I’m so angry I am about to explode, and despite all the injustices of my life, I have never known such rage.
“God damn it, Shane! Fuck you! I fucking hate you!” I’m shouting again as I have numerous times, and that’s how I’m confident Shane has left me alone.
I drop on the unforgiving mattress and beat my fists against it. My stomach grumbles loud enough to hear over my assault, and I whine pitifully. When Shane still doesn’t come, I throw a plate against the wall and realize my mistake a second too late; I will cut my feet further on the broken shards.
I didn’t eat the sandwich he brought me for lunch or the elaborate steak and whipped potatoes he made for dinner, which felt much more like groveling than I expected. By breakfast the following day, both dishes were disgusting and dried out, and I was still too angry to eat. He presented me with the loveliest eggs benedict, and I didn’t eat that either.
Stupidly, I’d grown confident he would keep spoiling me. I almost looked forward to turning my nose at whatever he slaved over for lunch. It felt amazing to have the power for once, to know how badly he wanted to please me. But that midday meal never came. Leaving me wondering when did I become so spoiled? And how can the man who’s given me all that leave me now?
I regretted my decision by that evening when it was clear no more food was coming. I peeled the dried-out egg off the English muffin and ate that. Twelve hours later, I ate the rest of the food he left. The steak stuck in my throat on the way down, the cold potato made me gag, but I forced it down with water. All I do is cry, but I cried again when I realized Shane wasn’t lying about going.
I have a bathroom, so at least he hasn’t left me to wallow in literal filth and shit; it is the figurative kind that haunts my every thought. There is nothing here to keep me occupied, nothing to do or ponder other than my own thoughts. I find myself ripping up a napkin to keep myself entertained.
I’m hungry, my head hurts, my stomach aches, and with all this time, I have no reprieve from myself.
I think about Tim and all the years we spent together. I grieve him so fiercely, and as his loss rips at me, I’m forced to ask myself where that pain originates from. And the truth is, it’s not from the loss of romantic love. It’s because I lost the only person who ever believed me. I owed Tim better than what I gave him in life and in the death I caused. I wish we could have been better for each other.
But as those thoughts assail me, there are others too. I think of the way he used to make me feel before he even became outright abusive. Tim made me feel stupid and small, unlikeable. He never acted as if he wanted me. Even when we were young, he said all the right things, but his actions never backed up his words.
I don’t know why he picked me because I’m now sure he never truly wanted me.
I know why I picked him though. He was cute and sweet when he wanted to be. But, more than anything else, I saw his pain, and he saw mine. I thought our pain would bond us, but it only made me loyal to him and him resentful of me. I was wrong for assuming the giving nature of my heart extended to other people and thinking he would love all of my broken pieces just because I was willing to love his.
Then his dad broke his legs.
Even if things were wrong between us, how on earth could I have left him after that? There were days I prayed he would leave me to spare us both, but that deliverance never came. So by the time, I said yes to marrying him again, to helping him escape, I had to give our relationship a chance.
I have been lying to myself for so long.
I think back to our childhood when we met before our moms died. Usually, it’s difficult for me to remember much of anything from that time, but my mind feels clearer than ever. Finally, a memory from a few months before my mom died comes back to me, hard and fast.
My mother sits at her dressing table and stares at herself in the mirror. The dark bruise on her cheek isn’t so nasty now that she’s covered it in makeup. A tear rolls down her cheek, and she grabs a tissue to dab it away.
“Mama, why are you crying?”
My father hurt her, but it was a few days ago, and she doesn’t usually cry this long.
“I’m just feeling guilty, Seraphina.”
“Why, Mama, what did you do wrong?”
“If I were a better wife and mother, your father wouldn’t need to strike me. I want to be better, Seraphina.”
“You don’t need to be better!” I argue a little too loudly. “You’re perfect the way you are, and I love you.”
She looks up at me, my yellow-green eyes staring back at me. “Did they tell you that at school? You know that no one but God is perfect, right?”
“But you’re perfect the way God made you! That’s what they said in church!” I’m hysterical. I hate the way she’s making this all her fault.
“Don’t get upset, Sera.” Her tone is brusque now, and her eyes dart back and forth like she’s checking to ensure he hasn’t heard us. “Be a better wife than I am. Tim’s always loved you. Tim will make an excellent husband.”
Maybe in her opinion he did. Have I been sacrificing my happiness to please a dead woman? Did I let Tim ruin my life and his because my mother, who never understood anything about love, told me he was good for me? I know that’s a big part of it. I’m devastated that his life was cut short, especially because of me, but I’m lying to myself if I pretend I will miss Timothy Baker.
One of the most frightening things I realize while I’m alone is that I remember everything. Every minute I believed to have slipped away to the hypnosis was right where Shane assured me they would be. But, true to his words, he didn’t do anything to me I didn’t want. That knowledge is more painful than Tim’s loss.
