Authors: Stephie Walls
T
he words come pouring
out like a fire hydrant that’s tapped. “Bastian, I just want to feel loved. To be desired the way he desires other women. I’ve given him years of my life in the hopes something would change. Somehow I would become enough. I want to feel beautiful, but instead I look in the mirror and see no matter how much pain I’ve endured for him, I will never be the submissive he needs. Rationally, I know this isn’t about submission but I keep going back to it.”
Had I not been with her the last few hours I wouldn’t know this outpouring of emotion were coming from a drunken stupor. Her words are suddenly coherent, her emotional distress evident with each phrase she utters. Her ability to continue in such an articulate fashion shocks me.
“Do you have any idea what I’ve done to myself to please him? To try to morph into what he fantasizes about?” It’s a rhetorical question but one I identify closely with. “The abuse I’ve inflicted on myself is far worse than any bone he’s broken or bruise he’s left. I stopped loving myself years ago. I don’t make rational decisions. I’ve lost who I am. I’m addicted to a notion that simply doesn’t exist.” Tears stream down her face. I’m at a loss for what to say. I want to comfort her but something tells me she needs to get this out.
“Why?” She screams in anguish. “Why am I not enough?” The blood curdling wails leave her body wracked with sobs and all I know to do is hold her. I pull her into me and am instantly taken over by the feel of her skin on mine. The warmth of the embrace of another human. Even though she’s not looking to me for comfort, I find myself feeling it with her. Unable to catch her breath, she shakes on the verge of hyperventilating.
Taking her face in my hands, I force her to make eye contact with me. The melancholy look in her eyes screams how hopeless she feels her situation has become. “Sera, baby, look at me. Breathe with me.” I put her hand on my chest encouraging her to mirror me. The rise and fall of her chest begins to match my own but the look of utter devastation doesn’t fade from those beautiful eyes. “Stay with me. Keep breathing.”
I can feel her pulse in my pinky on the side of her neck. Her heartbeat is erratic. Her eyes are wild with fear. She believes she’s nothing without his acceptance, without his love and adoration. He defines who she is the way Sylvie defined me, only with nothing pure or good to make it worthwhile.
“I’ve watched him fuck other women, Bastian. Multiple women. I’ve tried to be the cool girl who was all right with infidelity, okay with the multiple partners, although I’ve never had them myself. Before we left for New York, in New York. I was with him, Bastian. He bound me to a bed, spread me wide, then allowed another woman to touch me. She had her fill of my most intimate areas before he had his way with her. When he was done with her, he used me. Beating me, fucking me, infesting me with her. She left and he untied me. I pretended I fucking enjoyed it to make him happy. Two nights in a row, a different woman each night. The second woman was a switch, Emily. He allowed her to beat me, throttle me before he allowed her to violate me. Together they ravished me. I’ve never felt so used. In all the years we’ve been together, he’s never allowed anyone else to touch me.
“You don’t understand. I don’t know how to live a life without his permission, his instruction; he outlines my every move, every day. I don’t know when it crossed over from the lifestyle Mark led me into to abuse. I see it’s abuse but I don’t want to stop it. I want him to see I’m strong enough to take it and still love him.”
“Emily? The girl who was staying at Shawn’s house? Ferry’s friend, Emily?” I’m finding it hard to breathe.
“Yes, do you know her?”
I’m having flashbacks from the first night we were in New York, Friday evening. I wonder where Sera fell victim to her in the timeline. Ferry played us both and that cunt knew what she was doing. Ferry now has ammunition to use against me. I’m positive he not only knows about what happened Tuesday night at the party but I’d bet my left nut he knows about Friday night after the gallery opening. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out he had a hand in planning it.
I vacillate with where to go with this. My heart screams to admit I love her, to tell her I can provide her with what she needs; I can be the man who shows her what she’s worth. I want to unveil my dying devotion to her, announce I love her the way she loves him. I will take my last breath trying to prove it. My brain tells me to keep my mouth shut. She doesn’t reciprocate those feelings and if there’s any chance she ever finds out about Emily there will be no salvaging even a friendship with her. She doesn’t know what healthy love is—hell I may not anymore, either—but I did at one point and I would gladly spend my life trying to convince her.
