CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m at home just getting out of the shower and dressing in my pajamas. Today was hard. The talk with Lily didn’t give me any answers, only more questions. I understand the words she said, just let Kanye in. Let someone who loves me in, to help support me, but it’s not that simple. If I let in the one man who loves me and he finds out what happened to me, what I took part in; I could lose him and not just be robbed of seeing him. Lose his love for me, his idea of who he thinks I am. It’s all that’s left of me. Thoughts from people who used to know me. If I don’t have those anymore, then I really am lost to the darkness. If they find out who I have become, what’s stopping the nightmare from taking me completely?

And if he accepts me? What life can I give him? Dark thoughts and cowering in a corner crying because I can’t handle my past. Hiding in a bathroom cutting my skin just to give myself some moments of peace. Sooner or later he’s going to have enough. My body sags. I’m so lost.

I head downstairs and print out the pictures I took at the barbecue. The dining room is now covered in pictures of strangers and now family members smiling and laughing. Living. I hear my cell ding and I look down and see it’s a message.

Emailed you pictures.

My body stills. Pictures of him. Am I ready to see him again? It’s been almost three months, the same amount of time it’s been for the last year. Right around this time, I would have to be ready for a party. To be paraded in front of dozens of men and sold for the night. And for the past three years, he has been the highest bidder; he always won.

I race into the living room and pull the laptop out from under the coffee table. Kanye and I never used it much. Just for paying bills and emails from friends. I click onto the internet and I’m relieved to see we still have WI-FI for the house. I didn’t think to check when I gave out my email address in the phone conversation.

I open up the email account I created and find an email there with the subject.

I found him.

I click on it and find pictures of the man who made my life hell. One of the men, who created this Emily, the weak Emily. The one man who kept coming back to torture me. Donovan. He’s dressed in another expensive suit. He’s talking to man. They are both wearing sunglasses and are in what looks like a park. I read the message in the email.

I’m in Mexico City. The man he’s with is Marco’s brother, Michael O’Connor. He’s been asking questions about what happened to his brother and there are rumors he’s set to start off where Marco’s empire died.

From my Intel, I’ve found out Donovan has arranged this meeting with Michael in hopes of finding you.

Chills run through my body. Starting the collection again? No! And Donovan wants to find me, why? Would he try to kidnap me? Of course he would; he’s a psychopath. I need to prepare. I need to catch him before he can find me, here with my family and with Kanye. I won’t let him hurt them.

I reply to the email.

I need you to keep him in your sights. I need to know where he is at all times. When I figure out what my plans are, I will contact you through this email.

I grab a pen and paper and write list of things I’m going to need.

Money, passport, ropes, zip ties, gag, knives, gun.

I see an email appear out of the corner of my eye.

Consider it done. Will I be seeing you soon?

I reply.

As soon as I can get out of Hastings, I will be there.

A memory of Donovan on top of me, holding me down, squeezing my throat so tight my vision blurs.

“That’s right, Emily, you stupid whore, fucking pass out on me. You can’t fucking hack it, can you! Worthless piece of shit,” he screams at me as my world turns black. I wake feeling sore between my legs and my head pounding, alone in the room.

I come out of my memory, scratching over the cuts on my thighs. I need to take it out. I need to remove the poison from me, now. I race up the stairs, two at a time. I slam open the top draw where I know the shavers are. I snap the plastic off from around the razor until all I’m holding is the blade between my fingers.

I take a seat on the toilet lid. My hand shakes as I lift my cotton shorts, high up my thigh. I see three lines of cuts, all in a row. If anyone ever saw them, I would say they are cat scratches.

I push the razor to the first line and feel a small sting, my heart starts racing and then I pull the blade through my skin toward me about three centimeters and release the blade from my thigh.

I exhale heavily as I feel the release run through my body. It wipes out the memory of his face. The memory of anything. My body relaxes and I lie back on the toilet and rest my head on the wall. My eyes close and my mind clears. Peace.

I come out of my daze to a lone, warm tear hitting my lips. Shame slams into me and I look down and see red smearing the cut. The brightest color in my world yet its mere existence tells me how weak I am.

I grab for the toilet paper and rip off a few sheets. I press down hard on the cut wishing it would magically disappear. Wishing it never happened. Bile rises in my throat and sweat coats my forehead. I’m so disappointed in myself. Why do I cut? I’m not completely sure. To have proof of my hurt? To match the ugliness I know is inside of me? I promise myself this will never happen again. I say it over and over again in my head. Whispers echo through my mind that I’m lying to myself, but I push them aside.

