Chapter 27 Lila
Lila
Trigger Warning: Non Consent, Recording Without Consent
Istand in the kitchen, staring at the coffeepot as it finishes its cycle.
The house is the same as it will always be.
Silent, sterile, cold. My hands are steady as I pour Eli’s coffee.
Two sugars, a splash of cream, just how he likes it.
I wipe the rim of the mug before picking it up, careful not to leave any spillage.
I carry the cup upstairs, every step rehearsed. Every footstep echoes, even the soft ones. Eli’s office door is closed. Always closed. I hold the coffee in one hand and knock with the other.
No answer. I wait. I listen. Nothing.
I count to five, then turn the knob. The office is dark except for the glow of Eli’s computer monitors.
There are several of them, angled so he can see everything at once.
The screensaver is off. He’s there, slouched in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt.
He doesn’t turn when I step inside, but I know he knows I’m there. The desk is dark wood, wiped clean. I see my own reflection in the screen: red hair pulled back, pale face, eyes already wide.
He’s watching something on one of the monitors. I see flashes of skin and movement, hear the faint, rhythmic moaning. He turns the volume up a notch, and the sound gets clearer. She’s not moaning, she’s crying.
“Set it down,” he says, not looking at me.
I place the coffee on a coaster at the edge of his desk. I keep my eyes down, but I can’t help seeing the screen. There’s a woman on her knees, her mouth wide open, her face streaked with makeup and tears. Eli doesn’t even bother to mute it. He just keeps watching.
I take a step back, toward the door. My breath is thin and tight in my chest.
“Stay,” he says. His voice is flat, bored, but there’s a sharp edge to it.
I stop, like I’ve hit an invisible wall.
He leans back in the chair and finally turns to face me. His eyes are glassy, cold, like the blue of winter sky. He looks me up and down, then back at the screen.
“You ever think about doing something like this?” he asks, nodding toward the monitor.
I shake my head before I can stop myself. “No.”
He smiles, but it’s not a smile. “Why not? You’ve got the mouth for it. Big lips, perfect for sucking cock. If you lost twenty pounds, you could probably make a living.”
I flinch, but he keeps going.
“Maybe that’s your true calling. God knows you’re not cut out for anything else. When’s the last time you made a dime on your own, Lila? Oh, that’s right. Never.”
The woman on the screen is still crying, but the man behind the camera just keeps pushing her head down and calling her names. Eli laughs under his breath, low and mean. “You think she’s faking? I bet she’s faking. You can always tell.”
I wish I could be anywhere but here. I wish I could close my ears to the sounds, close my eyes to the sight of him, but I can’t. I’m frozen, stuck in this spot like a bug on a pin.
He turns the chair, so he’s facing me square. He picks up the coffee and takes a sip, never breaking eye contact.
“You’re such a prude,” he says. “Such a stick-in-your-ass, bitch. No wonder your adoptive parents disowned you.”
My face burns. I want to leave. I want to run. But I just stand there, silent, hoping he’ll let me go.
He sets down the mug and stands up. He’s taller than me, so much bigger, but he moves slow, like a cat stalking something trapped. He closes the distance in two steps and stops with his chest inches from my face.
“Do you know how lucky you are?” he says, voice almost gentle. “Most women would kill to have a husband who lets her stay home. Most women would be grateful for what I give you. Instead, you mope around the house all day, reading your stupid books and pretending you’re too good for me.”
I shake my head. “What?”
“Don’t what me,” He grabs my chin, hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Don’t pretend. I know you think you’re better than me.”
His eyes are too close. I can see the flecks of gray around the pupil, the way his brow furrows when he’s angry. I can smell the coffee on his breath, sour and bitter.
“I’m sorry,” I say. It’s all I ever say.
He lets go of my face and laughs, then nods toward the screen. “You should watch. You might learn something.”
I don’t move.
He sighs, like I’m a disappointment. “Go ahead. Watch.”
I take a half-step backward. Not wanting to see any more.
His hand comes up behind me and grabs the back of my neck, shoving me forward. Then he presses close enough that I can feel the heat of his body. He puts one hand on my shoulder, the other on the small of my back.
“You see how she takes it?” he says. “No gagging, no whining. Maybe you should try being more like her.”
My hands start to shake. I grip the edge of the desk so I don’t fall over.
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “I could have married anyone, you know. But I picked you. I thought you’d be grateful. Turns out you’re just a fucking parasite.”
I flinch again, but he laughs. “You like that word? Parasite. It fits you.”
He presses his hips against me, and I can feel he’s hard.
I want to scream, but I know better. The last time I screamed, he locked me in the bathroom for two days.
No food, only tap water, and the smell of bleach.
My only company was his voice through the door, telling me over and over what a burden I was and how I should have just let him do what he wanted.
He slides his hand up under my shirt, fingers cold and rough. “You want to earn your keep for once?” He squeezes my breast so hard it hurts.
I shake my head, but he ignores it.
