38. Chapter 37
Chapter 37
Leon Aldon
Maeve’s head falls limp on my chest shortly after I pick her up to bring her back inside.
Realistically, I know her body was too exhausted to beat me, but she was up for the challenge and I was up for the chase.
And boy, do I not regret a single thing that happened.
My angelic girl looked beautiful as she ran through the field and the forest, looking terrified, exhausted, and aroused.
Even in crappy sweatpants and a loose-fitted t-shirt, I was hard as a fucking rock watching her run and seeing her bun continue to loosen a little with each step until her gorgeous brown hair was simply a mess of waves all over the place.
Even better than getting to fuck her ass is the permanent reminder of tonight, the adorable silver hoop through her clit.
I’m so glad that it worked out how it did. I had been practicing that for a while with a little silicone practice mold, but I couldn’t be sure that she had the proper anatomy until I got up close and personal with her.
I get Maeve inside and lay her in our bed, but I’m not ready to sleep yet. I still have a handful of things to get done before I’m able to join her.
I clean up the little bit of a mess we’ve made from our day on the couch and put away all of the delivered groceries that had been left in insulated bags on my porch about ten minutes ago.
I could not have timed that more perfectly if I had tried.
I also spend an embarrassingly long time scrubbing the entire kitchen and throwing away anything and everything that could possibly be contaminated.
I refuse to let my girl get sick again due to my carelessness, but at least I know that if it happens again, I know exactly how to help her.
Not that I ever plan to have a repeat of today.
Once the house is in order, my notes are finished, and my computer is put away, I decide it’s finally time to get a little sleep.
I have to head into work tomorrow, and it’ll likely be a long day with how many appointments I had to miss today on such short notice.
It would have been easier if my patients were willing to see another psychiatrist in the office, but they only trust me. It’s an unfortunate flaw of being the best, I suppose.
I take a quick shower, cranking the water far too hot to scrub away the layers of sweat from my chase and from sweating my ass off all day in front of the fireplace, and throw on some clean pajamas.
I’m still kind of hot, so I’m settling with a simple t-shirt and a pair of boxers, anything else and I think I’d melt.
I leave my leg off, figuring I can carry it with me and hold onto the dresser on my way to bed. I need a break from this damn leg; it’s hurting too badly to be willing to wear it any more than I have to.
I make my way out of the bathroom, my leg in one hand and the doorframe in the other as I hop out of the bathroom and reach for the dresser.
I’m trying my best to be quiet, I don’t want to wake Maeve and piss her off anymore than I’m sure I have tonight.
Although I can’t say for sure how she’s feeling about what conspired since she passed out before she had the chance to tell me anything, I'm sure I’ll hear about it tomorrow.
When I reach to turn off the bathroom light, I drop my leg, making a deafening noise as it bounces off the tile floor and into the bedroom.
Fuck.
Maeve shoots her head up, staring at me groggily. "What are you doing?" She asks me.
I can tell she was sound asleep before I ruined that, her voice is still thick with sleep.
"I'm sorry, fleur. I was just trying to get to bed." I explain quietly, hoping that she'll just roll over and go back to sleep.
Of course she doesn't. She looks down at my stump and back up to my face. "Where's your leg?" She asks me.
I grip onto the doorframe of the bathroom, leaning down to pick up my prosthesis and show it to her. "Giving my leg a break, I'm sorry I woke you." I tell her.
I figure that will be it, that she'll roll over and ignore me, but she doesn't. She hops out of bed and walks over to me, putting herself under my arm so I can use her as a crutch to get to bed.
I wrap my arm around her, squeezing her shoulder lightly as I clutch onto her and we make our way to bed.
I didn't expect her to help me. I didn't expect her to care enough to even look my way, but this girl keeps surprising me, every time I think I have her figured out I find another layer to her.
Once we're both situated in bed, I find myself just staring at the ceiling and wishing I could fall asleep. I hear that Maeve is having the same predicament as me, tossing and turning and letting out the occasional sigh.
"Why did you help me?" I ask her after a while.
I hear her rustle a little and when I turn my head she's rolling onto her side to face me.
So, I do the same and face this beautiful woman sharing our bed.
"I like when you're not perfect. It humanizes you." She says quietly.
I have to hold back the laugh. My woman thinks I'm perfect. "I'm not perfect, I'm so far from it ma fleur." I tell her, smiling casually at her.
