It's been a long few days, unproductive in the grand scheme of things.
Dex comes over and checks on me straight away, asks if I'm okay and if there's anything he can do for me. When I assure him there isn't (because I'm not about to tell him that he could distract his best friend while I make a break for it), he goes to the kitchen with Cal to discuss business. They seem entirely too confident that I won’t make a break for it by throwing a chair through a window and using his bedsheets to shimmy down the side of the building. I suppose I could do it, too, if I wanted to show my hand. But so far, he hasn’t touched me since I’ve been awake, and his apartment is not the worst place I’ve ever been stuck. He hasn’t tried to fuck me, and he feeds me for free, so I’m not too intent on the idea of escape. I know what awaits me on the streets. Better the devil I know.
When I finally creep out of the bedroom to find them at the table, discussing work, I gather just enough from eavesdropping to figure out that they work in some kind of film industry.
At first, the revelation strikes terror in me at the thought of what kind of ‘films’ he's making and whether he made any recordings while I was out. I’ve heard of revenge porn and snuff films. I clearly don’t fall into either category, since I didn’t do anything to end up on Cal’s radar in the first place, and I’mclearly alive. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like to record himself fucking me, maybe share it with friends, or post it for the kudos of strangers.
The idea should disgust me. But I'd actually like to know what happened while I was under the spell of whatever drugs he had me on. I'd like to see why my body seems to feel so loyal to him, why I'm more at ease with a man who bought me than I ever was in the home I grew up in.
When Dex leaves, I swallow the tiny bit of pride I still have left and decide to bring it up.
Mustering all the nerve I can possibly fathom, I trek to the kitchen and find Cal poring over papers, massaging his temples. He looks frustrated, and I wonder if I should table this conversation for a safer time. But it’s too late. Sensing my presence, he looks up and grins. My heart falters, confused.
Now or never. Bite the damn bullet.
“Do you record yourself with women?” I blurt out before I can lose my nerve.
My question seems to take him by surprise, because he just blinks at me like he's trying to process that question.
He’s infuriatingly gorgeous, his sooty lashes longer than mine. Asshole.
“I haven't.” He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck like the thought has just taken him by storm, as though he's never considered the idea, and I've just opened him up to a whole world of possibilities. “I have a security feed set up that I use to monitor the basement, but it’s just a live feed. No recording.”
A security feed. So even when I was alone, I wasn’t alone. I don’t know how I should feel about that. Violated? Angry? Probably both, but I don’t feel anything except disappointment as I realize that I’m missing chunks of reality, that I’ll never know the full extent of what he did to me during that time.
“So, you don't have any…clips… of us?”
“No…” His eyes scan my face, looking for any sort of reason for my questioning. “I didn’t think about that.” He frowns. “Is that a bad thing?”
I shake my head and turn, deciding to let that idea go before he can press the matter further. But he stops me with a hand around my wrist, making me spin back to find him face-to-face with me.
My mouth is opening to tell him not to fucking touch me, but the words never come.
I can feel his breath on my lips, and there's a current of electricity between us, something static.
“What is it?” He asks, searching for an explanation. “Why do you want to know if I recorded what I did to you?”
I don't want to tell him the truth of it. I don't want to tell him that he’s not the first person to claim my body without my consent before and that that man never felt safe to me despite the fact he wasmeantto be a safe place. I don't want to tell him that even in the depravity of our situation, Cal had made me feel peace at times... that sleep was easier than being like this, not understanding what my purpose is here.
So, I settle for a version of the truth, deciding lies will do no good for any of us.
“I was just wondering what it was like...” I swallow, trying to summon the courage to drop the last part, “whatyou'relike.”
That takes him by surprise.
His face goes smooth, like he has to clear all his thoughts and start again to try and comprehend what I just said.
“You... wanted to see what I'm like?”
“Yes.” I swallow my shame, feeling the heat in my cheeks deepening. “I wanted to know if it was violent or sensual or robotic…”
This is so fucking stupid.
Asking my rapist to tell me how he did it… how it made him feel. Referring to what he did as rape feels too raw, though it is the technical definition.
So why does what he did feel so different from what others did?
I never got into therapy, choosing to raw dog my anxiety and treat the symptoms that internet doctors claim are manifestations of my trauma. But I know well enough that sex crimes aren’t just about sex. It’s aboutpower. And asking him to tell me what it was like feels like giving him an unfair amount of power over me.