He pushes me forward, so my stomach hits the edge of the desk. The wood digs into my skin, hard enough to leave a mark. He keeps one hand on the back of my neck, pinning me down, while the other pulls at the waistband of my pants.
“Stop,” I say. My voice is small, weak. “Please.”
He laughs again. “You don’t get to say no. You’re my wife. You’re mine.”
He yanks my pants down, rough and fast, and I hear the snap of elastic. My legs go numb.
He bends me over the desk, presses his full weight on me, and whispers, “You should thank me. At least I still want you.”
The video on the screen keeps playing. The woman is still on her knees, her face a mess of tears and spit. I stare at the monitor, at the green progress bar moving across the bottom, and try to pretend I’m not here.
I’m trapped, and he’s not going to let me go.
He pushes my face into the wood, the surface smeared with breath and tears. His hands are everywhere. Yanking my shirt up, pinning my wrists behind my back, pulling my panties down with one hard, angry motion. The air is freezing against my skin, but his grip burns.
I try to squirm away, but he just presses harder, grinding my cheek into the wood until I taste blood in my mouth. He fumbles at his waistband, curses when he can’t get them down with one hand. He lets go of my wrists long enough to pull his sweatpants down.
I think about running, just for a second, but before I can even move he grabs me by the hair and slams my head down so hard my teeth clack together. He’s breathing fast, heavy, like an animal.
“You think you’re too good for me?” he spits. “You think you’re fucking better?”
He forces my legs apart with his knee, wood biting into my thighs. I hear the wet slap of his hand on my ass, then the scrape of his nails as he spreads me open. I’m shaking so hard I can barely stand. My knees buckle, but he holds me up.
I start to sob, quiet and helpless, and he laughs.
“See?” he says, voice low. “You’re just like the rest. Let’s put on a good show.”
He spits in his hand, rubs it on me. I know that’s not going to be enough lubrication. I know this is going to hurt. Then rams himself inside me, tearing me open in one brutal thrust. The pain is blinding, white-hot, and I scream before I can stop myself.
He clamps a hand over my mouth, muffling the sound, and hisses, “No screaming. You want the viewers to hear what a whore you are?”
Viewers? Tears stream down my face. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I just focus on the wood grain on the desk, the cold, the way my breath fogs and fades, fogs and fades.
“Look right there,” he shakes my head toward a camera set up on a tripod on the other side of the room. Right across from the desk with a full view of my body.
Put on a good show.
He fucks me with short, vicious thrusts, each one punctuated by another insult.
“Fat bitch.”
“Ungrateful cunt.”
“Fucking parasite.”
With every word, he slams into me harder. The edge of the desk cuts into my hip, the hardness of it biting through the thin cotton of my shirt. My skin will bruise, I know it, but I don’t care. All I want is for it to be over.
I try to go somewhere else. I stare at the photo on the wall in front of me, the only personal thing in the office.
It’s from our honeymoon, before the money, before the house, before he started hating me.
I’m smiling in the picture, standing in front of a courthouse in a white dress.
Eli is next to me, his arm around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder.
In the photo, he looks happy. I look happy. I try to remember what that felt like, but the memory won’t come.
He pulls out just long enough to spit on his hand again and smear it between my legs, then shoves back in, raw and burning. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming. The taste of blood is sharp, real, grounding.
My body goes limp now. I let him do what he wants. It’s easier that way. If I resist, he’ll just hurt me more.
He finishes fast, hips jerking against my ass, fingers digging so hard into my shoulders I know they’ll leave bruises. He shudders, grunts, then pulls out and lets me collapse onto the floor. My legs shake so badly, I can barely stand. I don’t move. I just stay there, staring at the photo.
He tucks himself back into his sweatpants, wiping his hands on my shirt before stepping away. He grabs the coffee, now cold, and takes another sip like nothing happened.
“You made a mess,” he says, voice flat. “Clean it up before you go.”
I don’t answer. I just pull up my panties, wincing at the pain, and reach for my pants on the floor. I hold them up, assessing the damage and then use them to wipe the mess from his desk and the floor.
Eli sits back down at the computer and keeps watching the video. The woman on the screen is still crying, still on her knees. I wonder if she ever got to leave. How long did she go through this?
I walk out of the office, legs numb, head spinning. The hallway is empty, the house silent except for the sound of Eli’s video changing to his voice calling me a whore. He recorded himself raping me and made it obvious that he plans to post it.
I make it to the bathroom before I puke. When I’m done, I rinse my mouth, wash my face, and stare at the girl in the mirror for a moment before I cover it with a towel. Her eyes were red, skin blotchy, lips swollen where his ring caught them. She looked weak. Pathetic.
I ball up my ruined pants and hide them at the bottom of the trash. I put on a fresh pair, smooth my hair, and try to erase the last half hour from my mind. Thanking whatever god out there that hasn’t allowed Eli to find out about my IUD.
But I can still feel him inside me, the echo of his voice flowing down the hallway.
Fucking parasite.
I go back to the kitchen, start dinner, and pretend nothing happened.