News of my suicide attempt has spread even faster than the news of my sex tape. I only know because I’ve been Googling myself again, seeing how badly people hate me for everything I’ve done.
Though now I’m unable to. I’m being forced to stay in a rehab facility in Cambridge. It’s not an NHS facility, which means either the company or myself is paying for it.
It’s beautiful, which means it’s expensive and the people here are, for lack of a better word, lovely.
I’m not allowed my phone and I’m only allowed supervised phone calls that I have yet to use.
Like when I stayed at the spa with Lockhart, I don’t feel like I want to die. I could stay here happily for a long time. It’s easy to forget everything when you shut yourself away from the world.
Though, saying that, I miss him. I miss him so much. His smell, how he’d hold me when I was sleeping.
It’s all I talk about with my psychiatrist, who is just as lovely as this place. We don’t talk about what happened or what I did, but instead talk about my life in a band, my music, my powerful love for Lockhart that turned to hate because I couldn’t decipher my own feelings.
He helps me understand my desperation for somebody to figure out what happened to me.
I haven’t told him what happened, but for someone of his age, in this job, I bet it’s not hard to figure out.
He wants me to say it out loud in a group setting. He wants me to admit to myself that everything that has happened was beyond my control, everything but the cutting of wrists.
But it wasn’t out of my control. My choices led to that point.
Mine and mine alone.
The end goal, he says, is that I leave here with a new outlook on life and a fire in my heart.
He also doesn’t bullshit me when I ask him every day if Lockhart called.
“It’s twisted,” I admit, “that I tortured him for weeks, hurt him repeatedly, screamed at him and lied to him, yet it’s him who I miss the most.”
“Call him,” He replies, but I scoff and walk away.
That was the end of this morning’s session. This afternoon will tackle my pregnancy. It’s a subject that hasn’t been brought up in the few days I’ve been here. It’s a subject that can’t go ignored for much longer.
I know what I want to do, so I know that I have a little more time. I’m only three weeks along. I have time. Not much but I have it.
“The cuts on your wrists are healing badass.” I’m startled by this statement, which comes from a short haired woman with dark skin, beautiful thick lips and braided hair. She straddles a chair opposite me. “You’ll be able to tattoo over them soon.” When she flashes her own tattooed arms at me, showing me the indent in her right wrist that goes all the way down her forearm, I cringe. Not because it’s ugly but because I don’t know how to address her. “That’s if you’re into that.”
I notice her pink scrubs and blink rapidly before asking, “Wait… you’re a nurse?”
“I am. I was admitted here for the same thing you were, six years ago. I fell in love with the place and got the qualifications I needed to come back.”
At this I smile and take her outstretched hand in greeting, admiring the sword tattoo that spans from elbow to wrist. It reminds me of the movie Kill Bill. “I’m Cerise.”
“I’m Joy, Nurse Joy, but call me Joy. I’m a friend in here, not a psychologist.”
My bottom lip starts to tremble and I curse myself for being so weak.
“I’m sorry,” I sniff, taking the tissue, she offers me. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”
“It’s about time you did. So,” she looks at the almost empty room around us, “Cry as much as you like. I’ve seen the video.”
“What?” I squeak, looking at her in horror.
She grins, leans back and stretches her neck from side to side. “Somebody was gonna say it to you eventually. I’m sorry for surprising you, but I’ve seen it. Now get over it.”
I gawp at her, finding the right words. “Are you… can you… are you even allowed to say it?”
“I’m just a nurse, not a psychologist. Who the hell knows?” She laughs again and it bounces off the walls. “That must have been mortifying. I can only imagine.”
I look at the bright white ceiling and sigh gravely. “I had to tell my dad. There’s no worse moment than the moment you have to tell your dad that his friends have seen you having sex.”
“Really bloody good sex,” she finishes for me and, for the first time in forever, I burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.
* * *
“I’ve been reading some of those psychology books in the hall,” I say to my psychiatrist. Mr Foreman he’s called, but insists we call him by his actual name, Geoffrey.
“And?”
“Well… did I have emotional shock?”
“Yes,” He states plainly.
I nod. “I had almost every symptom. I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“Just like the body, the psyche can experience injuries that cause severe damage. Now…” He looks down at his paper and starts scribbling. “Are you going to tell me what triggered it?”
“I’m not sure it was any one thing,” I sigh.
