Authors: Stephie Walls
I
’ve been looking forward
to this evening since she told me about it in New York. Tonight is the black tie opening at The West End Gallery for Markus Finstin. I’ve never seen any of his stuff, but Tara’s impressed with his work. Sera went to grad school with him and said he’s a genius. I’m an addict of all forms of art, visual, performing, vocal; I appreciate the effort that goes into all of it. The idea of dinner and an opening with Sera doesn’t make me sad, either. I haven’t seen her since we got back and have had little to no contact, but she texted me this morning to confirm our plans tonight.
Every opportunity I have to spend time with her brings peace to me, even though I know she’s struggling with her own demons. The slices of life she spends with me reassure me she’s safe. There’s so much of her she keeps a secret from the rest of the world, but when we’re together I experience a part of her she doesn’t share with anyone but me. I relish those moments, whether it’s coffee, lunch, museums, or just walking down the street to her studio. I’ll take whatever I can get, but tonight is formal and the closest thing to a date we’ve ever had. All of our encounters before tonight have been last minute, quick calls to see if the other is busy, meeting between meetings, and quick bites to eat while working. But tonight I get her for the whole evening, as my date. The trip to New York doesn’t really register. I hardly saw her and things were tense when I did.
Buttoning the pants on my tux, I notice how far I’ve come in the time I’ve known her. My tux fits like it was made to. I’m not where I want to be, by any means, but my career has life again. Art is flowing from my hands like it did before Sylvie died. I’m completely resurrected, and starting to sense happiness. The last two weeks have been a visit to the past I don’t care to continue, but looking in the mirror, I catch glimpses of the man I used to be. The one Sylvie loved. I’m stronger, even if it’s only a façade. I’ll fake it until I make it.
The situation in New York reminds me daily I have the ability to define who I am. I’m bound and determined to become the type of man Sera needs in her life. The blip with Emily and David was just that: a blip, an experience that showed me that’s not who I want to be. That part of the culture isn’t one I need to experience again. I’ve tried to come to terms with the hedonistic affair, and accept it for exactly what it was. Some days I do better than others.
I know she cares for me but I need her to see I can give her a healthy, dominant guy—one who can steer her in the direction she wants to go. It becomes easier the more I practice; it’s not as forced as it was months ago. Being assertive is absolutely something you can learn if you have the drive to do it. I will never be an ass because it’s not who I am, but, if she needs someone to exert control, to show they care about every move she makes, to guide her, I can be that man in my own way. I straighten my bowtie with a final glance at my reflection. Sylvie would be proud, and that makes me smile.
I wanted to pick Sera up but she insisted on coming to get me. She’s hiding more than she did when we first met. I think her situation has gotten worse, but she refuses to acknowledge what she’s going through as abuse, and, until she accepts that, she won’t get help or get out. I just bide my time, and wait for the day she opens her eyes to the realization I’ve been here waiting.
She’s right on time and steals my breath the moment I see her. She has on a pale yellow dress that highlights her features perfectly, a gorgeous silk shawl, minimal jewelry, and heels that make her legs look a million miles long. She’s stunning. My heart races as her lips turn up in smile. “Hey, Sunshine,” she coos.
“Back at you, beautiful.” When I extend my hand, she takes it, and allows me to spin her for a full-body view. “Wow. If you ever decide to give up sculpting you could have a career on the runway.” I’m not blowing smoke; she truly has the look of someone you’d see on a catwalk. It’s not the plastic image you find in magazines. It’s the exotic, unusual, exaggerated features that you have to study to determine if they’re ordinary or exquisite. I decide on the latter of the two. I can’t take my eyes off her, scanning her from head to toe. The sight never gets boring.
Laughing at me only brings more beauty to her already glorious face. “You ready?” Completely blowing off my compliment, she lets me escort her out to her car.
I offer to drive but she waves me off and sends me around to the passenger side. With the door open, in typical woman’s fashion, there’s enough shit in the front to open a small boutique.
