And it’s true.For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been sleeping much better.As strange as it is, knowing that my anxiety has a hormonal cause has alleviated it to a large extent, significantly reducing my nightmares and panic attacks.
My shrink tells me it’s because I’m less worried about my head being messed up from everything that’s happened.Apparently, stressing about being overly stressed is particularly bad for the psyche, whereas less convoluted stress factors—like having a child with a sadistic arms dealer—are less anxiety-provoking.
“The human brain is highly unpredictable,” Dr.Wessex says, looking at me through her trendy Prada glasses.“What youthinkscares you might not be what weighs on your subconscious at all.You may worry about this baby, but it doesn’t frighten you as much as the thought that you might never get a grip on your anxiety.If your panic attacks stem from pregnancy, then you know it’s a temporary issue—and that helps you feel less anxious about it.”
I nod and smile, as if that makes perfect sense.I do that a lot when I talk to her.If Julian didn’t insist that I continue my twice-weekly therapy sessions, I would’ve already stopped them.It’s not that I dislike Dr.Wessex—a tall, stylish woman in her mid-forties, she’s quite competent and seemingly nonjudgmental—but I find that talking to her just highlights the insanity that is my relationship with Julian.
Why, yes, Doctor, my husband—you know, the man who hired you and insisted you come out to the middle of nowhere—kept me captive on his island for fifteen months, and now I’m so brainwashed I can’t live without him and crave abusive sex.Oh, and we’re having a baby.Nothing fucked up about that, of course.Just your regular, run-of-the-mill crime family.
Yeah, sure.
In any case, trying to get me to take naps is the least egregious example of Julian’s excessive coddling.He also monitors my diet, makes sure that the exercise routine I resumed is fully doctor-approved, and worst of all, treats me with kid gloves in bed.No matter how much I try to provoke him, he won’t do more than hold me down in bed.It’s as if he’s afraid to unleash the brutality within himself, to lose control again.
“I told you, the obstetrician said rougher sex is okay as long as there’s no spotting or leaking of amniotic fluid,” I tell Julian after he takes me gently yet again.“I’m healthy, everything’s normal, so there’s really no harm.”
“I’m not taking any chances,” he replies, kissing the outer rim of my ear, and I know he has no intention of listening to me on the topic.
A part of me still can’t believe that I want this from him, that I miss the dark edge to our lovemaking.It’s not that I’m ever left unsatisfied—Julian makes sure I have at least a couple of orgasms every night—but something within me craves the intoxicating blend of pleasure-pain, the endorphin rush I get from truly intense sex.Even the fear he makes me feel is addictive in some way, whether I want to admit it or not.
It’s sick, but the night we learned about my pregnancy—the night he forced me—has featured in my fantasies more than once in recent days.
What Dr.Wessex would say about that I don’t know, and I don’t care to find out.It’s enough that the memory of that trauma, just like the recollections of my time on the island, have somehow taken on an erotic overtone in my mind.
It’s enough to know that I’m completely twisted.
Of course, Julian’s uncharacteristic gentleness in bed is not the only issue.Another casualty of his smothering concern for me is my self-defense training.It’s particularly frustrating because for the first time in weeks, I have energy.Sleeping well has reduced my fatigue, and schoolwork no longer tires me as much.I’ve even been able to resume running—after first pre-clearing the activity with the doctor, of course—but Julian refuses to let me do anything that could possibly result in bruises.Shooting is also out of the question; apparently, firing a gun releases lead particles that could, in some unknown quantity, harm the unborn baby.
There are so many restrictions it makes me want to scream.
“You know this is only temporary, Nora,” Ana says when I make the mistake of expressing my frustration to her at breakfast.“Just a few more months, and you’ll have a baby in your arms—and then it will all be worth it.”
I nod and paste a smile on my face, but the housekeeper’s words don’t cheer me up.
They fill me with dread.
In a little over seven months, I will be responsible for a child—and the idea terrifies me more than ever.
“You still haven’t toldyour parents about the baby?”Rosa gives me an astonished look as we leave the house to go for our morning walk.
“No,” I say, sipping a fruit smoothie with powdered vitamins.“I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“But I thought you talk to them every day.”
“I do, but the subject hasn’t come up.”I probably sound defensive, but I can’t help it.In terms of things I dread, telling my parents about my pregnancy is right up there with childbirth.
“Nora…” Rosa stops under a thick, vine-draped tree.“Are you worried they won’t be happy for you?”
I picture my dad’s probable reaction to learning that his not-quite-twenty-year-old daughter is pregnant with her kidnapper’s child.“You could say that.”
“But why wouldn’t they be happy?”My friend looks genuinely confused.“You’re married to a wealthy man who loves you and who’ll take good care of you and the child.What more could they want?”
“Well, for one thing, for me not to be married to said man at all,” I say drily.“Rosa, I told you our story.My parents aren’t exactly Julian’s biggest fans.”
Rosa waves a dismissive hand.“All that is—how do you say it?—water under the bridge.Who cares how it all began?What matters is the present, not the past.”
“Oh, sure.Seize the day and all that.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” Rosa says as we resume our walk.“You should talk to your parents, Nora.It’s their grandchild.They deserve to know.”