“Would you rather talk about it with Joy? You and she are getting close.”
I cringe, wishing he hadn’t noticed. “She won’t be in trouble, will she?”
He looks at me with a raised brow. “Why would she be in trouble?”
“Because I’m her new favourite head case.”
He throws his head back and roars with laughter. “I’ve never quite heard it like that before.” His eyes twinkle with humour. “Don’t worry, Cerise, it’s good to see you bonding. Joy is enjoying herself too, seeing as she’s doing double shifts. I think she sees a lot of herself in you. Can you believe she came in here even more broken than you?”
I find that hard to believe. “Really?”
“Oh yeah, severely. She was the only suicide case that I honestly thought I wouldn’t be able to save.”
I think of my raven-haired friend whom I’ve come to appreciate so much over the past week and feel on the verge of tears again. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“So, back to you.” He looks back down at his paper. “Why are you here? Start at the beginning.”
“I fell in love with my boss and realised that I was never in love with Frank.”
“Frank?”
“He’s dead now, but he was my first love. He’s umm… he’s the man that groomed me. Tricked me into believing I wanted an adult relationship and dropped me after having sex with me three times, the first time of which wasn’t entirely consensual.”
“Frank sounds like a wanker.”
I let out a bark of laughter and look out of the window at the beautiful field full of wildflowers. In the afternoons they take a few of us out there to pick some for the nurses’ station. We aren’t allowed to talk with each other; it’s apparently a form of meditation and reflection for people with busy minds. “I do believe that Frank was a wanker. I just wish I’d realised it sooner.”
“Keep going.”
It pours from me like lava from a ready volcano.
The things I dared not speak about, I speak about to him. I tell him about Thatcher but I don’t stop to let him comment. I tell him how the video pushed me over the edge and how I found out I was pregnant and I just couldn’t cope.
I’m still not sure I can cope. How does one go from this to out there?
The thought terrifies me.
“Now,” he says after I finish offloading, “We really need to discuss what you want to do about the alien as you call it. Is there no way at all that it could be your gentleman’s and not that vile animal’s?”
“I would never get that lucky and that’s the only day I didn’t take my pill. I was so upset I just forgot.”
“You can do paternity tests at around eleven weeks.”
I shake my head. “Even if it did, by the very small chance, turn out to be Lockhart’s, he’s done with me now. I’d just be trapping him and he deserves better than what I gave him.”
“If he loves you, which I believe he does, he’ll forgive you. You just have to talk to him.”
“I’m not ready,” I confess, looking out of the window again.
“You never will be.”
* * *
Lockhart
I pick up my phone, as I do every hour, just to see if she’s called.
She hasn’t. I need to stop tormenting myself like this. I tried. I gave it my all and it wasn’t enough.
Yet my skin still burns with the scent of her blood. Does she not think I too am struggling with the release of such a video? Did she stop to ask how it made me feel?
My phone rings, snapping me from my bitter thoughts. The number is withheld. It had better not be yet another person trying to get the scoop.
“What?” I snarl viciously, closing my eyes to help with the thrumming pain behind my eyes. I’ve had a constant headache since the moment she called. Since the moment I realised she was playing me a final melody. I can read that girl better than she reads herself.
“Mr Lockhart.” The voice is distorted by electrical equipment, keeping the person on the line anonymous. I know immediately that it’s the same person who took the video from Enri’s cloud. The video that almost killed her. “Don’t hang up.”
“You have three seconds.”
“I have something you want.” His or her voice crackles, dipping and rising to different notes with each spoken word.
I laugh coldly. “The last thing you had that I wanted almost killed the love of my life.”
“I didn’t release the video.” Even though his voice is electronic, I can sense his anger. “Well… not intentionally. I had a little tiff with… anyway…” The way they huff after that elongated word tells me they are definitely female. “We had a deal and, due to unfortunate circumstances, I broke it.”
“I want my money back.”
The voice hesitates and then, after clearing their throat, they state, “I have something that will make it up to you.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s another video.”
My mind floods to the worst. Was Cerise filmed yet again while in the throes of passion with another man? The thought, though I won’t admit it out loud, makes me feel a crippling pain in my chest. “If you think I want to see her in such a…”
“It’s not that kind of video.”
I can’t help but be intrigued. “Go on.”
“Enri isn’t the only rich high-profile person I hacked recently.”