My brain wins. Her rejection would send me spiraling back to where I was prior to meeting her, a fate worse than death. There’s no possibility I would survive that darkness again. I feel a part of me break, acknowledging she will never want me the way she does him. No matter what I morph myself into it won’t be Ferry. My dreams of us finding what Sylvie and I once had shatter in this moment.
As quickly as it started, the blubbering mess that began in the car is dried up, the tears stop, and an eerie calm has washed over her. She looks at me with resignation. “You need to take me home, Bastian. It’s dangerous for you to be with me. He’s going to find me and you shouldn’t be the one with me.”
“Sera, Ferry knows we hang out. He won’t be surprised to find you with me.”
“Everything’s different now. Don’t you see that? After New York, he didn’t even want me responding to your text messages much less being with you. I’ve had him arrested. He didn’t give me permission to be here, in fact the opposite. I was to tell you I couldn’t go and he figured slowly, you would start to back away. Whatever happened between you two in New York must have been bigger than the incident at Le Musee because he vehemently opposed any continued line of communication with you. I violated him in more ways than one and he’s going to want retribution. You’ll end up caught in the crossfire, if you don’t simply become the target.”
“I’m not taking you anywhere. You can sleep in my room and I’ll take the couch but I’m not leaving you home alone, especially not in this condition. You’re overwrought and I’m not sure how you’re still standing after the amount of alcohol you’ve consumed.”
I get up and begin to make my way through my nightly routine while she watches intently, never taking her eyes off me, despair written all over her, etched in the lines of her face. After changing and brushing my teeth, I ensure all the doors are locked and curtains drawn. Hopefully, it will make her feel more secure. Handing her a pair of my boxers and the smallest T-shirt I could find, I point to the bathroom.
“You’ll be more comfortable if you get out of those wet clothes. This is the best I could do. I don’t have any of Sylvie’s things anymore so all I can offer is my stuff.”
She takes the clothes from me and drops them on the couch, she doesn’t move toward the bathroom after standing. She begins to peel each wet garment from her ivory skin but there’s nothing erotic about this dance. The alcohol has started to affect her ability to function. As she stumbles, I brace her in order to prevent her fall, accidentally grabbing a tender bruise. She winces in pain. Steadying herself with her hand on my shoulder, she removes her bra and lastly, her panties. I envisioned this being very different. Seeing her naked. I had grandiose X-rated fantasies about her, but none of them included what I see before me. Her clothes have hidden a battery of war, a road map of destruction, some new, some old; she’s covered in scars, bruises, and twisted skin. My eyes roam everywhere and nowhere at the same time, there are too many to see to focus on one.
“This one”—she begins pointing at the scars, each inebriated word more pained than the last—“was the first time he put me in the hospital. This one was for being disobedient. This one was for talking to one of his other subs I wasn’t supposed to know about,” she says, pointing at what seems to be an old burn near her nipple. Her need to confirm she’s been abused and it’s not her imagination, is evident.
She trusts me with a secret I don’t want to have.
She continues to map out her abuse over her body but I can’t listen to any more. I hear the rain pelting the roof, the tick of the clock, her anesthetized voice; the sounds are all amplified, pushing my limits. I haven’t felt this level of emotional distress since Sylvie died.
Grabbing the T-shirt I brought her, I gently pull it over her head, covering her marred body; she naturally begins to put each hand through the sleeves as a child would. Sitting on the couch, I hold the shorts out for her to step into before she sits in my lap, her legs between mine, her head drops to the crook of my neck. Silently, she curls into me, instinctively; I wrap my arms around her chilled skin. I have no idea how to care for this wounded angel. My only solace is the steady thump of her heart beating, the pulse pounding like a drum on my shoulder. Unable to break away from her, I lie us both down on the couch. I cling to her in hopes she feels my adulation and in some way finds comfort in it. With her head on my bicep, the metronome of rain on the roof, I stroke her hair until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer and sleep takes over.
S
tartled
by the sound of the front door slamming, it takes me a moment to gain my bearings. I couldn’t have been asleep long. My eyes burn with an intense dryness.