She rolls her eyes at me. "You are, it's intimidating. It's even worse when you're being so nice to me and then casually remind me that I have no say in anything anymore. It's so dehumanizing." She says sadly. She even breaks eye contact with me, staring at a thread that she's absent-mindedly playing with on the pillowcase.
I didn't realize that was how I was making her feel, it's not how I wanted her to feel. I don't want her to be delusional to think that we're here under normal circumstances, but I don't want her to think that she is a prisoner. I want her to make this home hers, I want her to make me her home.
"That was never my intention, Maeve. I'm sorry." I tell her genuinely.
She doesn't make eye contact with me, she keeps her focus on that single string on the pillowcase. It's honestly killing me that she wont look at me, but I think I've fucked up enough for one night so I'm not about to point it out or demand that she look at me.
"It doesn't matter what your intention was. I get it, loud and clear. I'm a prisoner. I'm not my own person anymore." She says quietly.
She shifts again, rolling onto her other side and away from me. I hate that I can't look at her beautiful face, I hate that she turned away from me. I reach for her, putting my hand on her back, but I back away when I feel her flinch to my touch.
I have to give her something, I have to prove to her that I'm not perfect, that I'm just a guy who wants to earn her love and trust. I sigh roughly, scrubbing a hand down my face and rolling back onto my back to stare up at the ceiling.
"My mother was a medical researcher. She worked for some super private company that created very controversial medicines, most of them used for torture and not medical benefits." I start with.
When Maeve doesn't respond to me, I continue.
I can tell that she's awake, that she's listening, so I have to get this all out in the open now before I lose my nerve and never tell her. "My mother was the head researcher. She made the bad shit, stuff the government would never admit to funding. The things that you'd never get a willing test subject to experiment on, so she used me." I explain to her.
Maeve doesn't move, but she does ask why. At least I know she's listening. "Money. She would strap me down and try out these treatments on me. The first time was when I was eight. She thought she created a serum to enhance vision past 20-20. That's why one eye is silver, it took all the color from my eye, but it worked. I can see at night, I can see far too far away, and my peripheral vision is enhanced on that side." I explain.
“So that’s how you were able to catch me? That’s cheating.” Maeve says casually, but she keeps her back to me as she speaks.
Whatever, I’ll take it; at least she’s speaking.
I chuckle lightly and roll my eyes at her. “No, you just suck at running. Please never go anywhere that you may actually have to run, you’d be doomed and then I’d be doomed from having to carry you off.” I tease.
Maeve quickly rolls onto her back and I can see the ghost of a smile on her face, hidden behind pure stubbornness. “You won’t let me go anywhere, remember? And where would I possibly go that I’d need to run?” She asks sincerely.
Okay, that’s fair, but maybe it’s for her own good that she can’t go anywhere. “It’s a dangerous world, ma fleur. Concerts, theme parks, the fair, school, none of it is safe and you run like an idiot.” I tease.
Maeve reaches over and smacks my chest, glaring at me as convincingly as she can, it’s not very. “Jerk.” She mumbles.
But then the silence hangs over us for a moment and her face grows more serious. “First time?” She finally asks.
I knew that was coming, but I’m still not sure how much to tell her, but I have to get it out before I lose my nerve and the subject never comes up again.
“Yes, the first time. She would do little experiments over the years, nothing too major for a while after the eye. Not until she thought she found a serum to make someone unable to feel pain. She gave that to me when I was 11, then proceeded to strap me to a table and cut my chest open like an autopsy while I was awake. She even cut three ribs out of my chest. The serum didn't work. I felt everything and the serum didn't even let me pass out from the pain, so I guess to her it was a success in another way. It was a creative form of torture." I tell her.
My chest aches with the memory of my mother putting a mouth guard in my mouth and going to town on my chest with a bone saw.
I wish that serum had worked, that I wouldn't have had to feel the pain of her cracking my sternum open and looking inside for no reason other than to torment me and to get her sick joy out of my misery.
Maeve finally rolls over onto her other side to look at me, but I'm not looking at her. I can't, not yet. Not until I get this all out in the open. "I'm sorry." She says quietly.
I nod, but I have to continue. "When I was 14, she thought she'd created a serum to make sleep obsolete. She strapped me to a table and gave me the medicine in a constant IV. She observed how I slowly lost my mind from being so tired. On the 16th day, she let me out of my restraints to see what I would do. I didn't know what was going on, nothing made sense, I wasn't in my right frame of mind. I ran into her office and grabbed that same bone saw that split my chest open and cut my leg off. She didn't even stop me until I passed out." I tell her.
