33. To own is to… Scrape
Chapter thirty-three
To own is to… Scrape
C hloe
Mom hung on for as long as she could after they found Renee’s remains. I remember the vacant, eerie stare she had in the days before she tried to kill herself the first time. I remember being woken from sleep, the familiar, comforting sounds of Dad coming home that night. I’d blown my stuffy nose before settling back down on my pillow, only to be jolted moments later by his screams. It was a terrible sound. I remember everyone’s panic as they rushed her to the hospital, trampling over their bedroom where she’d swallowed the pills. Nobody saw the note she left, but I did. I read in graphic detail her goodbyes that made no mention of me. I read of the way she begged the police to let her see what remained of her daughter. Not her eldest daughter, just her daughter, because I no longer had the right to that title. I had given up my place as her daughter the moment I said yes and swam just a little too far out that night. I read her vivid recount of the state of my sister’s body, how the police were right. It was all she could see now when she thought of her little girl .
I didn’t understand until I was older, the desire to end it all. I’d find that dark place many times following my exile from their lives. I knew how it felt to want so badly to stop existing but never enough . Never enough to move past the sobbing on the bathroom floor, clutching a bottle of pills in my hand, only to place it back in the cabinet and wash my face. I’d wake up the next morning and get to work five minutes early with a smile on my face, because as long as I smiled, they wouldn’t see how I was rotting on the inside, how everything was heavy and everything hurt. The little things never felt little to me.
I structured my days down to every single minute because then, I wouldn’t schedule time to cry. I wouldn’t sit and think too hard about any one thing, because that was a slippery slope. When I would slip, it was always a landslide, and I’d be back on that bathroom floor with that bottle of pills I knew I’d never use, and I’d be back at work the next morning, five minutes early.
When I was taken, the effect was similar, only this time, instead of me keeping myself busy to avoid the pain, there was simply such an abundance of it. It stopped my tears, ran them dry with the brutality of it all, and I’d learned physical pain, pleasure, and agony were all so very subjective, a fact that was further compounded after I met him.
My master.
From the very start, he took the control I’d longed to give up, but he didn’t need to prod me to obtain it. He was consuming and harsh, but he never hurt me more than what he knew I could take. He coddled and cared for me in a way I’d never experienced, doted on me the way they’d always doted on her. I felt pretty and adored. Specia l.
Loved.
I was allowed to cry, to feel all the tiny things that tore me up inside.
But I’m not crying right now.
My whole body throbs as I drag myself to a sitting position from where I’d rolled off my raw back hours ago. It has been hours.
I’m tired.
Honestly, I get it. I can’t even find it in me to be mad, staring down absently at the cruel words written all over my body. My hands aren’t shaking when I run my fingers over the brutal, bloody teeth impressions on my skin. Before they’d brought me pride, much like all the bruises that make me feel so… beautiful , used in the best ways. Right now, I feel nothing. I understand better than ever why they chose me that night in the bar; I was always expendable. I was always bad. The universe thought it right to punish me for it. I was okay with that because of him. I’d made my peace with the phantom hands because those phantom touches that maimed and pushed and throttled would never be his.
He adored me. He could never be the phantom hands.
I can feel the exhaustion deep in my bones as I tilt my head back, staring at the rigging above me. My leash is cool on mottled, throbbing flesh, a chain-type rope on a sliding bar connected to the structure above the headboard. Expensive fabric hangs around the four posters, elaborately carved banners connecting them all. I remember that first day, when I’d considered tossing myself over the side of the landing, knowing I wouldn’t.
I couldn’t, and soon enough, I didn’t want to. I wanted to be good for him, to live…for him.
The way he seemed to live for me. But it was a na?ve, hideously illogical notion.
I was wrong about so much.
And my master could make mistakes.
My fingers skim along the length of chain, testing where it connects with my collar—a wide leather one this time, thick , strong.
I get up on unsteady legs, feeling my core ache in protest as I walk to the bottom of the bed. It takes time before I can work my way up, pulling and stacking pillows for just a little boost, but eventually, I do it. My body trembles with exhaustion, my forehead beading with sweat as I balance on the top of the mahogany banister that connects the four posters of the bed, only inches left of length on my chain. My eyes get stuck on the lily tattooed above my wrist, my brand. You can barely see it now, not unless you really look. It’s faded, the white ink a fleshy tone, but it feels like a two-ton weight, making my body impossibly heavy. It’s pulling me over the edge as I lift it. Everything is heavy, heavier than they’ve ever been .
I saw a doctor, one of Master’s, after the boat accident. He asked me if I knew the date, giving Sir a concerned look when I said no. It’s not because of any brain damage; I have no reason to know the date.
He told me it was May.
It has been almost two years since that night. Almost two years seems like enough .
Warrick
I drag her nightgown over my nose as I lay back on her bed, self-loathing settling in my gut like a lead weight. I didn’t hesitate when I jumped into the water after her. I didn’t even care if she could get herself out; I needed to save her, to be the one worthy of saving her, to be good enough to stand by her side. I betrayed everything to take away her pain, only to cause more of it. I wanted to validate the good she saw in me, to deserve her love and adoration. For once in my life, I wanted to be loved, but I’m a sick fuck. I’ve got two aliases on the international most wanted list. I’ve destroyed, razed, and created havoc, devastation on biblical levels. War crimes, war machines. Weapons that have killed millions with my brand on the side. Truth be told, I never batted an eye. I’m fucked, wretched, unworthy of the type of devotion, the blinding, soul-changing adoration in her eyes….
