Liana

 

 

 

So, he can’t tell me his name?

You know that.

Again, he’s implying that I know something that I actually don’t. It’s satisfying to realize that I must be right about my assumption, but it also scares me.

I scare myself. I’m not using this information like a sane person should, but instead I’ve started to dig a hole for myself. Isn’t there a chance that he will find out about his mistake? And what about the other woman? What about the real Ruby Red? If she still expecting to be ‘kidnapped’ by him? And at what point, when it doesn‘t happen, will she contact him? Shouldn’t there be a woman out there who’s just as confused as I am? As confused as I am about being here, this other woman must be just as confused about not being here.

“I know you can’t tell me,” I lie to him. “But I thought we could make an exception.”

He shakes his head, his facial expression hardening. “We can’t.”

“You’re stubborn,” I tell him, watching him with intent to make sure I’m not going too far.

“No,” he objects, averting my eyes and focusing on the food in front of him. “I’m not stubborn, just strict. Flexibility is not really my thing when it comes to rules. Another thing you should know.”

“You made an exception with this,” I say, gesturing toward the food. “And with giving me clothes. Didn’t you say those things weren’t part of the game either?”

“Game?” he asks, sneering at me. “Stop calling it that.”

I bite my lower lip. Okay, that one went too far. I have to be more careful, if I don’t want him to cut the conversation short again.

“So, um, are you living here by yourself?” I ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, which only makes my question sound even more stupid.

He furrows his eyebrows at me again.

“Well, not at the moment,” he says. “You’re here, too.”

I roll my eyes at him, something that would usually make him furious, but this time it causes him to laugh. This must be the first time I’ve ever seen him laugh out loud like this. There’s never been more than a quick chuckle or a smirk before.

I smile at him, which causes his face to harden.

“So, it’s just you otherwise?” I press, unwilling to let go of my line of questioning.

He nods. “Yes, it’s just me.”

“Isn’t it weird to live in such a big house all by yourself?” I ask. “Doesn’t it get lonely?”

“A lot of people live by themselves,” he says. “That doesn’t mean they are lonely.”

I nod. “Yes, sure, but-”

“Do you live by yourself?” he interrupts me.

I bring the coffee mug up to my face, taking a big sip, as if I was trying to hide behind it. My first instinct is to deny it and tell him that I’m living with my boyfriend. It’s not even because I want to lie to him, but because that’s what still pops into my head when I’m asked about my living situation. Luke and I haven’t been living together for that long, but it felt so natural to me that I still can’t believe it’s over.

“Yes, I do,” I say. “As of late.”

“And are you lonely?” he wants to know.

I pause, placing the mug back on the table, absentmindedly turning it on the small bottom plate. The sun rays are playing on the cutlery, randomly blinding me with sharp flashes of light as he moves his fork and knife before me.

“Yes,” I whisper solemnly without looking at him. “Yes, I am lonely.”

I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t reciprocate the gaze. I don’t even know why I’m telling him this. He doesn’t want to hear my little sob story. He just wants to have fun with his little sex slave and not be burdened with her emotional luggage.

He doesn’t say a word, but reaches for his own coffee mug, taking his sweet time sipping from it. This is awkward for him, and he doesn’t know how to react.

“This was my grandparents’ house,” he says after a few more moments of uncomfortable silence have passed between us. “I used to live here with them, partly grew up here. It feels more like home to me than any other place.”

He pauses, waiting for me to lift my chin to look at him. Our eyes meet across the table, our gazes speaking silently to one another. His face speaks of concern and empathy. Even if he’s only faking it to make me feel better, he’s doing a really good job at it.

“Maybe that’s why I don’t feel lonely,” he adds, his words heavy with meaning. “Despite the vast and empty halls. Every room echoes voices from the past. It’s hard to feel alone among them.”

I’m struck by how beautiful his words are, just like the man who spoke them. It’s hard to imagine that this is the same man who enslaved me, the same man who locked me up, who whips and spanks me, and who fucks me like a savage.

“Your grandparents?” I ask. “You lived here with your grandparents?”

He nods. “Yes, they moved to Florida and gave this house to me.”

“What about your parents?” I want to know.

His face changes, and now he’s the one who’s avoiding my eyes.

“They’re gone,” he says. “Not much to say about them.”

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Don’t worry, it happened a long time ago. I was still a kid,” he says. “It doesn’t bother me.”

He takes a big bite of his toast and looks at me squarely, burying any hint of sadness that might have been there a second before.

“What about your parents?” he asks.

I’m confused at his question. He has never asked me anything personal, and I didn’t expect him to, especially after I found out that he thinks I’m just a whore he bought for his pleasure.

“They‘re alive,” I reply. “I think.”

He chuckles. “You think?”

“Well, the sperm donor who’s supposed to be my father did nothing but drink and hit me and my mother until she finally had the guts to kick him out when I was nine,” I tell him. “And my mother married another asshole shortly after that and had another kid with him. He’s not as bad as my father used to be, but he hates me and I hate him. They are still up in Maine, we barely talk.”

“So you’re not from here?”

I shake my head. “No, I moved here for a job.”

He turns to me, drawing in his eyebrows as his casts me a skeptical look.

Damn, that was stupid. Who would move to a different state just to become a whore?

“Er, not this job,” I correct myself. “I mean, it-”

“I don’t need to know,” he interrupts me. “But I’m sorry to hear about your family.”

Now he’s the one trying to console me just like I did for him before.

We continue to eat in silence for a few moments. There’s so much more I want to know about him. There was such a deep sadness behind his words when he talked about this house and how its halls are filled with voices from the past. I wonder if those voices also echo fights and yelling, as they would in my family’s home.

“How did your parents die?” I dare to ask, certain that he will deny me a response.

“Car accident,” he says. “My father was wasted and drove their car into a ravine. Killed them both, but luckily no one else was hurt. I was with my grandparents at the time.”

“Fuck,” I gasp, unable to come up with a better remark.

“Amen to that,” he says. “Guess we both have that in common, fucked-up fathers.”

He casts me a weird look, questioning, searching, as if he was trying to find something else hidden behind my exterior.

“I guess so,” I say, raising my coffee mug to him in a toast.