Sera.
Fuck.
Racing to the front window, I see her walking, head down, in substantial rain. I sprint to my room and grab my jeans from the floor, then tug them on as I hop across the room on one leg to grab a sweatshirt and stuff my cell in my pocket. I pull tennis shoes on as quickly as I can. With no umbrella in sight, I run down my front lawn to bring her back. The cloud cover makes the night especially dark, difficult to see. Add the rain and I can’t make out what’s five feet in front of me. My mind takes me in the direction she was walking; hopefully, I’ll find her quickly.
As lightning illuminates the sky for a few intermittent moments, I catch a peek of her several blocks ahead. It’s cold as fuck out here. The wind bites at my face, the rain like icicles pelts my cheeks. With the same quickness I saw her, the virtual blackout obscures her from view again. There isn’t anything within walking distance of my house. Nothing that’s open at this hour, anyway. She’s heading toward downtown but with no indication of why I’m walking blindly into the inky night.
My fingers ache from the bitter cold and rain. Moments into this chase, I’m soaked through, not a dry stitch of clothing on me.
“Sera!” I howl into the darkness, wishing her to answer me, knowing I’ll receive nothing but the continued sound of rain hitting the pavement.
As the lightning fills the sky once again, I see her turn the corner, never looking back, determined to make it to her unknown destination alone.
“Sera! Stop!” My pleas are returned only by the sting of the water striking every inch of my bare skin.
The sound of my thumping heart takes over, muting all other noises around me. There’s not a car in sight. There are virtually no streetlights, although in this rain they’d be of little use. Approaching the corner I saw her turn, I take off in a run as I continue to catch glimpses of her in the deserted downtown streets.
I continue to call her name in vain, praying to a God I no longer believe in to help me find her. I’m begging him, pleading to his sovereign nature, to save her. Dread fills every fiber of my being, the response to impending doom overtaking me. The race to find her becomes more desperate with each passing second. With no clue which way to turn, I stand in the downpour, my clothes drenched, my spirit broken, and the hope I’ll find her in the darkness all but lost. My eyes fill with tears, the heat of the stream running down my face searing my skin in its path in bitter opposition to the frosty rain.
The lightning crackles across the sky, I see her, several blocks away sitting on the ledge of the bridge. Her head’s in her hands, her back hunched in the most defeated posture a human can exhibit. The firmament slams its doors shut, encasing me in utter gloom once again. Running toward her frail body, my thoughts battle and my mind jumbles.
Fuck, Sera. Please don’t do this.
I chant in my head, counting my steps. If I can just get to her, I can convince her she’s loved, there’s a life worth living, and she can get through this. My footsteps are a steady cadence. Steps away from where I last saw her sitting, the splash in the water stops me dead in my tracks. The sky lights up but there’s no longer any sign of her. Peering over the edge there’s nothing but a roaring abyss. The air muddles with the water, and there’s no distinction between the two.
Adrenaline kicks in; all I can think about is my inability to save Sylvie. I’m here with Sera, if I can reach her. If I can just get to her I can save her. A glimpse of the white T-shirt I gave her catches my eye. Looking for a way down to the water in the night seems fruitless, but reaching the edge of the river, I strip bare knowing the clothes will weigh me down. The rush of the water, the pounding of my heart, the rain dropping into the raging river: the sounds pummel me as I dive into the icy water in a desperate attempt to rescue her.
S
ometimes all it
takes is a glimmer of hope to change your perspective, a chance encounter, a random person smiling at you on the street, a friendly cashier. The tiniest of meetings can save a person’s life—literally.
So much of who I am is hidden from the world, although I think that’s true of most. If people stepped back to evaluate who they truly are they’d find dual personalities: the person they are when no one is looking and the public persona they allow others to see. I can’t prove this but I think it’s true.
Most people don’t know whom they truly are because they’re afraid of what they might see if they examined themselves too closely. We’re truly frightening beings. The public persona is what saves each of us from ourselves when we keep up that appearance, not allowing anyone to see the ugly truth. I’m no different than anyone else.
