“I asked for this.”
“You did not ask forthis.” I tried to keep my voice calm and controlled, but it was difficult. There were only a few other times in my life when I’d been as angry as I was in that moment, and they’d all ended in my adversaries’ deaths. If I knew it wouldn’t affect your feelings toward me, I’d carve up your ballet instructor like a spiral ham and decorate that godforsaken chamber with his entrails.
But I didn’t want you to fear me.
“This…” I motioned toward the unconscious man and our sinister surroundings, “is over.”
You glared at me but didn’t argue, only glanced toward the door. I grabbed your wallet and keys, and walked with you to your car.
I drove you to your apartment in silence. You leaned toward your door, perhaps trying to put as much distance between us as you could.
“You must think I’m disgusting.”
You tried to sound mean, but I only heard your vulnerability and desperation, the same voice you’d used to call for me time and again.
“Your ballet instructor is disgusting. My feelings toward you haven’t changed.” There was nothing you could do that would cause me to stop loving you.Nothing.
You sniffed, trying to hold back tears. You were better than this. Stronger. You deserved so much more. Why couldn’t you see that?
“I am disgusting,” you said. “Roger saw it in me. That’s why he did what he did. That’s why Sergei was obsessed with me. It must be what you saw in me too. A disgusting whore.”
I wanted to shake you. “No, Orlando. You know that’s not true.”
“You said it yourself, Henri. I have proof.”
I sighed. So many regrets. So many mistakes I made with you. How many times had you read those hateful words? Internalized them until you believed they were true.
“I was wrong. If I could take it back, I would.”
“No. For once, you were right.”
I glanced over at you, but you wouldn’t meet my gaze, only turned toward the car window and stared vacantly at the night sky.
We settled into a gloomy silence. At your apartment, I feared the pressure of a shower would aggravate the wounds on your back, so I drew you a bath. I gently shampooed your hair and washed you with a soapy rag while you sat in the tub, blank and unmoving. I asked if you wanted to talk about it, but your frown only deepened. I didn’t want to leave you alone for the night—I didn’t trust you not to harm yourself in the state you were in—so I carefully dried and dressed you and led you to your bed.
“I don’t want you to kill him.” We were lying on our sides as you spoke, facing each other on your narrow mattress. “I provoked him. It was my fault.”
“It was not your fault,” I said.
“Don’t kill him,” you said again stubbornly. “Promise me.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm myself. That you were defending that animal made me furious. But if I did kill him, you’d likely never recover. You’d assume the guilt yourself, and it would eat away at you. Your mental fortitude was more important to me than my revenge. I realized, with deep disappointment, that I couldn’t kill him, not yet at least. I consoled myself by thinking I could still make him suffer.
“Fine,” I said reluctantly.
“Do you hate me?” Your sad eyes peered up at me, and your lower lip trembled.
“I could never hate you, cucciolo.”
I loved you. I always would, but saying it now would only confuse you. I kissed your forehead, then drew you in closer, so that your chin rested against my chest.
“Make love to me, Henri,” you said softly and rubbed against me. “I want to feel you inside me again.”
“I can’t, my darling.” I drew one hand lovingly along your arm where it lay across my stomach. “This isn’t my body anymore.”
You sighed with the utmost sorrow. I couldn’t in good conscience make love to you, knowing I was just going to leave you again, especially not after the horrors you’d just experienced. But I could at least hold you until you fell asleep.
“What happened to your curls?” I asked, missing the soft silkiness of your hair tangled in my fingers.