She gasps at my story, her hand going over her mouth in horror at what my mother had done to me. I get it; I would be horrified, too if I wasn't numb to what she'd done.
Now the only time I feel anything other than pain and hate is when Maeve lets me see the small parts of her that the rest of the world misses out on.
The only time I feel anything good is when I'm with her.
"She should be in prison. Is she?" Maeve asks quietly.
I sigh and shake my head; here comes the confession that will sicken her. "I killed her." I admit.
"Good. She deserved it." She blurts out.
I can't even help the little laugh that I give. My girl who won't eat meat because animals suffer is glad that I killed my mother, it's adorable honestly. "She did. I didn't mean to do it, though." I say.
"Then why did you?" She asks.
I shrug slightly, I don't regret killing my mother, but it was an accident. One that I know I never would have had the guts to do on my own. It was what framed me into the killer that I am today.
"She was working on a temporary medication to make men infertile and impotent. One that could be given to rapists and pedophiles until they've been deemed they're no longer a threat, then they could get another shot to restore function. She wanted to try it on me, but I was 16, I didn't want to risk losing that. And I definitely didn't want my mother to shoot a needle in my balls." I say with a laugh, one that Maeve reciprocates.
"I ran from her, obviously, but she chased me through the house. I ran up the stairs to lock myself in my room and when she grabbed onto my shirt, I shoved her. She fell down the stairs and broke her back. She wasn't dead, but she couldn't move. I didn't want to go to prison, so I walked down the stairs and snapped her neck while she told me I would die for doing this to her. Then I called the police and said she fell." I explain.
There, it's all out.
Okay, not all.
Not the killings that I still do, but the shit with my mother is out there and it will have to be enough, for now.
"I was hysterical when it happened, they had to put me in a psychiatric facility for two months because I couldn't figure out how I felt about it. On one hand, I was distraught that my mom was dead and that I killed her. On the other hand, I was relieved but confused that I felt relieved." I explain.
I won't go into more details than that, but that fucking facility was more traumatizing than killing my own mom.
She doesn't need to know that.
She doesn't need to know how broken I was at 16 or how, to this day, I'm still not sure if I'm whole.
Maeve surprises me by taking my hand and linking our fingers. "I'm sorry." She repeats.
I just nod, my eyes fixated on the ceiling.
Some days I don't feel like a person.
I feel like a monster that my mother created, and I hate that.
I hate to think about the man that I could have been today if I was whole. He slowly started to shrivel and die when my mother made me her test subject. I finally killed him the day I killed my mother.
I wouldn't recognize that man if he were standing in front of me right now.
I bet Maeve would have preferred the man I should have been. He wouldn't have fed her food that made her sick. He wouldn't have had to kidnap her so she'd love him.
She would be better off with him, but he's been gone for a very long time. "Me too, ma fleur." I say after a long silence.
I don't know if I'm apologizing for what I'm doing to her or if I'm just sorry about what happened to me.
Probably both.
“Why do you call me that?” She asks quietly and I can tell that she’s fighting off sleep again, but we’ve already made it this far in our little confession game, why not tell her what she wants to know?
“I told you, my love, it’s french.” I remind her, although I know she was drunk when I told her that.
She gives me a little huff, but her eyes are locked onto mine, even as they get heavier. “Are you French?” She asks.
I shake my head, smiling just a little bit at the very few and faint memories of my childhood that weren’t all bad. “No, ma fleur. My mother was a single mom, my dad ran off before I was even born and it was her researchers and assistants who helped raise me. One of her interns basically raised me, her name was Lya, she was from France. She taught me French, took care of me when my mother couldn’t be bothered, and reassured me that the things my mother did weren’t my fault.” I admit.
Lya was more of my mom than my own mother was. She did her best to stop my mothers torment while trying to stay on her good side enough to keep her job, if only for my sake, but she eventually failed.
When my mother cut me open and removed my ribs, Lya went a little too far to protect me, and it cost her job and the only piece of safety that I had.
“Where did Lya go?” She asks curiously.
I love that she’s asking questions, it solidifies this belief that she either cares about me or that she could some day.
Why else would she give a shit about the woman who taught me French?
“She died, officially it was a car accident, but I’m not that naive.” I admit.
I know she was killed to keep the secrets safe, that she knew too much by working under my mother and that what she’d done and seen couldn’t make it out of the lab.
I know the only woman who ever stuck up for me was killed and that it was indirectly my fault.