“Just put that stuff in the back seat.”
Carefully, I place her supplies in the back, along with a jacket, a sweatshirt, and a camera case. As I gingerly place the camera bag in the back seat, the embroidery catches my eye as I shut the door. My brow furrows—surely I didn’t see what I thought I had. With the door open again, I lift the black case to see the elaborate, red, embroidered
F
. Ferry’s undeniable logo. It’s on all his equipment, and it’s how he signs everything. It’s always in the same identifiable script. Raising my head, camera in hand, I watch her fiddle with her face in the mirror. “What?” she asks innocently, noticing me still in the back.
“Are you working with Ferry?” She hasn’t seen the bag.
“No. Why?” The confusion mars her face as fear crosses her eyes.
I don’t respond verbally when I hold up the bag with the logo in her eyesight. Time seems to slow as each muscle in her face falls and her shoulders slump. “It’s not what you think, Bastian.”
I wasn’t thinking anything until she told me it wasn’t what I hadn’t thought it was. The pieces all start to fall into place; mentally, I scroll through the disappearing acts, the awkward looks he gives her the few times we’ve seen him together, his hostile warnings to stay away from her, the bruises, the trips her beau was taking, the disappearing in New York. It all fits with Ferry. Every. Single. Fucking. Detail.
“Goddammit,” I mutter under my breath as I acknowledge what she’s hiding and what I was too stupid to see. Slamming the backdoor shut, I get in and throw myself into the passenger seat, slamming that door behind me. Turning sharply, I glare at her. The lies, deception, the perpetuated stories, and the evasion of the truth cause the anger to boil to the surface. “He’s the one, huh?”
I expect waterworks. That’s what women do to manipulate men, especially when they’ve committed some atrocious crime; they believe tears are like kryptonite. But I’m not fucking Superman. Like a fool, I believed I was her fucking friend and that I was his, too, until recently. But they’ve both used me like a damn puppet. It explains how he knew about my interest in BDSM, about Zane. My guess is he knows about what happened with Emily and David. He played me like a fiddle, and I fell for his fucking song. Her eyes are wide, scared, and hurt, but there’s not a tear to find. She waits. It dawns on me she’s expecting me to react the way
he
does.
Newsflash.
I’m not Ferry any more than I’m Superman.
I’m just a man who loves her. I run my hand through my hair and release a heavy sigh, resigning myself to whatever she imparts on me next.
Her back presses against the driver’s door. She moves as far away from me as possible without getting out of the car. She’s still unwilling to answer my question. “I’m not going to hurt you, Sera. I thought you knew me better than that.” Devastation washes over me. Ferry had become a close friend prior to the Le Musee trip and Sera thinks I’m the same monster. She’s hidden from me for over a year. Her fear in leaving is she thinks all men are the same. What a cliché! “Please relax. Can you tell me what’s going on? How the hell have I missed this for a year? How did you both manage to keep it from me when I was constantly working with him and hanging out with you? How were we all out of town in the same city together and I didn’t get the memo?”
Her eyes cast downward to her lap in shame. She flinches when my hand finds her chin, lifting her line of sight to my own. Clearing any signs of anger, all she sees is a friend, an understanding man, one who won’t judge or condemn. I purposely soften my tone when I say, “Please help me understand, Sera.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know why, in all the time I’ve spent with Ferry, you’ve never once mentioned you were even friends with him, much less sleeping with him. You could have easily told me you guys knew each other beyond exhibits and never compromised his identity or who he is to you.” It takes an enormous amount of effort to keep from sounding accusatory, but fuck, really? How the hell
did
she pull this shit off? Am I really that fucking daft?
“We have dinner reservations in twenty minutes, can’t this wait until another night?” She stares out the window behind me.
“I don’t think so but if you want to ditch the evening we certainly can. We can go somewhere else to talk.”
“Tara’s going to be pissed if we don’t show up.” The crack in her voice tells me she doesn’t want to let Tara down but possibly wants to allow someone else to know the truth she’s held in for so long.