“Get to the point!”
“You have to promise me you won’t come for me and this makes us even.”
“If… and that’s a big if… the video holds anything I want.”
“Oh it does,” they say and then sigh gravely. “Let’s just say it’s the evidence needed to put somebody away for a very long time.”
I roll my eyes. “I have no desire to manipulate…”
“Richard Thatcher. Business partner, but not by choice.”
I sit up and rub my chin. “Richard Thatcher and I have come to an understanding.”
“When you see this video, that understanding will likely be buried along with his body.” She pauses again. “If I were to sell this video, I’d never have to work again. Neither would my kids, or my kids’ kids, or my kids’ kids’ kids’ kids…”
“I get the fucking point. I’m not buying anything from you again.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m offering it to you as an apology and a gesture of forgiveness.”
“Nothing is worth that. I won’t stop until I have your head on a plate for what you did to Cerise.” I’m losing my cool and I shouldn’t. Now isn’t the time to rage.
“Thatcher is offering me thirty million.”
My heart stops beating for a moment. “You jest.”
“Do I have your word that you’ll leave me alone?”
My curiosity gets the better of my judgement and I remind myself that Cerise doesn’t want me. She’s currently with child, another man’s child. I clench my fist to help stop the pain from spreading through my limbs at the thought.
I don’t know how or why but that girl… that woman captured my heart and soul. Then she tore it to pieces. I likely deserve it and it’s why I’m not getting my own vengeance. She has suffered enough. I’ll leave her to her rehabilitation in peace. She no longer wants my company anyway, as I’m told she’s allowed to make calls each day but chooses not to.
Just like she chose not to live for me.
I might have even been able to forgive her for her deeds. That’s how truly entangled in my soul she was… is. I’ve never felt a love so powerful. I’ve never felt pain so crippling. I’d rather lose my limbs than suffer the loss of the woman I love and the promise of a child all in the same day.
“Are you still there?” She asks, sounding less electronic this time.
“You have my word.” I don’t give my word lightly.
I hear a tapping sound as she says, “Make sure you’re alone when you watch it. And remember that the best justice is knowing he’s locked away being anally penetrated by huge bald guys in the prison showers.”
The line goes dead and I click my computer mouse over and over again. My computer won’t load quickly enough and it’s state of the art.
“Come on,” I mumble, praying that this video is worth it so I don’t have to go back on my word.
I thought it would be an email but instead it’s already open on my computer screen. I don’t like how easily this person can access my systems. I should find her and hire her to protect my company.
I smile at the thought and then press play on the dark video, wondering what Thatcher has gotten himself into this time that could land him in prison. Though I can’t stand him, he has always held himself to such a high standard of professionalism and etiquette.
The video starts and an image of a hotel room fades into view. It’s a decent quality image and angle. The camera seems to be filming from the top left corner of the room. It catches the bed from above, a small table, the closed curtains covering the window, a hideous plant in the far corner of the room and a door that’s likely for the en-suite.
It takes a few seconds and light spills into the room in the shape of an elongated rectangle. In the centre is the shadow of a man. He steps into the dark room and moves straight to the floor standing lamp, which is partially hidden from view. When he turns the lamp on it’s confirmed to be Thatcher and my curiosity only rises greatly when he snatches the red wool throw from the bed and tosses it over the bright lamp. The room glows with an ominous red. It’s dim and seems dangerous, though in the right setting I suppose it could be soothing.
Not in some random hotel room though.
Thatcher, as though in a rush, moves out of the line of sight of the camera, as though standing below it. He mumbles to himself but it’s indecipherable.
Time passes but I don’t click the arrow to fast forward the video. I don’t want to miss a thing.
The door opens again, straight into Thatcher. This time the shadow in the light is one of a woman.
She steps into the room and my heart drops.
It’s Mary Poppins.
I’d know that Halloween outfit anywhere.
Why is she in Thatcher’s room? Has she been sleeping with him?
“Hi honey, I’m home,” she coos playfully and my scowl deepens. She says that to me. Not to him. Not to anybody. That’s her line to me. How dare she tarnish it. “Tobias?”
My rage quickly becomes confusion and panic. She thinks I’m there. SHE THINKS I’M THERE! I want to scream at her to get out. This doesn’t feel right.
