Chapter 4
Waiting for Superman
Gemma: 3 ½ Years Later
A BRIGITTE BARDOT silkscreen by Daniel Dens hangs in the monochromatic room just above the gas-fueled fireplace.
I want to admire it.
To see the beauty it holds.
To cherish it.
But I can’t, because he bought it for me. An early Christmas present. He says I look like her but with slightly darker hair. Maybe I do. I don’t know or care. I’ll be whoever he wants me to be until I don’t have to anymore.
I touch my carefully wrapped bun and consider undoing it. Let my toffee-colored hair loose. Fly free.
I don’t.
He likes me put together.
Perfect.
I’m anything but.
The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks relieves my boredom. I could dye my once-dark hair even blonder. Platinum blonde perhaps, like Brigitte, to see how much I actually look like her, or I could die it pink, just for fun.
Like I’m hiding a secret, I cover my perfectly lined nude lips to stop from laughing out loud but then I still as realization dawns. No, I can’t. He wouldn’t allow it. In fact, he’d go absolutely crazy, and not in a good way.
He likes me the way I am.
Natural.
Unhindered by plastic or cosmetics or anything fake.
A breeze ruffles my bangs as I glare over at his sleeping form. I can’t help but wonder if I stabbed him with the kitchen knife, the same one he used to carve the Thanksgiving turkey he brought over for us to eat to celebrate the holiday the night before the actual holiday, if anyone would believe it was an accident.
Probably not.
Wishful thinking.
I shake off the thought like I do every time I have one—no, I’ll wait until the time is right.
In the meantime, I’ll continue with this sick charade until I can get what I want. Until the day my plan comes to fruition and the bitterness in my mouth is gone. Until the sweet taste of revenge is the only thing on my tongue.
Something’s going on though. In the nine months we’ve been playing this little game, or that I have been playing it, he has never fallen asleep while visiting me. Maybe he had too much wine or too much food. Or perhaps, he’s been suffering from insomnia, which would explain his extreme behavior as well.
There has been a gamut of emotional anxiety swirling in our conversations lately. He’s been moody, really moody, more than usual. So much so, I never know what will set him off.
Tonight, after dinner, we took our expensive bottle of wine and came to sit in this room so we could talk. That’s one thing I can actually tolerate—our conversations.
I told him about my day at the museum, about the famous painter, Gabriel Orozco, contacting us to display some of his works, which was so exciting. And he told me about Mikal Umberto, a new artist he’s taken an interest in. Someone he thinks will be worth millions in the next ten years. Someone he wants me to meet. This pleased me. After drinking a little too much, I got up to use the restroom, and when I returned he was fast asleep.
In his slumbered state, he almost reminds me of how I used to look at him—with a thirst for his sizzling, yet introverted personality, with a hunger for his knowledge, with a sensuality that pulsed between my thighs whenever I saw him, with a need to just be near him.
A small laugh, followed by a gag, escapes my throat thinking back on it now.
Stupid, stupid girl.
I shake off the thoughts and redirect my focus to the beach below. How ironic that a place I used to love, now I hate, and still it is my only friend.
I’m standing in the open French doors of my condo that lead to the small balcony not far away from the white-colored sand.
I’m not alone but I feel like I am. Then again, I’m always alone, even when I’m not.
I lean forward and take in the fresh air. This is the only place I can breathe in my home without a heavy weight on my lungs. Needing more peace, I turn my attention to the sky, the sun on the horizon, the dusk making room for night.
This is my favorite time of year. The early sunsets. The cool air. The quiet on the beach.
There is an air of tranquility and beauty that can only be experienced on these warm and cloudless ‘Santa Ana’ nights.
Words cannot describe the crisp, clear views of the San Diego coastline, the rainbow-colored spray blowing off the faces of the waves, or the amazing vitality in the air.
This right here—this view, this feeling—it’s my only sanity.
The sudden ding-dong of the doorbell startles me. Surprised that anyone dares ring, I tiptoe across the dark, wooden planked floor in my six-inch platform booties and step onto the plush white carpet. I’m dressed in the clothes he instructed me to wear to work when he called this morning. He likes me dressed up, so he can admire the view. Not the same view I enjoy, though. His preferred view is me. Mine is anything but me.
I hate myself most days.
In my vintage tweed Chanel jacket and floor-length ivory skirt, I quietly pass by the sofa. When his hand snaps out and grabs me, stopping me from taking another step, I force a small smile on my face and find his eyes. “You’re awake.”
“Where are you going?” His thick Spanish accent fills the quiet space.
Putting a finger to my lips I whisper, “Shhh . . . go back to sleep. Someone’s at the door.”
He bolts up and yanks me down by the wrist at the same time. “That’s for me. You know that. I’ll get it.”
Of course, I know that. No one comes for me. He doesn’t allow it.
I rub the area that his fingers cinched, knowing I’ll have another bruise. “Of course. I should have realized. I’m sorry.”
His eyes dart to my hand. He picks it up, turns it around, and kisses the reddening area. “Forgive me?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. I’m good at it. Lying. It’s all I seem to do anymore.
He kisses my hand one more time. “Go into the bedroom and run a bath. I have some business to discuss. I’ll be in to wash your back when I’m done.”
I stand and do as he says. I always do as he says. He thinks he owns me like I’m one of his tucked away prized pieces of art.
He’s wrong.
To him, I’m his plaything, his pet, a shiny piece in his never-to-be-seen collection. He buys my clothes, my food, my necessities. He pays for everything—the hospital bills, the lawyers, me—the mountain of debt I’ve accumulated because of him. In return, he tells me what I should like, how I should behave, what I should say—and I do exactly what he wants me to do.
But he never fucks me.
I’m not pure enough.
A nice way of saying I’m not good enough, really.
Not yet, anyway.
I’ll never be pure enough, good enough, but he doesn’t know that.
So for now, instead of using his dick to fuck me, he strips me bare and uses his eyes. He thinks he leaves me wanting. What he doesn’t realize is I don’t want him—I hate him. Despise him. Loathe him.
I cringe every time he touches me, feel repulsed by each kiss, and jump out of my skin whenever I have to stand naked for him to appreciate me with his dark, appraising eyes.
I know what he did.