“When did it happen the first time?” Pamela asks in the same gentle tone she uses every session with me. I suppose it’s the voice and the face she uses with all her clients. Though I seriously doubt anyone is as messed up as me.
“One month after our wedding,” I croak as pain climbs up my throat. This is my third therapy session, and it’s only getting harder. In the weeks since I first began revealing the secrets buried deep inside me to a virtual stranger, I have been more on edge than usual. I can’t sleep because I’m too afraid to succumb to slumber. Terrified of what repressed memory may rise to the surface while I’m unconscious.
Reliving some of the most traumatizing moments of my life is both cleansing and debilitating. It feels like every time I claw a few inches up the dark tunnel toward the light, I am dragged back. Weighted down by my past and the resulting torrent of emotions unearthed along with the recollections of the abuse I suffered at my dead husband’s hands.
I reach for my glass of water on the coffee table with trembling hands. Pamela notices, but the same steadfast, calm, encouraging smile remains on her face as she retrieves a few items from the end table beside her, handing them to me. “These might help to soothe you,” she says as I put my glass down and accept the heavy pillow and soft, squishy ball. Placing the weighted pillow on my lap, I run my fingers back and forth across the deep purple material. It’s velvety soft on each side with a corduroy strip in the middle. The contrasting sensation is pleasant as I continue to touch the pillow, and I feel myself relaxing. Sinking back into the couch, I settle one hand on the pillow while I clutch the squishy ball between my other hand. Pamela waits patiently for me to compose myself, and I will my shaking to subside.
“It’s so embarrassing to admit this,” I whisper, forcing my eyes to meet hers.
“There is no judgment here, Serena. And no pressure. If you would rather we didn’t talk about this now, that is fine.” The older woman tilts her head to the side, smiling serenely at me. Her hair is like spun gold, the thick masses pulled into an elegant chignon, and she carries herself with poise, in a way which reminds me of my mom. Her warm brown eyes convey kindness, and her gentle manner gives me the courage to go on.
“He told me I needed lessons in how to please a man.” I continue, squeezing the ball in my fist. “Apparently, I wasn’t responding the appropriate way when he raped me.” Tears burn the back of my eyes, but I latch on to my anger instead.
“How often was that?” she quietly asks.
“Every night.” I squeeze my eyes shut to ward off the memories, but it’s futile. There is no escaping them now I have opened the door. “From the moment he ripped my wedding dress off the first night and thrust inside me without any regard for my comfort or my needs or my fear.”
“You must have been so afraid.”
“I was.” I bite the inside of my mouth. “I was a virgin forced to marry a man as old as my father. While Alfredo had been kind and patient during our engagement, he showed his true colors on our wedding night.” A shudder works its way through me. “It hurt, and I cried. He slapped me and told me I was a mafia wife now and to start acting like it.” I gulp back the bile swirling at the base of my throat. “He told me the next night, when he forced his way inside me again, that he wanted an heir and he expected me to get pregnant quickly.” I wrap my arms around myself as an icy chill seeps into my bones. “It wasn’t enough that I lay there and let him do what he wanted to me. He wanted me to like it. To touch him in ways that pleased him.” I feel sick as I remember it. “When it was clear I wasn’t making the effort, he hit me, careful not to leave bruises in visible places. Then one night, he dragged me into our bedroom and he…he had a woman on our bed. She was sitting up on her knees facing the door, completely naked, grinning as we entered the room.”
My breath oozes out in panicked spurts as the memory rampages through me. It’s as if I’m back there now, terror racing through my veins as all manner of thoughts flew through my head. “He stripped me naked and tied my wrists to a chair. Then he put me at the end of the bed and made me watch as they fucked.” A sob rips from my throat, and I pause for a second to calm down. “I shut my eyes, but every time I did, he punched me until I could barely breathe. So, I gave in and watched.” I avert my eyes as heat warms my cheeks. “He always chose enthusiastic women who couldn’t get enough. And they were always blonde. I only found out the significance of that later. He always chose big-breasted women too, and he liked to taunt me for having a B-cup chest. It wasn’t enough to humiliate me by fucking other women in front of me while I was forced to watch and learn. He had to belittle me too. Mocking my performance in bed, criticizing my looks, and calling me out on my failure to get pregnant.”
