TWENTY-TWO
She lost track of the hours when blunt started. It was what she remembered of Nick. Not the tentative slices to her feet., not the ice she was forced to stand in. No, Nick always got the sickest sort of satisfaction from his fists hitting skin and bone.
He liked to admire the bruises. He liked to see if he could make them worse. That was what Nick had always been good at.
It was four days before blunt began. She started to try to keep track of days by Nick's change in clothes. Each new shirt meant another day. But she was pretty sure there were times where more than one day passed. There were days when Bobby would come in with a small space heater and put it on as high as possible and she wouldn't see Nick at all.
Those days were the worst: the choking heat, the sweat dripping down her face that she couldn't even wipe away, her clothes getting drenched and heavy, the crushing feeling on her chest, making her feel like she couldn't breathe properly.
And then the dehydration would set in. Slowly at first, just a dry mouth that wouldn't go away. Thirst. Things she could force herself to ignore. And then the headaches would start, pounding, incessant pain behind her eyes and deep in her skull. It wouldn't take long for the sweat to dry up, her eyes to feel like paper. Because there was simply no moisture left.
Just when the dizziness was threatening sweet oblivion, the door would open. And in would come Nick, clucking his tongue, shaking his head as he turned off the heater. As if it was a mistake that it was left on. As if it wasn't a direct order from him.
The first time, he walked over and produced the knife from his pocket, grabbing the front of her sweater and slicing the material up the front, then down the arms, until it fell into a mutilated mess on the ground. The water was long gone. Sucked up by the hot air. She felt the air on her skin like a blessing, not caring that she was only in her bra. Not caring that his eyes were dipping lower to look at her breasts. Not caring about anything but the lack of heat.
He went out and came back in, a big bottle of water, sweating against the heat. He walked over to her, his face set in soft lines. His black eye was almost gone, the red marks nothing put pink lines.
She felt the dryness in her throat, could almost choke on it. But she turned away. It wouldn't take long. Dehydration was a faster way to die than many. It was faster than starvation by weeks. She could just keep her mouth shut and endure the thirst until unconsciousness took her. And then she would be beautifully unaware as her body started to shut down.
It wasn't a bad way to go.
Ellie thought a lot about death. The countless hours at first were filled with thoughts of Xander, until they became painful, nothing but a memory of what she had and would never have again. When people failed her, books helped. She tried to remember passages, pages, from the books she had read over and over. She rolled them around in her head until they didn't even make sense anymore. When the books failed her, she hummed. She hummed every song she could remember, enjoying the vibration against the roof of her mouth. Finding comfort in it.
Then when music failed her, death was like a long lost friend. Right there for her, like he had been waiting all along for her to find her way back to him. She reconciled her feelings on the afterlife, on the finality of death, the blissful oblivion, the merciful end of pain.
She'd led a fair life. It was better than many. She'd read books, she'd seen beautiful places, heard heart-breaking music, ate amazing food, known the touch of a man who she loved like she loved her own breath.
It wasn't wrong for her to think about ending it prematurely. Far better people than her died young. In car accidents. In muggings. In sickness.
At least she could choose her way to go. Limited options, sure, but options nonetheless. There would be no rotting away in a hospital bed, no bleeding to death on the side of the road, no being killed over the fifty dollars in her wallet.
She could make the choice to slip out of her pain. She could take the satisfaction of her presence away from her abuser.
She could do that.
Death was her only real option.
"Eleanor, sweetheart," Nick said and she winced at the endearment. He shouldn't be allowed to use that word on her. That was Xander's privilege only. But his voice was soft and coaxing and she was so tired of fighting. "You need to drink this," he said, holding the water bottle up toward her face. Her lips crushed together in a hard line. "El, please, please drink this." She just needed a couple of days. Just a few more. Less probably. She would pass out first. If she could just hold out.
Then his hand was on her face, stroking her cheek like he did once upon a time when they first started dating, before he showed her the monster he could be. She felt herself leaning into it, needing a sensation that wasn't pain on her skin. Needing comfort. Even if it was from him. And then she felt her lips part and water start to flow inside.
It hit her system like a shock and she could swear she felt it slip around her organs, her muscles, re-hydrating things inside that had started to feel shriveled and brittle. She heard herself moan when the last drop slipped inside her mouth. Nick chuckled, stroking her lips.
It was the laugh that brought her back. Her eyes flew open, taking in the softness to his eyes. It was an intimate look, one that suggested he was thinking about other types of moans. Moans, she was certain, thanks to Xander, she had faked. Because nothing Nick had ever done to her had felt good.
"I remember being inside of you," he said, close to her ear. His breath on her skin. It felt toxic, like it could melt her flesh. "I still think about that at night. Being buried deep in that hot pussy. You underneath me. I remember a lot of that."
