"I'm so sorry about what happened to you, dear. I really am," says the nurse in an attempt to make me accept what's about to happen. "It will only take a moment, just a small pinch. And never again… If you can help me with this, I… can get you something else to eat!" She smiles and shows me her happy face, thinking I might mirror her.
"Just get it over with."
"Yes, dear. Just this once and then we'll leave you alone." She takes something white from her pocket, grabs my hand and guides my index finger inside a tiny hole. The pinch is small and quick, just like she promised. Once again, nothing will ever compare to what he used to put me through.
As soon as the nurse steps out, I glance at the bags. The son of a bitch bought me clothes; guilt has been eating him away.
And I hope that goes on until he dies.
Tees, pants, jackets and some lingerie… two pairs of tennis shoes, wool beanies, socks —he bought enough to fill a modest-sized wardrobe. I don't think I'll need anything else apart from what he bought. It's amazing how your view about stuff changes after a traumatic event. I used to have an endless wardrobe and say the phrase 'I have nothing to wear' over and over. Today I'm happy to have a pair of pants and a t-shirt to wear. While I go through the items, I come across something made of paper, not soft; something like a receipt, but harder. During my time in captivity, I never saw or had the opportunity to touch paper, not even to go number two; so I stop the search and my hands enjoy the texture like it's a magical object. I pull it out, only to discover it's a letter:
Cassandra,
My name is D'Amico, Bruno. I'm thirty-two years old. I started a military career when I was eighteen, I became a SEAL at the age of twenty-five and took my most dangerous and difficult job as a double agent three years ago. I was physically and mentally trained for it— nasty exercises at crazy hours for extended periods of time, conducted by several publicly-known government agencies and others unknown by the public as well. I'm a cold-hearted bastard, that's what they needed and trained me to be. To perform at the highest level, you can't be allowed to feel. I could kill and torture without flinching, I was what you may call a legal 'psycho killer'.
Until you came along.
The mission that included you exceeded every textbook, practice or experience I had in the past and made me feel like a rookie again.
I suffered when you did.
I'm telling you this because I feel you deserve to know who was the person who became the master of your pain, the devil who took ownership of your life and shattered it into a million pieces. But let me tell you something else— I never took any pleasure in it. I know you think I did, but I really didn't. Hurting you never felt good or made me a bigger man, Cassandra. These ideas you hold are wrong. I'll say it again: I never, EVER, enjoyed any of this. I'm sorry you had to be a victim of these 'skilled hands.'
I'm aware I've earned a special kind of hatred from you for life, that's completely understandable. If I could live to serve you until the day I die, I would; but I know that won't be enough to fix my mistakes, not in this life or the next.
I'm a despicable human being, I know that. And there's nothing in the entire world that can change that. I only hope you can change, and that love and happiness find you in your brand-new life.
If you need closure, here's my address:
7011 St. Thomas Street, Alamo Hills.
(You're free to take my life if that will give you peace.)
Sincerely,
Bruno.
PS: I hope you like your new clothes.
Chapter Seven
Miss Fischer, Welcome.
Cassandra
I’ve read the letter eight times now, and every time I do, a maelstrom of feelings pounds in my chest.
Rage.
Empathy.
Resentment.
Pity.
Self-pity, or towards him?
He shows himself as being complete opposites, hot and cold, beautiful and ugly, sadistic and kind, day and night. He claims that our sessions did not bring him any pleasure, but I’m not so sure about that— I saw how he looked at me, with a smirk. I saw him get aroused more than once— a bulge in his crotch exposed him. However, he never raped or touched me like that, not even by mistake; and for that I’m grateful. After our long sessions, he came to my cell and tended to my wounds, fixing me, healing me without even breathing a word, like an artist erasing a sketch. But later he started the same sketch again.
