Page 14 of Sanctuary After Dark

I'm happy to be here, though. I'm sick of being scared of being a submissive. Something so integral to me that it's part of my personality. Something that I enjoyed so much and found so much strength and freedom in before. A safe space for me where I didn't have to worry about anything. I could just be.

But he had taken that from me.

He had made it so it wasn't a safe space anymore, and out of all the things he had done to me, the grooming, manipulation, gaslighting, physical and mental abuse, torture, and letting people rape me, that is the one thing that I am most angry and upset about. That he took my safe space away.

If I get anywhere near my little space and start regressing, I panic.

The fear courses through my body, and my lungs tighten up, and it's hard to breathe. And I hate it.

I hate it so much because I miss being little.

I miss it so strongly that if I think about it too much, my eyes sting with tears and my throat clogs with emotion.

Like now.

I loved going to my little space. How carefree and fun it was. I never had to worry about any of my adult problems, and I could just have fun, color, watch cartoons, and eat dinosaur nuggets. I didn't have any filters, and I didn't worry about being socially acceptable. I was just myself, and it was so freeing. It quieted my mind when things got to be too much and gave me a break.

And he took that from me.

He tainted it, and even though I'm trying this exposure therapy, I'm not very hopeful that I'll be able to get back there again. I'm scared that it will always be tainted and I'll lose that part of me forever.

Sniffling a little, I wipe at my eyes and sit up in bed. Kissing Whisper on the head, I set her aside and turn to fix the sheets and blankets. After making the bed and arranging all the pillows in the middle, I place Whisper in her spot among them before turning and padding into the bathroom.

Pulling my oversized t-shirt off over my head, I toss it into a hamper I find next to the sink. I slide my panties off that I'm wearing next and add them as well before I turn to look at myself in the mirror. Usually, I try to avoid mirrors at all costs because I don't want to see myself. I don't want to see what I've been reduced to. But for some reason today, I decide to look.

There's nothing special about me. I'm thin with not much muscle on my body. My hair is an unruly mess of curls. My skin is pale and pasty, only broken up by the gross brown freckles on my face. My eyes are freaky, with one light blue with a darker ring around it, and the other a muddy brown.

My long fingers on my right hand trace over a puckered scar on my left bicep. The result of a pretty severe burn from a John who had a particular interest in fire. The burns took the longest to heal and were usually the only time that he would get me any kind of medication. He didn't want them to get infected because that wasn't good for business. He didn't make money off me then.

My fingers move to drag over my chest. Running over the long scar from my nipple, running diagonally up until it reached my sternum. More matches that one. They follow my collarbones and over each hipbone. I can't see them, but they line the insides of my thighs as well. A few of those needed stitches, which I was surprised I was allowed to get. I wasn't allowed much. Most of the time, I cleaned myself up and dressed my own wounds. I got pretty good at it, if I'm being honest with myself.

My eyes continue to run over my body to the circular scars on my right pec, left forearm, and hand, to the jagged ligature marks above each elbow and around each wrist. I have similar ones above each knee and around each ankle. The barbed wire he used to tie me to his St. Andrew's Cross left those. He was gracious enough to remove the barbs that would have hit anything vital, though. Small mercies, I guess. Or just another form of torture, because that meant I couldn't even use death as an escape.

Smaller scars litter my skin, and I'm disgusted by them each time I see them. I used to love my body. I used to show it off at any chance I got with my fashion. Wearing fishnets, short skirts and mini shorts, tank tops, and crop tops. Now bile rises in my throat when I see my body and how destroyed it is. How ruined it is, and these aren't even the worst of them.

I wipe at my face and turn my back to the mirror. I refuse to look at those scars. The ones that span my entire back. The large burn between my shoulder blades and the keloided lines running down my back in diagonals from the flagrum he let someone use on me. Finished off with more circular scars from cigarettes on my lower back.

Reaching into the large shower, I turn the water on to heat it up a bit before grabbing the shampoo and conditioner from the shelf. I'm surprised to find it's the same brand I used before. Alec must have told them, and I have to swallow the burning in my throat at the sudden emotion for something so small. It's just shampoo and conditioner. It's not a big deal.

My eyes flick to the body wash. Orange and honey-scented. Grabbing it, I read it and let out a little whimper when I see it's for sensitive skin. I can't stop the tear from falling from my eye now, before quickly wiping it away and stepping under the spray of water.

It may seem silly to someone normal, but the fact that Lincoln and Lucas took the time to buy me things I use, especially to make sure they're for sensitive skin, has me feeling uneasy. I'm not used to people doing something nice for me, and it means a lot, but it also scares me and makes me wary. He did nice things for me all the time, before he didn't.

Taking a deep breath, I try to remind myself that they're not him. That Alec trusts them, and I trust Alec. Alec has earned that trust over the year we've known each other, so I'm trying to trust them a bit at least.

Showering quickly, I brush my teeth and run a comb through my curls so they don't get tangled before I'm walking into my bedroom and find some clothes. I pull on a pair of light pink satin panties that feel really good against my skin, then grab a pair of baggy jeans and an oversized black sweater. The sweater's yarn is soft against my skin and doesn't irritate my scars as some fabrics do. Pulling on some fluffy socks last, I grab my phone, my Kindle, and my small bag with my medications and head downstairs.

It's still early. I'm used to not sleeping much, and I rarely sleep in. The mornings were the times when I found some peace, at least before he woke up, and my nightmare continued.

Moving as quietly as possible so as not to wake anyone else who might be here, I make my way downstairs.

The house is quiet and a bit eerie as I walk across the living room and into the kitchen. I'm not used to being in such a large house, and every little sound I hear, whether it's a creak in the floorboard or the air conditioning kicking on, has me tensing a bit. Standing in the kitchen for a moment, I set my Kindle, phone, and medication on the counter before eyeing the coffee machine. It seems simple enough to work, so I find some ground coffee and decide to make an entire pot just in case someone else wants some when they get up.

While that is brewing, I go to the pantry and find a loaf of bread. It doesn't take me long to have some buttered toast made and a cup of coffee. Grabbing my bag, I pull out my pill case and open the little square for the day, emptying all of them into my hand. Looking down at them, I sigh for a moment. There's one for depression, one for anxiety, two vitamins, and my daily PrEP. Bringing my hand up to my mouth, I tip them in before washing them down with my coffee. I eat my toast to have something in my stomach before I grab the cleaning supplies and wipe the counters, so there's no mess left behind.

Once I think everything is clean, I head into the living room with my coffee and settle into the couch in the corner by the windows. Pulling a blanket over my lap, I sip my coffee and set it down on a coaster before opening my Kindle to the latest book I'm reading and settling in.

The moment I hear footsteps coming into the living room, I freeze and look up, suddenly feeling like I'm not supposed to be here. My eyes land on Lincoln as he walks into the room. He's barefoot and wearing grey sweatpants and nothing else. My eyes take in the firm muscles of his body and track the movement of his fingers as they scratch at his stomach while he yawns. When he sees me, he smiles softly.