophagus, relieving the dryness.
Gratitude springs up in me as it coats it. I’ll do anything to have my throat wet again. I hear him jerking and understand right away what he wants from me. He wants what we used to do in my bedroom. I flick at my clit and jump the first feel of his fingers touching my breast. My nipple shrinks under the caress and pinching.
The sound of his juices and our heavy breathing fills the room. Then electric currents travel down from the tip of my nipple with every pull and pinch to the tip of my clit. I can’t help but moan as all of me begs for more of him.
Touch.
If it weren't for the dehydration I'd cry out of gratitude. Realizing I’m starving so much for all of these things, not just water, a cry breaks free from me. But there are no tears, no voice coming out of me. I lean my cheek against the arm that keeps playing with my breast, my face taking the warmth, the veins, the muscles on him. Like a bitch, I’m need his caress on my head, but all he gives me is the holding of my breast, then the pinching of my nipple.
When he pants and moans, it’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard, making the butterflies inside me flutter. I'm so relieved that I can still do that to this man, this monster. My clit is rigid. The climax stacks. I don’t want him to stop, although what we’re doing brings back horrible memories and disgusts me, I need it. I need him to talk to me, to touch me, to give me something, anything to drink. My throat is screaming for water. My moans come out mute and I’m terrified I’ll never speak again.
In the midst of his panting and grunting while pleasuring his dick so close to my ear, he asks me, “You still thirsty?”
My cheek rubs against his arm as I nod. He turns so that the tip of his dick slides on my lips. I lick it as he jerks it. He pinches my nose again, letting me know he wants me to open my mouth again. He fucks my mouth, his cock sliding in and out of me, pre-come wetting my tongue. He groans and moans, his breathing loud and heavy.Both his hands are flat against my temples as he rocks in and out just like mine are flat against his his hips.
“Fuck.” His deep raspy voice makes me shiver.
I hurry the sucking as if this is everything I’ve ever wanted, because I want the come to wet my mouth and throat. I need it so badly.
He pushes all the way to my throat and cuts off my airway. My hold on his thighs relaxes. His hands tighten on my temples, while his entire body shakes. The thick vein on his cock jolts. The warm come fills my mouth, coating away the torture that was the dryness and soreness. My finger tips dig into his thighs, and I pull away a little to swallow again and again as he spurts into me. I drink it all. I’ve never thought I could be grateful for a man to come in my mouth, but I needed it like nothing before. Even after he stops, I continue sucking as he whimpers. He sounds beautiful. A sick pride rises in me for bringing my torturer, my rapist, my captor down to whimpering simply by sucking his cock. Gently, he pushes me away from it then lowers my hands to my pussy but only tapping it twice.
“It’s your turn, little bird.”
I’m too dizzy to even process his words, so I lie back. His warm mouth covers my breast and sucks on it. I gasp at the aggressive pulling from his mouth and pleasure myself, using his spit as my lubricant. Is my voice back? I try to moan and hear it but it hurts.
“That’s my pretty bird,” he keeps repeating. The praise feeds my soul, as my breathing rushes in and out of me. My body coils tighter with every flicking and sucking until I can’t take it anymore. There's a snap to the tension in my body, my butt jumps off the bed. Suddenly any touch is too much, but he doesn’t stop. Almost inaudible, short whimpers shoot out of me with every wave that courses through me.Euphoria overwhelms me, warming me all over.
When he gets up and I hear his two steps walking away, I try to speak but it hurts so much I wince. I hold my throat then massage it with my fingers beneath the collar. I search for him with my hands. He’s no longer next to the bed. My forehead wrinkles with excruciating despair. Please don’t leave me alone again. Please.
“It’s okay, baby. I’m coming right back.”
That’s when I hear the water running from the sink’s faucet. He returns to me and the top of a cup rubs my cheek.
“Don’t drink too fast or you’ll vomit and feel worse.”
I know what he just said, but I can’t help gulping it, some of it falling from my mouth, trailing to my chest. It tastes so good. I wish I could drown in it. It fills and goes down my esophagus, running through my veins and arteries, mixing and thinning my blood. The headache eases a little bit.
“Okay, that’s enough.” He pulls the cup away from my grip and gently pushes my chest with his palm so that I lie down. “Now be a good girl and go to sleep.”
I hold on to his palm on my chest, taking in the warmth of it until slumber carries me away from this horrible place. For the first time since being here, sleep is not filled with horrible dreams and memories. It's deep.
It’s like this now. I only drink water after I swallow his come and climax while he sucks my tit. It becomes such a routine that the minute I hear the other door clanking, his footsteps getting closer, my pussy throbs,gets wet–even aches for his presence. Every time I hear him coming, I put the blindfold on, knowing he doesn’t like me to see him.
It’s the only time I get to hear, touch, feel something else other than the lonely, dark cold silence. I realize he’s happy when he turns on the dim light of the bathroom and leaves it like that. Sometimes he takes too long to come take care of me and I panic that once again I may be left here to die alone.