26. Roman
ROMAN
I leave the other three curled up together on the bed, all sound asleep.
It’s still early evening, and we haven’t even eaten, but none of us slept last night.
I imagine Ophelia had been terrified in that facility, and we’d been traveling and making plans to free her, so other than a couple of short naps when someone else had been driving, we’ve all been sleep deprived.
I throw on my pants and slip out of the room, unsure where I’m even going. I want to take a walk around the perimeter and make sure nothing looks out of place. We’re safe here, but that nagging feeling we might not be persists.
I’m worried about our future. What the hell are we going to do from here?
We can’t stay at the safehouse forever. While it might be fine for a week or two, we’ll outstay our welcome pretty damn fast. If we’re gone from college too long, the dean will contact our families to let them know we’re missing.
That won’t go down well either. Will we be kicked out when the dean finds out we kidnapped Ophelia from the facility?
Can it even be called kidnapping if she wanted to come with us? She is an adult, after all.
There’s a part of me that wants us all to just run. We have money and connections. We’ll be able to get fake passports and leave the country. As long as we’re all together, that’s all that matters.
I tell myself that, but I know it’s not the truth.
At least not for the others. I wouldn’t care if I never saw my family again, but they won’t all feel the same way.
Ophelia went missing once before. She wouldn’t put her parents through that kind of hell again.
While her father might deserve it, especially after committing her to that hellhole of a facility, her mother seems like a good person.
Ophelia will know that her mom most likely wouldn’t survive her going missing again.
Of course, she could call her mother once we’re safely settled somewhere new to let her know she’s okay, but I still think she’d find it hard never to see her in person again, and even a phone call could give someone a clue to where we were.
No, we’re going to have to face up to what’s coming, though fuck knows how we’re going to do that and not lose Ophelia.
Thoughts of her take me back to us being in bed together earlier.
I feel like shit that I wasn’t gentler with her. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Everything, is the answer that comes back. I’m fucking broken.
I had the crazy idea that Ophelia could fix me, and I could fix her in return, but what if I end up dragging her right down with me?
What if we both make ourselves worse with what we’re doing?
It’s a dangerous game we’re playing. We all have demons inside us that could crawl right out into the open if we let them.
I wish I had my knotted rope with me. There’s nothing I want to do more right now than kneel in the woods, naked, and use the lashes on my back.
I need to repent for everything—for the violence that lies so deep inside me I can’t control, and how my need for Ophelia takes over all rational thought.
I didn’t think I was that kind of man, but I’ve proven myself wrong.
Am I more like my father—and maybe even my uncle—than I’d like to admit? The thought makes me sick to my stomach. I have to do something about this tension spiraling in me.
There must be something in this house I can use.
I wander from room to room, checking inside each of them.
I reach a door and open it, to discover a staircase going down.
I reach for a light switch and turn it on.
The space floods with light, and I slowly navigate the stairs.
The huge cellar has been converted into an at-home gym.
There’s a flat screen television embedded into one of the walls, and large speakers in every corner.
The sides of the room are filled with weight machines and cross trainers and treadmills.
The middle has mats and free weights. Something catches my eye.
It's a jump rope.
I cross the space and pick it up. The rope is just the right thickness and weight. Experimentally, I tie a knot in its length and pull it tight. It feels right. I tie another, and another, until half the rope has knots at intervals along its length.
I consider going outside, so I can put my knees in the dirt and lift my face to the sky, but I’m aware of the guards patrolling the perimeter, and I’d be humiliated if one of them saw me.
This is personal, between me and the gods, and, although I’d prefer to be outside and at one with nature, keeping this ritual respectfully private matters more.
I get to my knees on the mat.
The wall directly in front of me is lined with mirrors.
I catch sight of myself on my knees, my blond hair falling onto my face, the jump rope clutched in one white-knuckled hand.
There’s a wildness to my eyes I’m not sure I recognize.
Perhaps Ophelia and the others would be better off without me. They treat her far better than I do.
I don’t even ask the gods for strength, or my ancestors for guidance. It feels like I’d be insulting them to do so.
I grit my teeth and lash the knotted rope across my bare back. I jerk at the impact, arching my spine and throwing my head back. The flash of pain ricochets through me, and I clamp my jaw shut to hold back the yell threatening to burst from my mouth.
Before the sting fades, I bring the rope down hard on my back again. It strikes the same spot, and the pain deepens. Fuck, yes. I hold back a groan.
My cock gets harder, but I can’t take care of myself here, on this mat, can I? That’s so degrading. Why should I, when I have a bed full of people upstairs who I should be able to go to? I could slide into the bed while Ophelia is still naked and asleep and push inside her pussy without waking her.
Gods, there I go again. What the fuck is wrong with me? That is the sort of shit my uncle would do. I’m disgusting.
Whack. I hit myself again.
I groan once more, a painful, pitiful sound.
I can’t do that sort of shit. Not only because Ophelia deserves better or because it makes me like my uncle, but also because if I get into bed shirtless, someone is going to notice all the marks on my back.
They’re not bleeding, but I’m sure if I twist to look over my shoulder in the mirror, I’ll discover there are welts.
Ophelia and the other Preachers will ask questions, and how am I supposed to answer them? Why do I do this to myself?
To punish myself, yes. But also, because, deep down, it feels good. It gives me the kind of release I get from an orgasm, but without the deep-rooted shame that still lingers.
No, that’s not entirely right. I do feel shameful about doing this, clearly, or I’d let the others see, but it’s a different kind of shame. I can’t link this to anyone else, and it doesn’t bring back memories I’ve tried desperately to block out.
Sick of my carousel of thoughts, I try to close down my internal monologue the only way I know how.
I hit myself again and again, until all I know is the pain and the flare of bright heat in my skin. I hit myself until all rational thought leaves my head and finally, I find peace. I let the rope fall from my grip and try not to see the red patches of blood marring the white fibers.
Breathing hard, I drop onto my side on the mat. I let my eyes slip shut and curl into the fetal position as blessed oblivion takes over.