My
self
is ugly. The only difference is, I see her daily, I talk to her, I know her intimately, and, I admit, I hide her vehemently from the world.
If people knew
her
, my life would be vastly different. Most days I’m able to disguise her fairly well, the days she won’t stay in the closet are painful and difficult to get through. Those are the days chance encounters keep me from going dark.
Bastian Thames. Chance encounter. It had been years since I had seen him and I was essentially a child then. I heard somewhere along the way he’d given up painting but never really believed it to be true. An artist doesn’t quit, it’s who they are, it would be the equivalent of committing suicide. Alas, maybe the rumors were true. He hadn’t made any public appearances and hadn’t produced anything I was aware of in years.
Seeing his name pop up on my friend request, seeing that beautiful face…it was just short of euphoric but at the very least probably saved my life that day.
I’m a sculptor. It’s the only thing I’ve ever done. I love art of any kind, but getting my hands in the clay is heaven. Sheer ecstasy. There is nothing else like it—the feel of it on my skin, under my nails, the way it dries out my hands. Ultimately, it’s the control it offers in a world where I’m powerless. I become god-like. I create and mold from clay. If I can envision it, I can create it. I can bring life to things that otherwise would not exist. That kind of power is exhilarating and I feel it in every piece I shape into existence. Aside from that, it’s an escape. It’s a place where people can’t reach me, can’t touch my soul. I live in that world to escape reality.
My reality is a self-induced hell I’m unable to escape. The bruises keep coming. I continue hiding them. Somehow I justify his behavior by convincing myself I deserve it. In a weird way the pain keeps me on edge and benefits my art. The greater the suffering the more brilliant the creativity.
I had survived one of the worst nights of my life the day Bastian appeared on my Facebook page. With fresh bruises showing through my pale skin, I was certain at least two of my fingers were broken. He’s all that’s kept me alive this year, but even he isn’t enough anymore. He can’t change who I am, and he can’t win the war waging in my heart and mind. Hell, he can’t even help fight the battles.
The sting of the water makes that reality truer. There’s no hiding from who I am any longer. With the pain comes the realization nothing will ever change. I will forever be bound by the constricting hell. I’ve chased happiness as if it’s a prize to be won or auctioned off to the highest bidder, but the reality is, it doesn’t exist. Everyone is always marching toward the next destination, the next stop in their journey, always trying to make it to one more end, but the culmination of those experiences never gets them to the nirvana they seek. Utopia isn’t an achievable destination on this side of eternity.
The prickly cold begins to fade as I sink deeper into the water. I no longer attempt to hold my breath as I succumb to the force of nature, allowing myself to relax. There’s no drive to swim to the surface with the weight of my burden taking me closer to the river bottom. The darkness surrounding me brings the most peace I’ve felt in years. There’s no sound, and my body has become numb as the water begins to fill my lungs. I don’t choke. I freely allow it in. With no concept of time, my mind drifts through the events that brought me here, demonstrating my need to rid the earth of who I am. There’s no good, no joy, no self-sacrifice. I am nothing but a speck in the universe.
Breathing the water in, the cold courses through my veins like heroin, one last fix. I see myself walking down the streets in the rain, I hear Bastian calling my name.
Sera.
Seraphim.
My mother had no idea she bore such a dark angel. My fall from grace was hard, evident by the broken body my soul inhabits. My only solace in the suffering I’ve brought other people is the release they will soon feel, eliminating the burden of my truth and who I’ve become—the person I allowed Ferry to mold me into. No one will ever know his truth, not from my life. Other than Bastian, no one holds those squalid details.
In the end we are all liars, tellers of the tallest tales. We live our lives masquerading daydreams of who we hope to become, weaving the intricate story lines we want the public to read. No one’s story is the one the cover presents to the reader because our false personas are the only truth we allow others to know. We long for a place in life that never exists, and we drone on hoping to create an illusion of heaven on Earth. Ironically, happiness is the true chimera; it’s the one thing we all hope for but in fact is an illusion impossible to achieve. Knowing that truth allows the end to come easily. The silence offers reconciliation for the lies the world perpetuated.