Chapter 17
Seraphina
“Mama? Where are you? Answer me, mama!”
I’m awake and it’s the middle of the night. At first, I thought I’d been woken by the cold. There’s a violent snowstorm, the heater’s broken, and my blanket is so thin and patched up, it’s nearly useless.
But no, something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.
Usually, I know better than to go wandering around at night, especially with the Monster’s room just next door. But tonight, I have no choice.
The only sound in the house is his deep, rumbling snoring. I can’t hear Mama at all.
I slip out of my room and go to the small living room that doubles as a kitchen, hugging my thin sweater to me. The room is empty. I peek out the window, and notice that the old beat-up car is gone.
Mama took it. Where could she have gone?
She never leaves me alone at night. I may be fourteen, but she still views me as a child. The thing is, I view her as one as well. She’s a helpless, romantic daydreamer who warns me about men but goes running off to them like some teenager.
I hesitate before grabbing a steak knife from the kitchen drawer. Slipping it into a plastic bag, I get into my old parka, put my feet into my worn sneakers, and head out.
I follow the tire marks in the snow until the last of my doubt vanishes. I know where she went.
I hurry down the snowy streets, calling out Mama’s name, but I have a feeling it’s too late. She’s returned to him. The Beast.
She’d fled from him to the Monster’s lair, lured on by dreams of a better life for her only daughter. But I know how cruelly her illusions have been dashed. I was expecting it, but I didn’t think it would be so swift.
Not one month after moving in with the Monster, she’s returned to the Beast. She’s probably begging him for mercy as we speak.
What’s wrong with Mama? Doesn’t she know what awaits her there? The Beast is not a merciful man.
By now, I’m running, my cheap sneakers sliding along the icy streets.
At last, I reach the Beast’s house and bang on his door. But when he opens it, leering down at me, his fists clenched by his side, I already know it’s too late.
-
I wake in a cold sweat, my heart hammering. I glance at the clock by the nightstand and see it’s eleven a.m. I vaguely remember falling asleep in Damien’s arms, but he’s gone now.
I open my eyes, willing the images that scorch my mind to disappear. It’s hard to reconcile the pleasure I experienced at Damien’s hands with the images that haunt my nightmares.
The Beast, his eyes glinting at me, his fists red with blood.
The Monster, waiting outside my door, the door I try to barricade every night by piling everything I own against it.
But I don’t own much. And he’s strong. So strong.
Another image bursts into my mind then. Logan, gloating at me on the boat, drinking his beer, laughing as I drown.
But the dreams that terrorize my nights and the thoughts that haunt my days always end with Damien, his face staring down at mine, cold, cruel, and every so often, intolerably gentle. He’s the one I want. The only one I’ve ever wanted. But I never know what’s going on behind his dark eyes.
I’m starting to understand Mama better. I understand why she surrendered, first to the Beast, then to the Monster. It’s far too easy to let ourselves hope. When really, all men are the same.
They take what they want, then leave us lying in the dirt.
Mama’s oft-repeated warning sounds like a refrain in my mind.
But not Damien. Never Damien.
He cares for me. Somewhere, deep inside, he cares. I can feel it. It must be true.
He’s not like them. He just isn’t.
Still, something inside me aches, and I find myself folding my body over a pillow, trying to comfort myself, to ease the pain that’s buried deep within me.
He knows how to pleasure me, but that doesn’t mean he cares. He’s not like the Peter Pan in my storybook. He won’t protect me. He’ll never hold me all night long and make the bad dreams go away. He would never care enough to ask about them. Not that I would tell him, anyway.
-
The next day, I wake up with a renewed sense of purpose.
I’m sick of wallowing in self-pity, of spending my time staring at walls and phones.
Today, I won’t mope about the apartment all day.
I’m going to put on one of the nicer dresses, and I’ll wear makeup.
I don’t usually wear any, but I noticed a cosmetics bag in one of the drawers.
I’ll conceal my haunted look, and maybe if he finds me more attractive, he’ll come see me… and he’ll stay, this time.
Then I’ll read, I’ll write, I’ll do something. This morning, the little red light is blinking again, so I know the cameras are on. But maybe that little red light doesn’t mean anything. Maybe the cameras have been on this whole time. Maybe Damien knows.
Just as quickly as the intrusive thoughts worm their way up, I quash them down again. No, Damien doesn’t know. The cameras were down. Now that they’re on again, he’ll watch me on them and be proud of me. He won’t see me as a sad, passive jellyfish. He’ll stay.