I’m too emotionally drained to feel as guilty and ashamed as usual. So pushing past the point of physical discomfort, I’ve fallen into a meditative place where I can reflect on my actions without as much self-hatred. I’m not a good person, but I see myself for the first time in my life.
I can see a hint of the sun through the half window. That’s how I know it’s been three days since Shane left. I’ve watched the sun track across the sky throughout the morning and mourn when it’s too high over the house to see. Day two was cloudy, and I thought I’d gone insane. Instead, I’m at the edge of my sanity and so fucking hungry. I hope he comes back soon so I can tell him I see how right he was.
I nearly sob in relief when I hear his footsteps in the hall. I have to remind myself that Shane left me without food for days and that the agony I’m suffering is at least ninety percent his fault. Even though I had eaten what he left me, it wasn’t enough for how long he was gone, but good luck trying to tell that to my heart that’s racing away and dying to jump into his arms.
Before the door opens, a delicious savory scent tightens my salivary glands and cramps my stomach in painful desire. The key twists in the lock, and Shane’s standing there with a bowl of soup like my personal savior.
His black hair is messier than I’ve ever seen, and his typical five o’clock shadow has grown into a very short beard. His eyes are hollow and gaunt, and still black but yellowing in places from when I kicked him, making that deep blue look even more startling. His nose has a significant bump, and I regret hurting him. But even looking like he’s been through hell, he’s so handsome it hurts.
I try to think of Tim, the shape of his mouth, remember the color of his eyes, and I can’t. I saw him two weeks ago, and I can’t remember his eyes after only a few days without food.
I don’t have the energy to cry or the salt in my body to produce tears. But I feel myself breaking open. I’m lying on the bed and do my best to pull myself up into a sitting position.
I’m so damn weak.
“Will you let me take care of your feet?”
It’s the same question I so stubbornly refused before. My feet are in agony. I’m sure they’re infected, and I’ve noticed signs of fever. I should have let Shane clean my damn feet. I know better than to cut off my nose to spite my face, and somehow, I got so swept up in him that I forgot that.
“Please…”
I go to stretch out, but he stops me.
“Eat first.”
I can’t argue with that. I’m so hungry and grateful that Shane brought something my tender stomach can handle. Struggling to sit up, I wait for him to hand me the food or tell me where he wants me. Instead, he sits beside me and offers me a spoonful. I hate him a little bit, but I can’t deny that he paces me a lot slower than I want to eat, and that’s likely why I don’t vomit. He says nothing to me as he feeds me the entire bowl.
Once it’s gone, he stands again.
“Lay down, Seraphina.”
At his command, a shiver runs through me, but I obey. The next hour is one of the most painful of my life, much worse than the anal sex against the rocks, which ultimately makes me warm and tingly when I think of it.
“You tried to clean them yourself,” he comments as he’s bandaging my feet.
“Yeah, it hurt too much to get very far.”
“You did a good job, Seraphina. The infection could have been a lot worse. I think you saved yourself from serious damage.”
I flush under his praise. I know he could tell me how stubborn and petulant I’ve been and how much I cost myself for it, but I already know it, and he seems to understand his silence will always say more. Once he finishes wrapping my feet, he gently holds them, and as stupid as it sounds, I can feel how much he wants them to heal. It soothes the pain, the same way a mother’s kiss does on a child’s grazed knee. I don’t understand how the same hands that took my husband’s life can feel like that, but they do.
I’m full, exhausted, and in tremendous pain. His hands move from my feet slowly up my legs. I think he will fuck me, and a sick part of me is desperate for it. I’m wet and hungry at the idea, but that’s not what he’s doing. Instead, he checks my entire body. Finding the cuts on my knees, he carefully cleans and bandages them. Next, he finds the spot on my cheek where the stone scraped my skin raw. That doesn’t need a bandage, but he cleans it all. He tends to and covers every single wound.
We still haven’t spoken, and rather than awkward and tense, there’s a sweetness to the reunion. His dexterous fingers work into my muscles, and Shane massages the tension out of every part of me. I’m soft and molten by the time he’s rubbing the tips of my fingers.
“What do you want, Seraphina?”
“I want it to be like it was before.” No matter what he’s done to me, he’s cared for me in a way that I can’t ignore, and I’m melting into a puddle for him.
He smiles, then his expression drops.
“What’s wrong?” My heart is pounding in my chest.
“I’m glad you’ve come around, Angel. And I’m so sorry about this, but I’m a man of my word, and you still haven’t been punished yet.”
“What do you mean? How could I have not been punished enough? What more is there?”
“I didn’t leave you here to punish you. I left you here to get your punishment.”