But then she cries out, a moan of passion, and begs me to stop teasing her. He has the remote. That’s where it went. I looked everywhere for it but just assumed she’d sneaked it from my pocket like a little vixen.
He moves towards her so carefully and slowly while she’s overpowered by those stupid fucking knickers, she doesn’t notice him. Or if she does, she simply thinks it’s me.
He ties something over her eyes. It looks like an unfolded tie but I can’t be sure. I need to know so I can burn it. She accepts this too, because we often play this game. I often blind her. She’s so pliable, so eager to have me, she even adjusts the mask over her eyes to a comfortable position.
I can’t stop watching. I want to but I need to see.
“Oh, we’re playing this game are we?” She giggles. Her voice sounds raspy. It gets like that when she’s in the…
I press my fist to my mouth as I watch, so hard I taste the metallic tang of blood when I pinch it between my fingers and tooth.
He cuffs her and then shoves her forward, far rougher than I would have. There’s too much risk to hurting her knees or neck in this bound position. She has no way to protect her face or catch herself. Though my girl takes it like she always does, with a little nervous laugh and desire in her belly.
“You’re going to be cruel, aren’t you?” She asks him, smiling. I can see her smile. Her face is turned this way. Then she moans and I see him holding the remote in one hand as his other hand rubs his cock through his trousers. It enrages me. I want to roar to the heavens and raise hell.
I want to slice off his dick with a jagged knife and feed it to him.
My poor girl doesn’t have a clue.
I’ll have his head for this.
He pulls out his phone after trading the remote for it, leaving her still panting and writhing. Why did I make her wear those knickers? Then he takes photos of her. Is this his plan? To get her vulnerable?
Is this his revenge for what happened to his wife?
“Lockhart,” she begs desperately, “please don’t tease me.”
He turns to leave and thank fuck. It’s over.
Just go.
“Go, Thatcher. Get the fuck out of that room. She’ll never have to know it’s you!” I hiss, leaning closer to the screen, my knee bouncing in anticipation.
He turns back again and withdraws his phone one more time.
I watch as he gently slides her long fucking Mary Poppins blue skirt up her thighs until it’s a bunched mess on her back. He takes more pictures. I see the flash distort the camera recording and then he carefully drops to one knee. His hand trembles as he reaches for her, desperate to touch her.
I’m going to cut off his hand too.
He stops in mid-air and stands again.
It’s over this time, I mentally beg. It’s over. He’s going to leave.
But then she shouts, “Just fuck me already,” her tone pleading and agitated.
“No,” I whisper, wanting to place a hand over her mouth. “No. No. No. No. No. Baby. No.”
I stand, unable to sit still any longer, though my eyes won’t leave the video.
He groans and grips himself through his trousers. My poor girl is exposed, her arms bound. She has no way to defend herself and she knows it.
“Wait,” she states and that one word translates an entire world of fear and panic. She heard him. She knows it’s not me.
“I wasn’t going to do this.” He says, as though it makes it okay.
“THEN DON’T!” I roar, gripping my desk and leaning into the screen. I need to see. I don’t need to see. There’s no coming back from seeing this. She shouldn’t go through this alone. I’m there… I’m with her. Right now I’m with her.
“But I can’t resist,” He murmurs, sounding so ashamed of himself.
I rip a hand through my hair and shut my eyes when she says his name. “Thatcher?”
My eyes swell with a burning sensation I’ve never felt when she screams in pain as he twists her arms upwards.
There’s a clanging of his belt and then he defiles her.
He defiles her.
He breaks her and he enjoys it. He finds his release as she resigns herself to her fate and stays unmoving. She’s lost and it breaks my heart.
My tears fall when he finishes and tells her he’s sorry. How dare he humiliate her like that and apologise… FUCK.
It all makes sense now. All of it.
How she knew about Thatcher’s wife. Why she suddenly changed to a shell of the person she was before.
How… HOW DID I NOT SEE IT?
I tell myself I love her but I couldn’t even sense when she needed me the most.
It’s no wonder that she hates me. I took her there. I’m the reason for all of this. It’s all my fucking fault.
When she vomits on the ground after he leaves, I wipe my eyes until they’re dry and stinging.
I’m not allowed to feel sorry for myself. That’s not in the cards. Not anymore.
My only goal now is vengeance.
I’m going to do everything I promised to him and more.
He’ll be nothing by the time I’m finished.
Nothing.