ROSA

 

It was the longest walk of my life though it was only a few steps.

Out of the Rose room, the door swinging shut behind me, my arms folded across my naked chest. My feet shuffled of their own accord purely because I couldn’t remain where I was.

Two steps, a third, then push and into the bedroom. I leaned back against the door and only then did I begin to cry.

I sobbed, sliding to the floor, wrapping my hands around my knees, great wrenching gasps escaping my lungs as I fought to control myself.

From the moment the door closed, I wasn’t there. I had travelled a few feet in distance but I had sprinted back in time, remembering things I didn’t want to remember, my skin crawling at the unbidden thoughts spreading like a plague through my mind.

At some point, I remembered the camera, that it could see my every movement where I was. I wanted privacy, I wanted to be hidden from view. I managed to crawl like a baby across the carpet, dragging myself onto the bed and pulling the covers over me, curling up in the foetal position, continuing to cry until there were no tears left in me.

Then I was still, my head pounding as if the skin across my skull was pulled too tight. I closed my eyes, the light suddenly too intense.

What the hell was wrong with me. I tried to calm myself, retracing my steps slowly, attempting to work out what had caused me to become hysterical at the flick of a switch.

I lay perfectly still, eyes tightly shut, concentrating on my breathing, in and out, in and out, gradually recovering.

From the moment he’d ripped my shirt open, I’d become two people inhabiting the same space. There was the me who was fine with that, more than fine in fact. That me was happy for him to strip me, to give me commands, to undress me so sensuously I almost came just from him sliding down my panties. It was the touch of his hand, so warm but rough, so tender but firm all at once.

But at the same time as I was feeling completely in the moment with him, there was the other me, the deeper, more damaged person I really was. That me was horrified by the intimacy, adamant he was using me, that he would hurt me, that I was trapped and unable to leave, that it was wrong, that I was dirty, I was bad, all the negative thoughts I’d ever had about myself swimming forth, vying for dominance over my mind.

The two versions of me stood there and fought in my head. I pushed down my doubts, trying to ignore them. It was easy to focus on him as he stripped, as he lay me down on the floor and kissed me so tenderly.

That kiss.

That first kiss. His arm around my back. I thought the touch of his lips on mine would shatter the illusion, that I would wake up and find out I’d dreamed this entire thing. It couldn’t be actually happening. Me naked in front of the hottest guy I’d ever met, not only that but he wanted me. He actually wanted me. I kicked away my doubts. I ignored them, shut them down, refused to think about them.

But the high of the moment couldn’t last forever.

He kissed between my legs, something no one had done before, even kissing the scar. He kissed and explored and brought me to an orgasm more powerful than any I’d ever had. Then he gave me a second and I was lost to him. I felt a connection that bonded us together and it was only made stronger when he entered me, his cock inside me, the two of us pressed together, a sensation I could hardly bear.

But all the time, the other me was whispering, was demanding my attention. I shook my head, wanting that me to go away, to just let me enjoy this for what it was, a single perfect moment.

He doesn’t really want you, it said. As soon as he’s done, he’ll push you away. You’re rubbish, you’re nothing to him, just something to play with then discard. Wait until he finds out you’re soiled goods, how damaged you really are, see if he wants anything to do with you then.

I told myself to shut up, that it wasn’t true, he did want me, he did like me. He had to. He wouldn’t have kissed me like that if he was just using me, so softly, so loving.

But then it happened.

He came in me and in an instant, his mood changed.

To send me away in that furious voice, to stop me from gathering up my clothes. The other me was right. I was damaged goods. He had just been using me.

That had started me crying but then while I was weak, while my defences were down, that was when the old memories came back. They were always there, waiting for me to lower my guard, never leaving me alone.

Then the tears became hysterics and I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t do anything but cry.

I didn’t move for a long time. I thought about him, about what had happened. Why had he sent me to my room? Was he suddenly repulsed by me? Was that all he’d wanted, to fuck me then toss me aside?

But if that was true, why send me here? Why not send me home? Tell me he never wanted to see me again. That would have made more sense.

Could this possibly be some part of his training, of his method, the reality of it in action?

I remembered seeing a documentary about the army once, it was on in the living room when I was cooking and I couldn't help catch bits of it. It talked about how they would break down the recruits mentally to rebuild them in a new mould as soldiers. Was that what he was doing to me?

If it was, it was a cruel thing to not warn me. But was he entirely to blame? I could have told him to stop, I could have said the safe word and walked away at any time. I didn’t and there was a reason for that. I hadn’t wanted him to stop. I’d been too busy enjoying it, keeping the other me at bay for long enough to indulge in selfish pleasure.