“Switch seats with me.” She doesn’t argue this time; she just hands me the keys as we cross paths in front of the car.
We had planned to go to dinner, then the gallery, but the opening starts at seven. Executive decision made, we go straight to The West End to make our appearance. It dawns on me she had to get permission from Ferry for this evening to have happened in the first place. If she’s not seen where she’s supposed to be that could cause more problems than she already has, but I’m confused why he’s allowing her to be here at all. He hasn’t spoken to me since we last saw each other in New York, and he’s obviously been preventing her from doing so since our return.
As I open the gallery door for her, she dons her game face. No one we come in contact with, including Tara, has any idea she’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Her emotional fortress is erect but it’s not going to hold long. There’s no rush to get through the pieces, so we admire them while Sera points out things she thinks I might not otherwise see. I illustrate his use of color and light refraction, enjoying the beauty in the twisted metal he concocts. As usual, Tara is spot on, and Sera was right: this man is a genius. He’ll be successful. His career is likely catapulting tonight with The West End acknowledging his talent. It’s no exaggeration. Tara has the pull of any New York City gallery. He’s fairly well known internationally, but this will send him soaring in the states.
I recognize the change in her demeanor when she has more than she can handle. On the verge of a meltdown, she plays the obligatory game as long as she can stand. Saying our goodbyes, we wish Markus all the success in the world. He’s gracious, and appreciates our attendance. I’ll never adjust to people knowing me and thinking of me as one of the greats of our time. It’s an honor and a huge responsibility. With her arm tucked into my own, I accompany her back to the car. I help her in while again admiring her unrecognized beauty. She doesn’t see it, which makes her even more appealing. Humility is an elegant quality to possess, and she has it in spades.
“Where to?” I ask.
“There’s a bar on the edge of town. It’s typically pretty low key, an older crowd. We can talk there without interruption.”
I sense her hesitation. “Is that what you want to do?”
“No but not because I don’t want to tell you. I’m ashamed to.” Her eyes close when she says the word ashamed, her voice almost inaudible.
“Ashamed of what?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, although I figure you know more than I’ve admitted to. I don’t want you to think differently of me after tonight, but I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“I’ve never been a terribly judgmental person, Sera, but the last six years changed my perspective on life. Time is fleeting; it’s infinite but not personally, just universally. Truth changes daily. Nothing is inevitable and death is certain. There’s only one person who stuck by me as I acknowledged those realities. Not one time in the last six years has he ever talked down to me, assessed blame, or condemned me, and I’ve given him huge reason to do all of the above, especially in recent weeks. I can’t say I have given him the same respect but it was primarily out of grief I lashed out which he recognized. If I can impart that same level of love and friendship to another human then maybe I was deserving of it myself. Give me the chance to show you there’s nothing you can tell me that will change my opinion of you. We’re all broken, Sera. Every one of us. Some of our cracks are just more visible than others. That’s what life does to us. Friends are the glue that keep us from falling apart.”
“You couldn’t help what happened to you, Bastian. I make a choice every day to live in my circumstances. I choose my battleground. I ignorantly stay, costing me more than just money in medical bills. I’ve lost my self-respect, my dignity, my self-confidence. I’m just a shell on display for the people around me. There’s no substance. I’m hollow. Do you know how easy it is to break something that’s hollow? I’m worthless. I offer no stability. Just a broken frame no one has a use for.”
“You have a choice. You just acknowledged that. You don’t have to succumb to this. You can change your destiny. Surely you see it. You aren’t bound to anyone or anything.”
I watch her ponder my words quietly. Her mind is reeling but she remains silent. “Come on. I’m going to need a lot of alcohol to get through all this.” She pauses briefly. “I
want
to tell you everything. I want you to understand me, to see me for what I am. I hope by the end of this you get why it’s been a secret. It wasn’t just Ferry who didn’t want people to know. Everyone knows his reputation for being a playboy, Bastian. I couldn’t fight off the naysayers. I’d never be able to defend him or what he does to anyone. Hell, I can’t defend him to myself most days.”
