6. The Search Begins #2
I slap her ass again, then again, until her skin is red and raw. She's crying now—I can hear it in her voice—but she's also pushing back against me, meeting every thrust, her body betraying her.
"Such a good girl," I mock. "Taking my cock so well. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to be used. Made to be fucked."
She comes again, harder this time, and I feel her nails scrabbling against the wall, trying to find purchase. I don't let up. I keep going, chasing my own release, using her body like it's nothing more than a vessel for my rage.
When she comes a third time, she says my name. Nathan. Nathan. Nathan. Like it's a prayer. Like it's a curse. Like it's the only word she remembers.
And I follow a moment later, burying myself deep inside her, my teeth sinking into her shoulder hard enough for the taste of iron to flood my tastebuds. I'm shaking. I'm actually shaking.
"You're the only thing that makes sense," I whisper.
She doesn't answer.
I stay inside her for a long moment.
My forehead is pressed to her back, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I can feel her heartbeat through her ribs—steady, slow, the same rhythm that's been keeping me alive for the past year.
"I love you," I say.
I don't know why I say it. I don't know if I mean it. I don't know anything anymore.
She doesn't say it back. She just stands there, trembling, her cheek still pressed to the wall.
I pull out of her slowly.
She slides down the wall, her legs giving out, her dress still bunched around her waist. I watch her for a moment—the way she catches her breath, the way she smooths her hair with shaking hands, the way she avoids my eyes.
She's embarrassed. She's always embarrassed.
But she's also still here.
She's always still here.
And I hate her for it.
I hate her for making me feel something. I hate her for being the only thing in this godforsaken house that feels like it matters. I hate her for not fighting back, for not running, for not giving me a reason to stop.
But most of all, I hate myself.
Because I know I'll do it again.
I'll come home tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. I'll find her in this room, or the kitchen, or the hallway. I'll push her against a wall, or bend her over a table, or drag her to the floor. I'll use her body to exorcise my demons, and she'll let me, because that's what she does.
That's what she's always done.
And one day, I'll go too far. I'll squeeze too hard, or hit too rough, or fuck her too deep. I'll break her, the way I've broken everything else in my life.
And she'll still be here.
She'll still be waiting.
She'll still be mine.
I turn away. I can't look at her anymore.
I can't look at what I've done.
I can't look at what I'm becoming.
But I can still feel her.
I can still feel her warmth on my skin, her scent in my lungs, her taste on my tongue.
And I know, with a certainty that terrifies me, that I'll never be able to let her go.
She's the only good thing in this house.
And I'm going to destroy her.
"What happened?" she asks. "What did you do today?"
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
"I'm always lying." I reach for her face. I tilt her chin up. "But I'm not lying about you. You're the only thing that matters."
She looks at me. Her eyes are brown, steady, unreadable.
"Nathan," she says. "What are you doing?"
The question hits me like a slap. I feel it land somewhere soft, somewhere I've been trying to protect.
I don't answer. I can't.
I turn and walk out of the room. The door closes behind me with a soft click, and I'm alone in the hallway.
I lean against the wall. I press my palm to my chest. I feel my heartbeat beneath my hand—steady, strong, the same rhythm that's been keeping me alive for thirty years.
"Business," I whisper. "It's just business."
I almost believe it.
I walk to my office.
The city is dark outside my window.
I stand there for a long time, watching the lights flicker and the cars pass and the world continue on without me. I think about all the things I've done. All the things I'm going to do. All the things I've become.
I think about Monika. About her hands. About her eyes. About the way she looked at me when I said I loved her.
She didn't believe me. I don't blame her.
I don't know if I believe myself.
I go back to her room.
She's asleep. Her hair is spread across the pillow, her face relaxed, her body curled into itself. She looks younger in sleep. Softer. Like the girl she used to be before this house got its claws into her.
I sit on the edge of the bed. I watch her for a long time.
"I'm going to destroy everything," I whisper. "I'm going to destroy my father. I'm going to destroy my brother. And I'm going to destroy myself."
She doesn't stir. She doesn't hear me.
"I'm going to take you with me," I say. "I'm sorry."
I lean down. I press my lips to her forehead. She doesn't move.
I leave.
I don't sleep that night.
I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling, and I think about all the things I've lost. All the things I'm going to lose. All the things I'm going to destroy.
I think about the children in the cages. About the girl who looked at me. About the way she looked away.
I think about Monika. About the way she said my name. About the way she didn't say it back.
I think about my father. About the way he looked at me when I was a child. About the way he stopped looking at me a long time ago.
I close my eyes. I see her face. Her steady eyes. Her steady hands. The small furrow between her brows.
"Monika," I whisper.
She doesn't answer.
She's never there.
The sun rises.
I rise with it. I shower, dress, prepare for another day of building an empire that's already crumbling. Another day of pretending I'm not losing control. Another day of watching my family tear itself apart.
I walk to the dining room.
Monika is already there. She's wearing a blue dress—the same one she wore the first time she came to this house. The same one that's too small for her, too short, too tight.
She looks up when I enter. Her eyes meet mine.
"Good morning," she says.
"Good morning."
I take my seat at the table. I watch her across the room. I think about everything I've done. Everything I'm going to do.
The glass is cracking.
And I'm the one holding the hammer.