She’d fled from him to the Monster’s lair, lured on by dreams of a better life for her only daughter. But I know how cruelly her illusions have been dashed. I was expecting it, but I didn’t think it would be so swift.
Not one month after moving in with the Monster, she’s returned to the Beast. She’s probably begging him for mercy as we speak.
What’s wrong with Mama? Doesn’t she know what awaits her there? The Beast is not a merciful man.
By now, I’m running, my cheap sneakers sliding along the icy streets.
At last, I reach the Beast’s house and bang on his door. But when he opens it, leering down at me, his fists clenched by his side, I already know it’s too late.
-
I wake in a cold sweat, my heart hammering. I glance at the clock by the nightstand and see it’s eleven a.m. I vaguely remember falling asleep in Damien’s arms, but he’s gone now.
I open my eyes, willing the images that scorch my mind to disappear. It’s hard to reconcile the pleasure I experienced at Damien’s hands with the images that haunt my nightmares.
The Beast, his eyes glinting at me, his fists red with blood.
The Monster, waiting outside my door, the door I try to barricade every night by piling everything I own against it.
But I don’t own much. And he’s strong. So strong.
Another image bursts into my mind then. Logan, gloating at me on the boat, drinking his beer, laughing as I drown.
But the dreams that terrorize my nights and the thoughts that haunt my days always end with Damien, his face staring down at mine, cold, cruel, and every so often, intolerably gentle. He’s the one I want. The only one I’ve ever wanted. But I never know what’sgoing on behind his dark eyes.
I’m starting to understand Mama better. I understand why she surrendered, first to the Beast, then to the Monster. It’s far too easy to let ourselves hope. When really, all men are the same.
They take what they want, then leave us lying in the dirt.
Mama’s oft-repeated warning sounds like a refrain in my mind.
But not Damien. Never Damien.
He cares for me. Somewhere, deep inside, he cares. I can feel it. It must be true.
He’s not like them. He just isn’t.
Still, something inside me aches, and I find myself folding my body over a pillow, trying to comfort myself, to ease the pain that’s buried deep within me.
He knows how to pleasure me, but that doesn’t mean he cares. He’s not like the Peter Pan in my storybook. He won’t protect me. He’ll never hold me all night long and make the bad dreams go away. He would never care enough to ask about them. Not that I would tell him, anyway.
-
The next day, I wake up with a renewed sense of purpose. I’m sick of wallowing in self-pity, of spending my time staring at walls and phones. Today, I won’t mope about the apartment all day. I’m going to put on one of the nicer dresses, and I’ll wear makeup. I don’t usually wear any, but I noticed a cosmetics bag in one of the drawers. I’ll conceal my haunted look, and maybe if he finds me more attractive, he’ll come see me… and he’ll stay, this time.
Then I’ll read, I’ll write, I’ll do something. This morning, the little red light is blinking again, so I know the cameras are on. But maybe that little red light doesn’t mean anything. Maybe the cameras have been on this whole time. Maybe Damien knows.
Just as quickly as the intrusive thoughts worm their way up, I quash them down again. No, Damien doesn’t know. The cameras were down. Now that they’re on again, he’ll watch me on them and be proud of me. He won’t see me as a sad, passive jellyfish. He’ll stay.
After a burning hot shower, I get dressed carefully. I do my best to apply makeup, trying to force out the intrusive thoughts when my eyes flit over to the blinking camera. It reminds me of the other night. Of the suspicions I’ve done my best since then to suppress. The light wasn’t blinking, the cameras weren’t recording, Damien didn’t know. Logan threw me in the Oakley River, but Damien didn’t know.
The ugly anxiety is right there under the surface. I manage to stave it off with what’s become a constant refrain.Damien doesn’t know. Damien held me in his arms. I mean something to him. Damien doesn’t know.
Yet he was gone yesterday morning when I woke up. He didn’t stay.
Maybe he does know.
My finger trembles, the mascara smudging.