T
he waitress leaves
us sitting in the back corner of the bar after Sera instructs her to keep the alcohol flowing until a credit card appears on the table.
Jesus Christ, what the hell is this woman going to share with me. She looks like hell. The bruises are worse than I’ve ever seen them. When she drops her shawl from her shoulders, unwinding it from her limbs, all shades of blue, green, yellow, and brown, some older than others cover her skin. She sees me staring at them. I don’t care. I can no longer pretend what she’s experiencing is normal and doesn’t exist. It’s far from fucking normal and the evidence of its existence is painfully obvious.
“I’ll get to it, Bastian. I just need something to numb the pain first.” She slams down two shots of tequila. I notice her twisted fingers when she sets the glass back down, but when I reach for her she pulls her hand away and tucks it under the table. For the love of God, she’s a sculptor; he’s taking her identity by taking her hands.
“Do they hurt?” A mixture of pain, sympathy, and anger ring through my words.
Shrugging she doesn’t answer the question right away. “They won’t for long.”
“What else hurts, Sera?” She thinks I haven’t noticed how carefully she moves, taking care not to touch anything, using only her left hand. Her face is swollen although not discolored. The bruises are just the tip of the iceberg but I doubt she will show me the entire formation.
“Everything hurts, but the physical injuries are far less painful than the emotional.” She’s broken, the light I used to see long gone. There’s nothing left of her spirit. Her eyes are dull and hurting. There’s no longer a sparkle exuding from her. All I see is the shell Ferry has left for the outside world.
We sit in silence. I wait for her to reach the point she can open up while she continues to toss back shot after shot. Meanwhile, I sip on a beer I don’t really want. One of us needs to be sober. When she finally leans back, admitting defeat with a sigh, I take that as my cue to open up conversation.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was Ferry?” Let’s try this again because the answer I got in the car was vague at best.
“Because when you and I first met, you and Ferry were working on
Kaleidoscope Dark.
I knew your story, Bastian. Not all of it, but I knew you lost yourself when you lost your wife. I mourned your loss just like the rest of the art world. I was flattered you had any interest in me but as time went on I wasn’t oblivious about why.” She sneers a bit.
“I’m not following you.”
“I know your interest in me is in recreating Sylvie.” She deadpans. “I’m not good enough for you, either. You want me to be someone other than who I am.” Her words hurt but I can’t deny them. My initial attraction to her was not her work. It was not her as an artist. It was not Sera as a person. It was my wife.
“That may have been true a year ago but it hasn’t been in quite some time. In reality, you’re nothing like my wife, other than your kind spirit and you resemble her physically, or you did when we first met. I don’t see it much now. I didn’t know you remembered what Sylvie looked like.”
“I didn’t. Ferry was kind enough to point it out, repeatedly, after you and I started spending a lot of time together. I’m sure it was his way of keeping me in my place but it stung. He had a few pictures of the two of you at events. I was blinded by the similarities. I could have been her twin except for the age difference.”
“It wasn’t like that and Ferry knew it. When he recognized you in my paintings he pried a little, I never mentioned Sylvie. Our friendship is not based on me trying to recreate Sylvie. I’m not going to lie to you and tell you it wasn’t my motivation for reaching out but, Sera, that only took it so far. Once I started spending time with you, getting to know you, the appeal changed. It wasn’t to bring Sylvie back. For the first time in years, I had another friend, one who brought joy to every day.”
“It doesn’t matter. He used anything and everything he could to hurt me, to keep me bogged down in a mire of his abuse.”
“I don’t get it. How’d you get caught up with him?”
She tells me about having run into him at multiple events when she finished graduate school. She knew his reputation for playing women, never going back for seconds after he feasted on them the first time. She was also aware of what her association with him could do for her career and thought the latter outweighed the former. As a newbie on the scene, she recognized how being seen with him would boost her popularity.
