Chapter 22 #2
She lets go of me, and I jump up, aiming to run, and then—
A loud bang.
A bullet rushes past me and hits the wall next to the bathroom door. It is the first time I feel fear. Real fear.
Adrenaline spreads through my system as I lunge to the floor and hit the concrete painfully.
She grasps me by the legs and pulls me back over the floor.
“You know, these were El’s,” she says as she wraps the rope around my legs and ties them close.
“Amelie, please, stop, this isn’t you!”
“Oh, this is me,” she says. “You just haven’t met me.”
“I have met you, you are caring and kind, and this is just grief, pain, and anger about what happened. It needs an outlet—“
She pulls me up by the hair. I scream from the pain and try to get a grip on her wrists and scratch her.
She laughs and wraps her arm around my throat from behind.
“Exactly,” she says.
Her arm tightens, compressing my throat—I can’t breathe—
I fight. Scratch. Wiggle. But she doesn’t care. She is strong. She is muscular. Trained.
Trained.
I don’t even want to imagine what she must’ve gone through to have this version of her in her.
Suddenly, she lets go, and she pushes me onto the bed.
Before I can do anything, she locks my hands with her grip, wraps rope around my wrists, and ties them so tight that they become white.
“You want to talk about how I feel?” she asks me, leaning above me and arching my head back by the hair. “Try talking now.”
She shoves fabric in my mouth and fixes it with a belt or something that she closes at the back of my head.
It’s the moment I panic.
Without my words, I am powerless.
A feeling that turns me on.
I am at her mercy. Only she has none right now.
I want to be here.
I want her to take control.
To do whatever she needs.
I want to be taken.
What a messed-up thing to say, I think to myself, and then my pants are being pulled down. My mind turns off—in a good way.
Her hand slaps on my ass, painfully, but my core burns.
I scream into the fabric in my mouth from the pain.
She slaps again. I scream.
Heat surges through me.
I want her to fuck me.
Nothing happens for a moment. I glance around, but I don’t see her.
I try to turn around, but before I can, I am pushed back into the sheets, face forward.
“Lie still,” she says, and presses the gun to my head.
It’s the first time I realize how off the rails she is.
But I don’t get to end that thought, because the next slap that hits my butt, and the pain it causes, is beyond anything I have ever felt. It wasn’t with her hand, but something hard. Very hard.
I scream.
And scream.
Tears flood my eyes with the muffled screams from the cloth in my mouth, and while it hurts like shit, I get wetter by the minute.
“That is how I feel,” she says and hits me again. “There is nothing but pain and emptiness in me, and I am unable to escape it.”
Smack.
I scream again.
“I scream, too,” she says. “But you don’t hear it, because I was silenced.”
Smack.
She doesn’t stop.
The pain, the desparation in her won’t let her.
I lie exhausted on the sheets when she is finally done. My butt burns as if I have sat on a hot stove, and all I want is for her to touch me. I want to feel her. I want to grasp her, hold her, fuck with her.
A loud metallic sound rips me from my state. A pan circles on the concrete floor, coming to rest.
With my last bit of power, I bring my elbows under my body, push my upper body just a bit, and turn my head.
She leans against a drawer, a bottle of whiskey in her hand, and a plate with cocaine on it next to her, right where the gun lies.
Her eyes are so hollow.
I push myself higher and sit—
I groan in pain. But I do sit. I have to. I look at her. The woman who isn’t Amelie right now. The woman I know. She has lost touch with her, and maybe that’s exactly what draws me in.
We’re playing roles right now. I’m not me. She is not her.
My wrists might be tied, but I can grasp the buckle of the leather belt around my head and open it.
I pull the cloth out of my mouth.
She watches my every move, her eyes blank. She isn’t stopping me.
Next, I fumble open the rope around my ankles.
It’s not easy with the hands tied up, but after several minutes, it finally opens.
She just watches me.
Takes another gulp.
The rope falls to the ground.
“Stop,” she says.
But I don’t.
“I want you to lick me,” I say, and open my legs. The words came from my mouth unplanned, but I need her. I need to feel her. And release what has built up in me.
She laughs derogatorily.
“I mean it,” I say.
“Lick me.”
“Fuck me.”
Her head twitches slightly.
“Take me.”
She draws back her shoulders. It’s working.
One more—
“Destroy me,” I say.
It was the one more thing needed.
She walks over to me, kneels on the bed with one leg between mine. Her hand snaps forcefully around my throat, and she pushes me back into the sheets with her weight.
“I hope you will hate me after this,” she says, and lets go of me. “Don’t you dare fucking move.”
I hope you will hate me after this.
Her words resound in my mind.
She is trying to drive me away.
All of this.
It is an act.
An act to make me hate her, so I leave her alone. She wants to be the villain in my story, so that she doesn’t have to feel bad for driving me away.
But I won’t let her.
I lay still as she slides her hand down between my legs.
She chuckles darkly.
“Are you enjoying this?” she asks.
I don’t answer. Because part of me does. And I am scared of that part.
I know that my clit is swollen, and I am wet.
She slides two fingers into me. I gasp. Three fingers. I gasp again. Four.
It gets uncomfortable, and I move away.
“I said don’t move,” she says dangerously. “I am going to fist you, you will not move away, you won’t make a sound. You will lie still, and don’t complain.”
She positions herself, and her hand pushes against my entrance. She pushes against it, again and again. Until—pain.
I want to scream. But I can’t. I am not allowed to.
So I give up and in.