I don’t deserve her.
Even so, I’m on my feet, halfway down the hall, before I decide to. I’m fucking sorry ,and I need her to know. I can fix this; I can be whatever she sees in me, if only she can be patient while I learn. Every fiber of my blackened husk of a soul aches for her. She needs me, but I think I need her more. I destroyed everything for her, and I would destroy more if it meant earning her forgiveness. If she told me she wanted that ounce this world owes her, I’d call it in. I’d do it now. Each house would fall to her feet, and none of it would matter.
I didn’t hesitate then on that yacht. Why hesitate now?
When I toss open the door, it takes my mind a beat to catch up to what my eyes are seeing. When it does, it clicks like the hammer on a gun. My heart plummets, panic hitting me in the chest like a nuclear payload.
“NO!” The bellow is more agony than words as I run for her. Her nude, battered body dangles over the banister of my bed by her neck as she thrashes. The choked, gurgling sounds coming from her worm their way into my marrow as I take her weight. Her desperate gasp for air is guttural, strained, my hands trembling, mirroring the shakiness in my core as I reach up, fingers fumbling as I try to release her collar from the chain.
“Why would you do that?” I choke out. My fingers slip on the clasp, working the leather collar off her neck, letting it fall to the ground.
She forces air through her lungs, blue edging her full lips as I lay her back on the bed. My eyes burn, her beautiful face blurring as I run my fingers over her bruising, bloody neck, scratched from where she clawed at the collar. “ Why ?”
I feel sick.
Imagines of bloody water and long, black hair assault me, making bile rise in my throat, but when I drag my mother’s stiff body from the water, her hair is blonde, and I’m met with wide, unseeing doe eyes.
Chloe
The world bubbles in tiny blips, my neck throbbing with each strum of my pulse, but I can smell him, sage and oak as he murmurs against my skin, his forehead pressing against mine. His words come in small waves as my brain releases the panic .
“You want to leave me that badly?” His gruff, tormented voice floods me with a rush of emotions, the weight of regret settling in my chest.
I try to look down at him, to see his face, but his hand stops me as he swallows hard, his breathing heavy and his heart pounding against my chest. “Why. Would. You. Do. That?
My voice is raw, hoarse as I sob. “I’m sorry. I—”
“W hat the fuck ?” He mumbles to himself, and for a second, I wonder if he’s even talking to me. It’s then that he lifts his head, tears glistening in molten hazel eyes.
“Master…”
He’s… oh God . My heart finds a way to further fragment as he stares down at me. The deity, the infallible man, looks every bit as broken as I feel. My chest lurches, because I can see it…
The I love you too , but this version is twisted and miserable.
“I didn’t want to leave you; I changed my mind,” I sob. “I changed my mind.” It was too late; those horrifying moments had lasted forever. I couldn’t pull myself up.
He jerks away from me as I sit there, forcing air through comprised lungs. Each breath feels like shards of glass. I watch him through blurry eyes as he snaps. “Always fucking crying! Always so fucking sad. You’re so much like her, I can’t stand it!” He yells, his hands tangling in his wet hair, tugging. “You belong to me! You have no fucking right to leave!”
I want to ask who, to say anything, but I don’t. My body trembles with the pain, and he’s…scaring me. He looks so…wounded. I clench my chest as a bizarre, broken laugh bubbles up his throat.
He’s stopped pacing, bracing himself against the wall by the wardrobe, his muscles heaving and flexing below his tattooed skin. My body fails me as I try to stand, try to go to him. I crumple beside the bed instead. Every muscle and ligament in my body screams for mercy as I crawl to him, sobbing. “You hurt me, and then you left me alone .”
When he turns around, the broken, abused piece of my heart warms, because he loves me.
My master loves me.
Say it.
Tell me and end this.
He clears his throat, a single tear escaping, running down his sculpted cheek, disappearing into his stubble before his eyes are wiped clean. It’s like a switch deep inside him is flicked off. It’s then that my eyes dip, bleak acceptance settling in my gut as his serpent ring glistens. His fist tightens around the cane with so much force, his knuckles go white. He lifts my chin with it, studying my face as he hardens himself, closes himself off to me again. It’s nearly as painful as the words scribbled on my flesh.
My eyes dart nervously to the cane as he lowers it, resting the cool wooden veneer on my hand, the shaking one that’s fanned out on the ground. My stomach rolls. My sobs start anew, because we both know what he’s about to do. The wounded man from moments ago is gone, like he’d never even existed. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe I never saw anything in his eyes at all. Maybe I’m further gone than I thought.
“Only I decide when your suffering ends. Am I understood?”
“Yes,” I sniffle, closing my eyes and trying to breathe through my stuffy nose.
All I hear next is the whistle of the cane cutting through the air, the sickening crack that fills the room, and my answering scream escaping through barred and gritted teeth.