I flush the toilet paper and put a Band-Aid over my swollen cut. I’m heading back downstairs when I hear my cell ringing. I stop and look around. It’s probably around eight pm, which means its Kanye.

I race down the stairs to my phone, which is sitting on the dining room table.

“Hello.” My voice is soft with a slight shake to it.

“Hey, Emmy.” At hearing Kanye’s voice my chest constricts and tears start falling. I want him here. I want Kanye to hold me and tell me everything is going to be okay. The strength I need for these conversations has already depleted. I need to make this quick or I’m going to fall apart on the phone to him.

“Kanye, I’m tired can we talk tomorrow, please.” My voice starts out strong but by the end it’s shaky. I berate myself for not being strong.

“Emmy, is everything okay?” I can hear Kanye moving around while he’s on the phone.

“Yes, yes. It’s just...” I shake my head trying to think of what to say. But what can I say? If I told Kanye I have pictures and know the whereabouts’ for a man who raped me, he would go ballistic. He would go after him, and that’s the last thing I want. I don’t want the dark part of my life anywhere near Kanye. If anyone is going to deal with Donovan, it will be me.

“Emmy, what the fuck is going on? You sound scared. I’m coming over.”

“No, Kanye, really—” That’s all I get out before he hangs up. Damn it.

My pulse speeds up and I start panicking. I put the phone down and slam the laptop closed. I race into the living room and put it back under the coffee table. I look around wildly and realize I’m being silly. Kanye’s not going to find out I’m tracking Donovan and he’s not going to walk through the door in the next two seconds. I slump down on the couch and try to regain some sanity.

I head toward the kitchen to heat up some leftovers from the barbecue my mom made me bring home. As the microwave dings at eight minutes, I hear the front door unlocking and Kanye’s booming voice through the house.

“Emily!”

“In the kitchen!” I pull my plate out of the microwave and turn as Kanye walks into the kitchen.

“If you hadn’t hung up on me, I was going to tell you I’m fine, Kanye,” I state.

I walk into the dining room with my plate and move some pictures over. I sit and start eating my rissole and potato salad.

“Bullshit, Emily, I know you better than that and you know I do. Something happened. What was it?” he asks sternly.

Damn, I do know that. I should never have picked up his phone call, but I needed to hear his voice. I needed to remember where I am and that I’m safe. I decide to lie. I do not want Kanye finding out I’m looking for my abuser.

“I had a bad memory, that’s all,” I state softly.

Kanye takes the seat next to me. He sighs and drops his head. God, my heart hurts for him. I know how badly he wants to help me. He just can’t. Nobody can.

Kanye sits up and leans back in his chair, his hands clasped together on the table.

“I’m staying the night,” he states. My eyes go wide and my mouth drops open. No!

“No, you’re not, Kanye.”

“Why not, Emmy? You said you had a bad memory. I can’t go back to Dom’s and sit around wondering if you’re going to have another and no one is here for you. Or fuck, how many moments have you had like that already. No fucking way, I’m here tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Kanye moves away from the table.

“I’m taking a shower and getting ready for bed. Luckily, most of my clothes are already here,” he says and smirks at me before disappearing up the stairs.

Kanye leaves me sitting at the table with my untouched food. I stare into thin air realizing I’ll be spending the night with Kanye. Well, not with him, but in the same house. It’s been over five years. God. I can’t handle this. My body heats up just seeing him. This is going to be torture. I smack my forehead on the table and repeat quietly, “I can do this. I can do this.”

A few minutes later, my eyes shift to the bottom of the staircase as I hear Kanye’s loud footsteps come down the stairs. Sweat builds on my neck and I lick my lips as Kanye walks to me in just a towel. I swallow and it goes down hard.

“I left my toothbrush in the car.” He grins and walks out the front door. A minute later, he’s back inside, the door closing, and locking. He turns and winks at me and then he’s gone back up the stairs again. Jesus, I think I just stared at him the whole time. Toothbrush in his car? Why would his toothbrush be in the— that man! He knew he was going to stay all along.

I decide to let it go. He’s here. He’s staying and it’s not going to change by me telling him I know he planned it. I want him here. No, I can’t think like that; he can’t get too close.