She ran into him at a club one night when she was with Mark. “I was strapped to a cross when he broke the scene and asked Mark if he could play. It’s a total violation of all protocol but Mark knew who he was and we weren’t in love by any stretch of the imagination. We were play partners who trusted each other. He looked to me for confirmation. I gave a slight nod and Ferry took the whip. Mark never left me that night. Through the entire scene he stayed ready to intervene at any time if need be. Ferry maintained the composure of the Master he’s known to be. He yielded the whip like a pro, he knew just where to strike to elicit the greatest response, brought me to orgasm multiple times without ever laying a finger on me. When he was done, he came to me, whispered in my ear, ‘I’m going to make you mine.’ Then walked away thanking Mark for allowing him to intrude.
“Mark got me down, administered aftercare for how long I don’t know but that night I changed. The more he struck me the more I wanted it; each blow of the whip brought me clarity. People like me need pain but people like Ferry need to give it. I wanted to show him I could endure as long as he wanted to expel. The high was greater than anything I’d ever felt. My entire body relaxed from the orgasms. My mind had floated to subspace allowing me to go further than I would have ever allowed Mark to take me. The next day, the lacerations were bad, some probably needed stitches. I had endured one hell of a beating; they stung like red ants had eaten me up, clothing hurt. Somehow Ferry found my address and came by. I went to the door with a robe on that hurt with every swish of the fabric to find him on my doorstep with salve.”
She takes another shot. I see the memory is a fond one in her mind. “He came by to take care of me, Bastian. He knew the lashing he’d given me was going to stay with me for several days. He helped me into a warm bath, allowed me to soak, before drying me off gently. Laid out on my bed, with the most tender of touches, he soothed the hurt away. He stayed with me all day, never making any sexual advance just doting on me tenderly. He put me in bed and left after I fell asleep. The next morning he was back to administer the same medication. After three days, he was curious to know if I had any interest in playing again.” She swallows hard. “Bastian, he never returns for repeat play, with anyone, ever. I felt like I was the different one. I was the special one. I can’t describe that feeling to you as a female, as a submissive, as an artist; Ferry wanted
me
. Everyone who saw us knew something was different about me and he put me on a pedestal. The clout I gained in the lifestyle being his submissive was undeniable.
“The first year the relationship was more than I ever expected it would be. He was attentive, adored me, spent time with me, we played regularly, occasionally went out even though it was always art related. I had no idea there were other women in other cities, other submissives he played with every time he visited. I wasn’t the only woman he repeated; I was just the only one in town. I had no clue he was fucking other subs. I believed the reason for the secrecy in our relationship was the lifestyle we’d chosen. Living in the South it never would have been accepted and he feared if it got out we would be ousted from the art world and the community in general. He convinced me of that.” She looks down at nothing really but it says so much about where she is emotionally.
Defeated.
Broken.
“I never would have known had one of these women not called me after seeing us photographed together at my opening. There was a headline in the New York Gazette about the most sought after bachelor in the art world having finally been nabbed. She wanted to make sure I knew I was one of many. She sought to put me in my place, to ensure I knew I was no better than anyone else. I didn’t have anything special. I heard the pain in her voice. She didn’t like being one; she wanted to be
the one
. I wanted to be angry with her but I thanked her for the call then sat in my apartment and cried for hours. When he found me the next day I was punished like never before and there was no soothing that hurt. That was the tipping point. That was the moment we went from playful to painful.”
From there her story continues on a downward spiral detailing their tumultuous relationship. She’s been seeing him for several years thinking some day she would be the only one who had withstood the test of time, but that time has never come to fruition. She continues the torture in an attempt to prove to him she has what it takes to be with him, to love him.
