IT’S DARK IN MY ROOM. The shadows on the wall look like blobs of moving ink as the clouds cover the moon and its white reflective light. Like every night, I wait anxiously for my owner. I sit on my knees chained to the bed, apprehensively expecting his arrival. I’ve fought him for so long, but tonight I will finally give in. Give in to him and the darkness. It will be my descent. The door creaks open and my body tenses. I keep my head down and listen to his footsteps. They sound different tonight. Lighter, but more ominous. When I look up, it isn’t my owner standing in front of me, but it is a man I recognize. A man with a cold, calculating stare and unrepentant desires. A man who craves pain and delivers it explicitly. As soon as our eyes meet, I cower away, attempting to escape the impending doom. I know it’s a vain effort, as he overtakes me every time.
“No!” I scream as he snatches my chain like lightning and yanks me toward him.
“That word doesn’t exist in my world,” he sneers. It’s the same words every time. “Bite me and I’ll beat you unconscious.” Then I’m choking and crying and gagging all at the same time as he rams his cock mercilessly down my throat. Michael stands behind him laughing as I fruitlessly fight, knowing the torture is just beginning. Before I know it, I’m forced to my back, my throat raw and my voice hoarse from screaming. It just echoes around me, trapping me in. No one can hear me; no one can save me.
The first thrust feels like a serrated hot poker stabbing between my legs. The second scars me permanently. I kick and flail, but no amount of resistance will stop him. I know this. I have lived through this horror many times before.
“Stop!” I sob. “Stop! Stop!”
He laughs maniacally, reveling in my pain.
“Your pussy saves you every time.” Michael’s voice evaporates.
“ELLIE!” Kayne shakes me.
“Ellie, wake up!”
I gasp as I open my eyes to meet Kayne’s worried blue ones. My stomach rolls. “Oh god, get off!” I push him then fly out of bed and into the bathroom, reaching the toilet bowl just in time. I throw up violently, purging the sickening feelings until my stomach is empty.
Kayne kneels on the floor beside me, holding my hair and rubbing my back as I dry heave uncontrollably.
When there’s absolutely nothing left, I slump next to the toilet.
Kayne pulls me into his chest and presses my face against his warm skin.
“Shhhh.” He pets my head and rocks me until I’m calm. I cling to him while the leftover bile burns my throat. “That hasn’t happened to you in a long time.”
“I know,” I answer feebly as my body begins to relax.
“Was it me? Did I trigger it?” he asks worried, no doubt believing it was our bout of rough sex that brought on the dream.
“No,” I say truthfully. I haven’t had a violent nightmare about Javier and Michael in almost six months. But that doesn’t mean what they did to me has vanished from my subconscious. I used to have that same dream all the time. Sometimes five nights in a row. When the hospital discharged me, I lost a considerable amount of weight because I puked every time I startled awake. The exact same way I did tonight.
“I’m fine.” I wipe the tears from my face. “I just need some water.” I try to smile, try to placate him, because the last thing I want is Kayne worrying that he’s the cause of my recurring nightmares.
“C’mon.” He lifts me to my feet and helps to steady me. Our bathroom is enormous so it takes several steps to get from the toilet bowl to the sink. The whole room is white marble with copper fixtures. It’s a spa-like oasis with the shower and soaking tub overlooking the picturesque landscape.
I turn on the faucet and rinse my mouth with some cold water then swish some Scope around to kill the nasty vomit taste. Kayne stands by my side, his worried stare searing through the side of my head the whole time.
Once I dry my mouth, he pulls me next to him, so my side is touching his. We gaze at each other in the mirror as he raises the hem of my shirt—one of his white clingy undershirts that I’ve made a habit of living in. He only lifts it as far as my ribcage, exposing the circular tattoo that matches his. Around the scar where Michael shot me are the words That which does not destroy us written in fancy cursive. The same words circle Kayne’s scar where Javier shot him in the shoulder. I know what he’s trying to tell me. Fight. And I am. I have been for the last four years, and I’ll continue to fight for the rest of my life. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t survive. And that’s just not an option.
The tattoos were Kayne’s idea. We got them on our first wedding anniversary. As a reminder, a symbol, a signification of strength. I’ve come to learn my husband loves philosophy, theology, and metaphysical poetry. He’s filled our home office with works of Richard Crashaw, Friedrich Nietzsche, John Donne, and John Wesley. Apparently, Jett was the influence for Kayne’s educational interests. When they first met, Kayne was a bit “rough around the edges.” That’s how Jett put it anyway, attempting to be sarcastic and empathetic all at the same time. Before Kayne met Jett, his reading material consisted of comic books and car magazines. The first book Jett ever gave him was the Canterbury Tales, and I quote, said, “Read it, Neanderthal.” Kayne wasn’t a fan at first, but somehow, Jett instilled a love for literature and philosophy in him.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kayne asks, cutting through the severe silence.
I nod, resting my head against his arm. “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t trigger it?” Insecurity peeks through his stoic façade.
I stare at him in the mirror.
Well . . . not in the way he thinks. Kayne’s dominant behavior didn’t bring on the nightmare. I think his mention of kids did. He asked about starting a family a few days ago. No pressure, he was just poking around to see how I felt about it. I can tell you that I feel the same way as I did four years ago—resistant to the idea.
I’m not sure I want to disrupt the perfect little life we’ve carved out. And starting a family would definitely do that. Am I being selfish? Maybe. Do I have justification to feel that way? I think I do, given everything I’ve been through.
“No,” I assure him once more. It’s half the truth. “I’m ready to go back to bed.”
“Okay.” He kisses my head tentatively then walks me back into our bedroom with a death grip on my hand. Once under the covers, I cuddle up next to him, my body drawing calmness from his warmth. He’s always warm and eager to hold me. I drift off listening to the sound of Kayne’s breathing and the soft laps of the ocean just outside. I don’t dream of Michael or Javier again. Instead, I dream of a young, dark-haired, green-eyed boy playing in the sand, calling out Mom.