"That's funny," she broke in, her voice dripping with venom. But she was mad more at herself than at him. She just ruined her only way out. "Because I remember a lot of fake orgasms."
There. It was out. She was going to regret it. But there it was. And she took far too much satisfaction in knowing it was one of the few things she could say to get under his skin. Whatever the consequences. It was worth seeing his head jerk back, his mouth fall open, his eyes go wide. Just for the briefest of seconds she saw vulnerability and insecurity there. It was enough. It was enough to make her glad she had said it.
Even as his fist cocked and swung. Even as his knee found her ribs. Even as his fingers scraped down her chest. Even as she floated in and out of consciousness. It was enough.
She had slipped a seed of doubt into Nicola Russo.
And then everything was wonderfully, pleasantly black.
–
The waking up was the worst. That slow, growing realization that you lived through it, that you were awake to go through it again, that your body was stronger than you thought.
There was so much more to be endured.
He'd knocked her into unconsciousness six times that she remembered over the course of fifteen shirt changes. There was no telling the time she lost in between. There was no telling how many days he didn't bother to open the door. He got more vicious each time, like he needed to top each session, like maybe he could make her finally open her mouth and scream. Or beg.
But she didn't. So, he made her pay for that.
Ellie sighed, feeling her mind spring awake again. She was still alive.
One of her eyes wouldn't open all the way and the other one had a blurriness to it that she tried, unsuccessfully, to blink against.
The pain started in then. At first, they were like pulses around her body: her face, her stomach, her ribs, her throat. The sharpness came about slowly, one spot at a time. The ribs were the worst. Her throat the second. Her face last. She tried to open her mouth, a strange tightness in the joint and the movement sent a blinding shot of pain up through her cheekbones, into her eye sockets. Her wrists hurt and she didn't even need to turn her head to know that there would be scars on top of the scars. If she lived long enough to heal.
But pain had an oddly comforting effect on her. It was something she could focus on. Something she could allow to wash over her. It could fill her with the undeniable evidence of Nick's relentless evil. It's why she needed to stop drinking and stop eating what measly food she was being provided.
The door slid open slowly and she blinked at the brightness, her one somewhat-good eye straining to see.
But it wasn't Nick.
It was Jason.
"Don't look so relieved," Jason said, smirking, stepping in and closing the door behind him.
"What is it to be today?" Ellie asked through her swollen lips. "Noise? More ice?"
"Oh, no," Jason said, the coldness in his eyes making her spine straighten. His face had healed. The bruises faded, the cuts closed over. She wondered how pissed off he got Nick to make him do that much damage. "I'm not here for Nick," he said, looking her up and down.
That's when she knew.
There were different kinds of monsters in the world. There were men like Nick who had a twisted belief about love and power. There were men who needed to take their own self-hatred out on those closest to them. There were men who struck out because of their own pain.
And then there were men who just liked pain. They liked hearing people scream. They liked watching horror in people's eyes. They liked blood. And bones breaking. It made them hot. It made them, in a horrifying way, happy.
There were men who got off on it.
Men like Jason.
His gaze felt like hands on her body. She was suddenly acutely aware of her bare skin. There was a spreading feeling of unease in her belly. A rolling, awful thing. She wished for the heater again, something to warm up her unbearably cold skin.
Because she recognized that look. Every woman knew that look. Even women who had never seen it before. They knew it when they saw it. It was the kind of look that made their hairs stand on end. It was the kind of look that told them they should run.
But she couldn't run.
"So, why are you here then?" she asked, trying to keep him talking, keep him distracted. She was trying to give herself time until Bobby came to bring her food or heat or ice. Until Nick came.
Ironic, that. Nick was going to have to be her savior.
"Oh, I just thought it was wrong for Nick to have all the fun," he shrugged, cocking his head to the side.
How had she never seen the ugly in him before? In the city when he called Nick on her. When he threw ice at her. When he tried to shove food down her throat. How had she missed it?
"Aren't you worried about what Nick would think if he found out?"
"Nick is an idiot," Jason scoffed. "All these years since you left... all he could focus on was getting you back. All the trips he took. All the meetings he missed. Who do you think picked up the slack? Made the decisions?"
"You did a good job," Ellie said, trying to sound impressed, trying to appease him, trying to delay what seemed to be inevitable.
"Damn right I did. I expanded into the city. Increased profits by threefold. He's just a face. I'm the business." He paused, shaking his head, refocusing. "But his little obsession has me wondering," he said, sneering again, "what he got a taste of that was so..." he stepped closer, leaning into her neck and sniffing, "delicious." His hand reached for her shoulder, brushing her hair out of the way, his fingers playing with her bra strap. "I think I have earned the right to get a taste for myself."