“I lied to myself and you, Bastian.” She looks away before looking back to me and continuing with her eyes firmly planted on mine. “I knew what I was going through weren’t accidents. They weren’t scenes gone wrong. They weren’t BDSM. They were abuse. I’m ashamed to have allowed anyone to think those incidents were associated with a lifestyle that has so openly welcomed my eccentricities and me. I wanted to believe the highs were worth the lows but the lows started taking over the highs until there were no highs, just inevitable truths I was avoiding. I was young when we met, not just in age but experience in the lifestyle, hell, experience in life in general. I was a baby. I trusted him to guide me because that’s what Doms and Masters do. They’re supposed to cherish their property. I craved the pain, he knew I needed it, and it became his outlet as well as my own. He justified taking it further than he should by shaming my need for it, condoning his behavior as him satisfying that desire.
“Somehow in my fucked-up brain, I equated his desire to meet my need as love. Being his property, his priority, his love. The reality is, Bastian, he never loved me, and I often wonder if he even likes me.”
The longer she talks the more I want to throw up. I have to restrain myself from throwing shit across the room as she tells me about the hospitalizations, the broken bones, the stitches. All while she lies to protect him, to keep his identity secure, secret.
“I can’t tell you how many lies I’ve come up with to tell hospitals and how many hospitals I’ve gone to in order to prevent people from recognizing me. I’ve driven a hundred miles to not go to the same place I went the last time. I even filed a false police report about being beaten on the street by a random man but Wednesday night something snapped in me.”
Counting the glasses on the table, she’s had nine shots and no food I’m aware of. Her eyes are glazed over, the haze giving her a sappy appearance. I’m sure she’s drunk but she hasn’t released the plug or stood up so it hasn’t hit her yet.
“I reported him, Bastian. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep lying to protect him when he isn’t doing anything he promised me he’d do.” She sobs as she admits, “I gave the nurse his name. I told her everything. I spent hours going through every doctor visit I had lied about, every hospitalization he caused, every stitch, every broken bone. I bared it all. Every sordid detail. By the time the police arrived, I tried to recant, knowing what I had just done would cause irrevocable damage to Ferry and myself, but the nurse was more than willing to testify in order to keep me safe. The state picked him up last night and they picked up the charges. Do you have any idea what this means? Any clue what will happen to his career, Bastian? Can you imagine the media frenzy that will ensue?”
“Are you fucking kidding me, Sera? Why the hell do you care about his career? Why aren’t you looking for justice for yourself? Why don’t you want him behind bars where he can’t inflict pain on you or anyone else anymore? I don’t understand why you don’t believe you’re worth more than this!” People around us start to stare at my incessant screaming.
Her voice falls to nothing more than a whisper, a choked sob. “He’s looking for me.”
“What?”
“He posted bail this afternoon. He’s looking for me. He went to my house; to my friends’ houses. He is looking for me. I can’t go home. I shouldn’t be here with you; I shouldn’t have gone to the gallery. If he finds me he’s going to kill me. I have no idea what he’ll do to you. He hates you. The scene at Le Musee, he realized you cared more for me than you did him. When you stood up to him in my defense, he knew you wouldn’t side with him if you ever found out who he was. He has monitored every move I’ve made since we came back from New York with strict instructions to end the friendship with you.” Terror takes over her features. “You’re in danger, Bastian. So am I.”
I throw my credit card down on the table. The waitress appears out of nowhere taking it with sadness written on her face as if she’s heard every word of this three-hour diatribe. She slides the check and my card back on the table, leaning down to my ear, “Keep her safe. It’s obvious you love her.” I sign the check leaving her a fat tip. Helping Sera up from the table I escort her out the door to my car. Rain has shown up unexpectedly, making the drunken walk more difficult than it had to be. I try to shield her from the water in vain. We’re both soaked.
“Where are you taking me?” The tears mixed with inebriation make her words difficult to understand.
“Back to my house.”
Her attempts to argue with me are futile. The alcohol coursing through her veins fuels her emotional meltdown. The entire drive back to my house she pleads with me to take her home to deal with her demons on her own. Chanting her fears.
I ignore her pleas.