I wanted him out of her head.
But he was still there, still filling her warped mind with made-up memories.
And I was locked out.
But what she suffered—maladaptive daydreaming—didn’t make her unhearing, she was just ignorant.
I could play ignorant, too.
I directed my efforts to something else. I shifted my position, pulling her leg from the water. Lifting a shaver from the ledge and applying a cucumber-scented shave foam to her legs. I lathered her skin in generous amounts before ridding her of the body hair that hadn’t been shaved in years.
I was careful not to slice through her skin; bruises didn’t bother me, and neither did inflicting them, but I didn’t want any open wounds ruining the dress I’d picked out for her. Sure, the dress wasn’t traditional. Injuries wouldn’t be shown staining the dark material because it wasn’t white and virginal. . . neither was she, and I wanted it symbolic.
When I was done with her legs, I moved to her arms, then underarms. I liked her shaved tothe skin. . . bare and naked.
My perfect little doll.
I placed the shaver on the bath ledge at my side, close enough, so that she wouldn’t dare try to steal it to try and end one of our miserable lives with it.
I adjusted myself to face her; bathing her would have been so much fucking easier if I could have just turned my head, but that wasn’t something I could do. I had to reposition my whole body every damn time I wanted to move a part of hers.
My throat had a constant noose wrapped around it tightly, ready to choke me to death.
I took hold of a sponge, covering it in soap before I rubbed it over her body, washing away the concerns she was feeling, or at least fucking trying to.
“Are you ready to talk to me?”
She blinked once, hearing me. I took that as a no. When I was younger, when talking became difficult due to the swelling in my throat, my family would encourage me to use my eyes to talk. Blink once for no, twice for yes. Jolie knew this. She’d remember. She was just being difficult.
I hated her for being so fucking difficult.
“Remember what I said, Jolie.”
Her nostrils flared, trying to take in the air she needed to survive me, but all she was gifted, was the toxic fumes my rage gave off.
“Fine. Have it your fucking way.” I launched to my feet and gripped her with harsh fingers.
She almost slipped beneath the wave I’d caused.
I kissed her face, the side with scars yet to be inflicted, not the one already ruined by my hand and her sins. . . a silent warning. Another warning that she didn’t fucking deserve.
I picked up speed, rubbing the hard side of the sponge against her body. Deep water swished, cascading the sides of the tub, falling to the tiles and drenching my slacks. I scrubbed like I was trying to remove stains, and in a way, I was. I was trying to eradicate the stains of hate for me I’d previously tarnished her in. . . starting between her trembling legs, where the most impure stains lay.
Bruising her with my touch, she shifted, trying to move away. Her small hands clutched the ledge, searching for the support she wouldn’t find.
She broke out in another sob, choking on her breath and the soapy water that had made it into her mouth.
“You’re scum,” she cried.
My finger trailed the dirt ring around the tub, and I started to wonder, did trafficked women even shower? Did they do so as quickly as possible to rush out and conceal themselves from watchful eyes? Who the fuck knew! But one thing I did know was, the germs loitering on her every cell, were more company than the other broken souls she resided with.
There was no other excuse as to why she claimed comfort from people who weren’t around.
“This is scum!” I shouted into her face, my finger close to her pretty mouth. “This!” I pushed the digit beyond her lips, and I didn’t stop driving it in and out of her mouth until she choked again.
She gazed up at me like she was hoping to see a different person—a better person. But she still saw me.
“What? Expecting somebody else? I hate to disappoint, but he isn’t coming to see you any time soon.”