Then the big question came to me, the one I should have been thinking about all along.

Could I write the article after this?

I wanted to speak to him, prove to myself that my doubts were unfounded, that he had sent me away for reasons I didn’t understand, that he would apologise, beg my forgiveness. But if he did, I was still going to betray him.

Could I write it and erase the sex from things? Pretend it hadn’t happened?

I moaned as I rolled onto my back, hands over my eyes, my head pounding anew. It was better if he didn’t come in. I was too damaged to deserve someone like him. He’d gotten too close and in a single day, he’d brought out the long locked away memories of the past that I had worked so hard to wipe from my mind. If he tried that again, I would probably burst into tears before he had chance to kiss me and then he’d realise what a failure of a human being I was.

And I was going to screw him over. If I didn’t, I’d probably end up homeless, my hopes of being a journalist in tatters. Word would get round that you shouldn’t hire Rosa Harper, she couldn’t be trusted with a story, though she could be trusted to open her legs to the first story that came along.

I started crying again, wrapping the blankets tighter around me, my head under them until I got too hot to breath and I pushed myself upwards, taking deep breaths as I slowly quietened once again.

I wanted him to come in and I hoped he’d stay away. I felt ashamed of what had happened and so happy that he’d done that to me.

I had no idea how long I lay like that but in the end I decided I should ring Emma, get her to come and collect me, take me home. I wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. It was no wonder I’d been replaced by a coffee machine. That could be relied upon, unlike me.

I shuffled through to the bathroom, blanket still wrapped around me. I sat on the toilet and peed, hoping the cabinet above the sink had some painkillers in it. I was relieved to find it did and I swallowed two with a glass of water before returning to the bedroom and reaching under the bed for my phone.

I turned it on and watched the screen load slowly. What was I going to say? I fucked him then went mental when he told me to leave? That wouldn’t sound ideal.

She would ask about the article.

What would I say?

I could tell her about the Rose room, about the bedroom, proof that he had a hidden space in his office. That might be enough.

I left the phone on the bed and crossed to the wardrobe, digging out the first clothes that came to hand. I couldn’t be naked anymore. I didn’t want to wear his things but I had to hide my body, I didn’t want to look at it.

Plain panties on, bra that fitted perfectly, trousers, teeshirt, jumper. Hiding clothes.

Then I slid my phone into the trouser pocket and tried the door. It was unlocked. Was he still in the Rose room?

I decided fate would decide for me. If he was in there, I’d confront him, make him tell me why he sent me away. Then I would know the truth. If he wasn’t there? Well, I had a camera on my phone for a reason.

I tried the door to the Rose room. It was unlocked. I took a deep breath before pushing it open.

He wasn’t there.

I looked down. That was where we’d been. My clothes were still there. I scooped them up. I didn’t want them in the picture.

I stood in the doorway, making sure the CCTV in the hallway couldn’t see me. Then I pulled out the phone and took a single photo.

The moment I hit the button and the picture appeared, I felt a wave of guilt. I’d promised him I would keep all this to myself.

Memories reappeared. I didn’t want them to. I didn’t want to think about him laying me down on that floor, him sliding into me. The way he’d made me feel. It would be all the harder when he pushed me away to feel that intensity again.

I almost ran back to the bedroom, throwing the phone under the bed. Then I was back under the covers, doing my best to think about nothing at all.

I rocked myself back and forth, wondering if I was losing my mind. Sometime later, I drifted off to sleep, the only respite from the headache and the churning thoughts that refused to go away.

It was a disturbed sleep. I remember my dream vividly, as if it had just happened a moment ago. I doubt I will ever forget it.

I was with him again, the one whose name I’m not going to dignify by mentioning. We were in my bedroom, my mum downstairs, him pleading with me to stop teasing him, to let his hands continue their wandering.

I wanted to cry out, to call to her, tell her to come and make him leave but I couldn’t. I had spent so long persuading her to let him come up here, telling her she could trust me, that we were only studying together.

So I stayed quiet. His hands continued to wander as I froze but then just as it reached the point where I knew what was going to happen, the door burst open and Jamie was there. He threw him off me. I gasped, swooning on the bed as I was scooped up into his arms. “She belongs to me,” Jamie said, his voice full of fury. “Harm her and feel the wrath of my vengeance.”

Then he carried me out of there and I clung to him. It was a dream that stayed with me because when I woke up the next morning, I wished with all my heart that had really happened. But the truth was very different.

No one had saved me. I was broken that day and despite the weeks and months spent trying to glue the pieces back together, I was still broken.