After a burning hot shower, I get dressed carefully.
I do my best to apply makeup, trying to force out the intrusive thoughts when my eyes flit over to the blinking camera.
It reminds me of the other night. Of the suspicions I’ve done my best since then to suppress.
The light wasn’t blinking, the cameras weren’t recording, Damien didn’t know.
Logan threw me in the Oakley River, but Damien didn’t know.
The ugly anxiety is right there under the surface. I manage to stave it off with what’s become a constant refrain. Damien doesn’t know. Damien held me in his arms. I mean something to him. Damien doesn’t know.
Yet he was gone yesterday morning when I woke up. He didn’t stay.
Maybe he does know.
My finger trembles, the mascara smudging.
I grunt in frustration. I had woken up with a resolve, and it’s already wavering.
With hesitant hands, I manage to finish my makeup. It doesn’t look great, but it’ll do. A dash of mascara, some concealer to try to hide the dark circles under my eyes, some blush to make me look less like a zombie. I can’t tell if it’s not enough, or if I’ve overdone it.
I run a brush over my hair, and this time I don’t give up until it’s been combed into submission. The brushed-out curls make my hair look puffy, but at least there are no more knots.
Then I go to the living room. I take out one book after another, but none of them capture my attention. So, I find an empty notebook and pen. Maybe I can start a diary. That would be something to do. I try to jot down a few thoughts, but nothing comes to mind.
Frustrated, I toss the notebook to the floor. I guess I’ll watch some TV. Somehow, I never thought to do that before, even though it’s probably the best way to while away the time. But I guess I’ve always been too deep into my thoughts to think about turning it on.
Settling back on the couch, I reach for the remote control on the side table.
At once, the phone rings.
I jump up, my heart thudding in my chest. I can’t bring myself to go pick it up. The only time it rang, it was because I was in trouble. I don’t want a phone call. I want him.
I wait, frozen, for the ringing to stop. I hear the vague, tin sound of an answering machine. And then the rings start again.
The renewed sound forces me out of my torpor. I rush to the bedroom and pick up.
The voice at the other end begins to speak before I’ve even had time to say hello.
“Go to the bathroom and take off that makeup.” Damien’s voice, warm and low, comes through.
Surprise quickly turns to anger that rises in my throat. I did this for him, and now he wants me to take it off. I clench my fists.
“No.”
There’s a slight pause, and then a low chuckle. “No?”
He sounds amused. And just a little taken aback.
“Come and take it off me, if it means so much to you.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Are we feeling a little rebellious this morning, my pet?”
That word—pet—that I usually cling to hungrily now sits heavy in the pit of my stomach.
The intrusive thoughts are back, and they’re louder than ever.
He barely ever comes to see me, yet he spends his time watching me on the cameras.
He keeps such a close eye on me that he knows the minute I’ve put makeup on, and yet somehow, he has no idea Logan nearly drowned me.
Damien doesn’t know. But he does. He must know. Damien knows.
“I don’t matter to you,” I blurt out. “I don’t see why putting makeup on should matter either.”
The third pause is a lot heavier, and I clutch the side of the table, hating myself for having said those words.
At last, he speaks again, in a neutral tone that betrays nothing. “I’m coming down.”
-
I wait for him on the edge of the bed, my hands clutched in my lap. I wonder if he’s angry. I wonder if he’ll punish me. That’s often the reason he gives for his visits. Though somehow, the things he does to me never feel like real punishments.
Well, he did dangle me off the balcony.
Panic swells in me, wondering what he’s planning now. Wondering if he’ll hurt me by showing me just how little he cares, just when I’d started to hope he did.
He must care. He held me in his arms until I fell asleep.
But he didn’t stay.
He knows. Damien knows.
I’m brought out of the downward spiral of my thoughts by the sound of a key turning in the lock. I stand up, then sit back down at once, the room tilting around me.
But he knows where I am. He’s been watching, as usual.
He opens the bedroom door and walks straight toward me. His face is as neutral as his voice was moments before. He draws near, and before I can say a thing, he’s lifted me in his arms and brought me to the bathroom. There, he sets me down again.
“What are you going to do?” I breathe.
“Take off your makeup. Isn’t that what you asked of me?”
My heart sinks. He’s angry. I can tell by his cold voice.