Chapter 72 Elliot
Elliot
It’s been a wonderful week. Work was wonderful, and the weekend is off to a wonderful start.
It’s a beautiful day today. A beautiful, beautiful day.
It’s crisp, but the sun is shining. We’ve just dropped Sadie at home after taking her for a walk, and now Daddy…
I mean, Stuart, just told me he’s taking me out for a smoothie from Tumeric.
Hearing that put me in such a good mood that I’ve started bouncing around next to him.
I jump onto the low wall that runs along the west side of his property and skip along it.
“Careful,” he says.
“Don’t worry, Daddy. I have excellent balance.
You might not know this about me, but I used to do gymnastics when I was a kid.
I was incredibly talented, my coach wanted me to try for nationals…
” Hmm, it’s true my coach thought I had the potential to make a serious name for myself, but we ended up parting ways when I was consistently late for practice.
It might be best to change the subject before Stuart asks any questions.
“Did you know I can do a backflip in heels? It isn’t even that hard for me. ”
He sighs. “I don’t even want to know how you know you can do that.”
“Want to see me do a cartwheel? I can do it with one hand.”
“No silly buggers, Elliot,” he warns with serious heat. “The wall isn’t level.”
I hear him and have time to listen. I could, but I don’t. I want to cartwheel. I turn and throw myself forward, giving a smug little kick to add a little flare to my performance. The world tilts. Up becomes down. I take the full weight of my body onto one hand. I do it easily.
Stuart is going to be impressed as fuck.
Can’t wait to see the look on his face.
My left foot finds the wall with the sureness I remember well. The right, not so much. It makes contact with brick and then slips. The rest of me slips too. I land on my ass with enough force to knock the breath out of me.
“Elliot!” Stuart cries, rushing to me. “Don’t move!”
“I’m fine!” I reply quickly.
I try to push myself up, but he’s already at my side, crouching at eye level, holding my shoulders firmly.
“Did you bump your head?”
“No, I-I’m okay.” I feel a little disorientated and my elbow hurts like a bitch, but the flustered look on Stuart’s face gives me the impression it might be best not to mention that.
He clasps my head in both hands, cradling me gently, fanning through my hair as he searches for signs of damage. “Where does it hurt? Tell Daddy.”
“I’m okay, it’s no big deal. I’m not hurt.” I scramble to my feet. “Just got a fright. I was expecting to stick the landing. I always used to do it no prob—”
“Oh, baby,” he says, clapping a hand to his mouth. “You’re bleeding.”
Shit.
Guess he’s onto me about the arm thing.
He marches me inside, lifts me under my arms, and plonks me down on the kitchen counter. He pulls my sweater off and carefully examines the damage. I crane my head and twist my arm enough to see a big graze and a small cut just above my elbow. Half an inch at worst.
“Just needs a Band-Aid,” I say. “One of those big rectangular ones.”
Stuart ignores that and gets a massive first aid kit out.
He doesn’t charge around looking for it in a blind panic like my mom always used to when I hurt myself as a kid.
He knows exactly where it is—in the little cupboard above the fridge.
The tin looks new, white with a big red cross on it.
I can tell at a glance it’s a fully stocked kit with nary a dried-out Band-Aid or crusty, expired tube of ointment to be found.
It’s the nerdiest, dad-est thing I’ve ever seen, and God help me, I love it.
He lifts my arm gently and blows on my cut as he sprays three different kinds of disinfectant on it before winding a bandage tightly around my arm from just under my armpit all the way down to my wrist.
“We’re going straight to urgent care,” he says.
I grumble as he bundles me into the car and try to argue as he puts my seat belt on for me.
“I’m fiiine,” I say several times. He doesn’t reply and keeps driving, exceeding the speed limit by two miles an hour.
A record for him. “Look, Stuart, I’ve fallen a lot.
I can tell the difference between a cut that heals on its own and one that needs stitches. ”
“Thought you said you have excellent balance,” he says dryly.
“I do,” I reply calmly. “When I’m sober.”
He keeps his eyes on the road and lifts his left hand, a rare departure from the usual ten and two position, and pinches the bridge of his nose hard.
Nerves start to flutter and grow unpleasant when we get to urgent care.
It’s one of those overly square buildings with too few windows.
Blockish and ugly, painted a horrible peach color.
I hate it, and before I even step inside, I know I’m going to hate the way it smells too.
Too clean. Too impersonal. Like sticky hand sanitizer and blue latex gloves.
Stuart takes my good hand firmly and leads me inside.
It smells exactly how I thought it would, but worse.
Everything’s blue-white with hints of gray, and there are large fake plants all over the place.
No idea why. It doesn’t make it feel any better.
It’s not like anyone’s going to turn up here bleeding and sick and see a bunch of plastic plants and be fooled into thinking they’re on a tropical island.
I cower behind Stuart as we approach the woman at reception. This is exactly the kind of shit I hate. She’s going to have a fuckton of questions, I know it, and I’m not going to know most of the answers.
As it turns out, I don’t need to worry. Stuart answers all her questions for me, right down to my insurance details and social security number.
Say what you will about him, but when the man does an audit of a person’s finances, he’s thorough.
When he’s filled in reams of forms and gotten me to sign the last page, he hands them back to the receptionist and says, “Do you know how long it will be before someone can see him? He’s in a lot of pain. ”
“Oh, the poor thing,” she says, clearly well and truly charmed by Stuart, and I can’t say I blame her. “Let me see what I can do for you.”