“Do you want to take a break?” Pamela asks, leaning forward to hand me a tissue.
I take it from her, mopping up the silent tears I hadn’t felt rolling down my face. I shake my head, preferring to expunge it all. “He used to examine me in front of them,” I whisper, and fresh repulsion spins in my gut. “He would stick his fingers inside me and call me defective when he found me dry.”
“He expected you to be aroused watching him fuck other women?” Pamela asks, a hint of horror laced in her tone.
I nod, sniffling. “He thought it would turn me on when it had the completely opposite effect. I couldn’t tolerate his touch. I flinched when he came close to me, even if we were fully clothed. It only enraged him more.” I bend over as intense pain lashes me from all sides, and I’m in agony. I clench and unclench my hand around the stress ball. “Then he began taunting me about being a lesbian. He couldn’t fathom that I loathed him and how my body visibly cowered from his. To most women, he was an attractive older man. The women he fucked looked like they enjoyed it. But to me, he was the most hideous creature. A monster sent straight from the fiery pits of hell to torture me.”
“I think we should stop.” Pamela moves over to the couch beside me. Very carefully, she places her hands down on mine. “You’re distressed, and I think that’s enough for today.”
“He made them touch me,” I whisper, admitting one of my biggest shames. I can’t stop now. I need to get it all out because I don’t think I’m brave enough to revisit this again. “The women,” I clarify, and this time, Pamela can’t disguise the horror on her face. “To test his lesbian theory and to humiliate me further. He would make them use their fingers and their mouths on me.” A harsh half laugh, half sob escapes my lips. “He got even more enraged when they couldn’t bring me to climax. I suffered one of my worst beatings the first time it happened. He cracked a couple of my ribs and broke my arm. After, he whisked me overseas on a belated honeymoon so my family wouldn’t see what he had done to me.”
Pamela pats my hand while she stares into my eyes, her gaze swimming with compassion. “There is nothing wrong with how you responded, Serena, and you have no reason to feel ashamed. Your reactions were normal and understandable. Your husband was the one in the wrong, and you were powerless to stop him.”
“You mean weak.”
She shakes her head. “You are the very definition of strong.”
I bark out a harsh laugh. “If you were in my head, you would not say that. I let him win. Every time I let him hurt me was another win for that bastard.”
“You didn’tlethim, Serena. He forced all of this on you. You were not complicit in the abuse, and that is something we need to work on.” She pats my hand again. “And he didn’t win. You survived despite all the ways he tried to break you.”
“This doesn’t feel like much of a victory to me,” I admit in a trembling voice. My lower lip wobbles, and moisture pools in my eyes as tears threaten again. “And I’m so broken I don’t know if I can ever feel whole again.”
* * *
A soft rap on the door to our private rooms shakes me from the destructiveness of my inner thoughts. I’ve been trapped in my head since I returned from my therapy session earlier, and it’s not a pleasant place to be.
“Come in,” I say, hoping it’s Alesso but praying it isn’t him too. I can’t understand how I crave the comfort of his presence when I equally dread it because I don’t want him to see me like this. The conflicting sentiments are a regular internal battle, and it feels like I’m at war with myself constantly.
My sister steps into the room, and I’m both relieved and disappointed. “Hey.” She carries a bottle of white wine and a box of chocolates from that French chocolate shop Natalia loves. “I thought you might like some company, but if you’d rather be alone, that’s fine too.”
“I’m pretty lousy company today, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
She closes the door and pads toward me. “I noticed. It’s why I wanted to check in with you when the kids were asleep.” She walks to my small kitchen and grabs two wineglasses. Sitting beside me on the couch, she pours two large glasses and hands one to me. “You don’t have to tell me. We can just watch TV or sit here drinking, but I didn’t want you to be alone.”