With that, she’s gone and back less than a minute later with a bespectacled doctor in tow. I’m flat on my back on a rock-hard gurney before I have time to run for the door.
“As you can see, it’s a nasty cut,” says Stuart. “I think he needs stitches.”
“I’m fine, really. It’s one of those things that will easily heal on its own,” I say.
“I can tell. Definitely don’t think it needs stitches.
I’m kind of an expert on things that need stitches.
I’ve had a lot. Got some on my knee and some under my chin.
Actually, got them under my chin twice. Look, here and here.
” I tilt my head back and point. “I was what the stay-at-home moms in Carmel used to call a frequent flier in the ER when I was a kid.”
Yes, yes, I know I’m oversharing. No need to tell me. I’m well aware, thanks.
This is Oversharing Gould, in case you can’t piece it together.
Still, the point is I definitely don’t need stitches.
I’d bet my life on it.
“Hmm,” says the doctor. “It’s a small cut, but it’s deep. Three or four stiches, and you’ll be right as rain.”
Of course she’s going to side with Stuart. Have you seen the man?
I haven’t been in urgent care in a while on account of avoiding the place with my life, but the familiar churn of dread reminds me that I haven’t missed it at all.
The doctor leaves the room to fetch something else to add to her tray of torture equipment, and before I have time to beg Stuart to take me home, he leans over and brushes my hair out of my face.
He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand.
“Don’t be scared, baby,” he whispers. “Daddy’s here.”
We’re back home, and I’m on the sofa propped up on so many pillows I can barely move.
I have two throw blankets over my legs. Sadie is curled up beside me, and Stuart has pulled a small table up to the sofa, right near my good hand.
It’s laden with chocolates and chips, a glass of water, and a half-empty smoothie cup from Tumeric.
“Don’t even think about moving, young man,” Stuart warns when I try to get up.
“But what if I need something, Daddy?”
“Then you can ask me, and I’ll get it for you.”
He pulls the blankets up a little higher and tucks them tightly around my feet. “Has the local worn off yet?” I shake my head. “Let me know as soon as it does, and I’ll give you something for the pain. The most important thing now is that we manage the pain and avoid infection.”
He’s repeating the doctor’s words almost verbatim, but they have a very different effect on me coming from him. “After dinner, I’m taking you upstairs and giving you a bath, and I don’t want to hear a word about it.”
Hmm, Stuart’s big hands all over my body, scrubbing me clean…For some reason, I can’t quite find it in me to argue.
By the time it’s time for bed, I’m exhausted from all the attention, and for me, that’s saying something.
Once I’m tucked in with a pillow under my arm, two Tylenol, and a glass of water next to my bed in case I wake up during the night, I start feeling a little off.
The adrenaline and excitement of the fall and having the living fuck coddled out of me must be wearing off.
I feel a little shaky. Not shaky in my body, shaky in my mind.
Something occurred to me earlier, and now that I’ve thought of it, I can’t shake it.
There are lots of things about Stuart that I want and need.
Lots. But there’s one thing I need more than anything else.
One thing he promised. Right from the start, right from the first time he spanked me, he told me he was different from others I’ve counted on in the past. He said he follows through.
He always delivers. He said I could set my clock by him.
That’s what he said. He said it, and I’ve started doing it.
I’ve started to think I can count on him, to depend on him to do what he says he’s going to do.
Now I’m lying in bed, babied to within an inch of my life, and feeling like I’m dying at the same time.
He told me to stop. This morning, when I was on the wall, he told me not to do the cartwheel.
He told me. I heard him, and I ignored him.
I disobeyed him blatantly, a cut-and-dry case of silly buggers if ever I’ve seen one, and I hurt myself doing it.
Anyone could tell you that’s not what good boys are supposed to do.
Anyone. Stuart is supposed to mind. He’s supposed to notice, and he’s supposed to do something about it.
He’s supposed to deliver. He’s supposed to follow through no matter what.
He told me he would.
“I’m going to leave your door open. Mine too. If you need anything, call me. I don’t want you getting up without me here to help you.”
I nod weakly.
He ruffles my hair like always, but this time, instead of melting and wishing he’d stay, I pray for him to switch off the light and go away.
It feels like something inside me is collapsing.
A sinkhole dropping out of nowhere. A big, solid structure falling apart, breaking into pieces, shattered layer by layer.
As soon as darkness washes my room, I can’t hold it in anymore. My face crumples. Tears prickle, and it takes everything I have to stay silent and keep the sob that’s racking me in.
He stands at the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the frame. I’m not sure if he’s planning on staying there until I’ve fallen asleep, but in case he is, I lengthen my breathing in an effort to move him along.
A minute turns into two.
I start feeling exponentially worse. Worse than I’ve felt in years. Maybe worse than I can ever remember feeling.
“Elliot,” he says quietly when I’ve all but given up hope he’d speak.
“Right now, the most important thing is for you to get better. That’s the main thing, and nothing else matters until that happens.
” He pauses, considering his words carefully, taking his time to make sure he finds the right ones.
“But when it does, you and I are going to have a little talk about what happened this morning.”
My heart lurches, and I make a hideous guttural sound with something like a question mark at the end of it.
“I’m not going to get into it now because I want you to focus on healing, but I think it’s only fair to give you a warning.”
Hope and longing that border on madness flap wildly in my chest, clattering noisily, clouding my thoughts and blurring my vision. “W-what are you going to do to me, Daddy?”
He lets out a long, slow breath. “As soon as you’re better, you’re going to report to me in my study. I’m going to bare your bottom and bend you over…and I’m going to administer six strokes of the cane.”