You feel nothing.
You taste nothing.
You hear nothing.
You’re like a zombie, wandering mindlessly around with no purpose other than survival. When you’re hungry, you eat. When you’re sleepy, you sleep. You physically function like a human being, but you’re detached—completely cut off from everything that emotionally makes you human.
If you’re in a deep slumber and someone throws cold water on you, instantly you awake. Well, it’s like that. Only my cold water is pain. When I’m forced to feel, eventually I wake up. The process starts with anger, but it’s the final thing I feel before the darkness swallows me whole.
That’s where I am right now. I’m angry. I’m downright pissed. I generally use the tactic to get what I want—someone to lash out and hit me. I continue to provoke them until they beat my demons into submission and lock them in their cage. I’ve learned to cope with the aftermath on my own. Bryce is the first man who’s ever been there to catch me when I fall. But I’m sure it was more for his guilt than it was for my wellbeing.
I have to find relief. I have to do something—today. If I don’t, the darkness is going to consume me. Then I’ll end up doing something I regret. I’ll put myself at the mercy of my brother. Even with the knowledge that this time, he might kill me.
Chances are, he won’t get the opportunity. At the rapid rate I’m declining, someone else will most likely beat him to the punch.
I make it through the next night without having sex, killing myself or having myself killed by someone else. It’s Thursday morning, and I’m finally catching a break. In search of something to relieve the pounding in my head, I come across a bottle of pain relievers behind the bar. Inside, mixed with every kind of over-the-counter medication you can imagine, are several Xanax.
My fidgety hands break two glasses before I give up and uncork a bottle of bourbon. Tossing several of the pills to the back of my throat, I chase them with the slow-burning liquid until I feel the fire in the bottom of my gut. I’m acutely aware of my surroundings and the constant ringing of the phone. But I ignore it, barely managing to make my way down the hall to my room.
I’m exhausted. My mind has been spinning, my beast has been rattling the bars on his cage and I’ve been tempted to cut myself to find relief. But every time I started to, images of Bryce would flash in my head. I had to hold on. I promised him. It shouldn’t mean a damn thing to me, but for some reason it does.
Falling face first on my bed, I close my eyes and pray for the pills and booze to take effect. I want to find the nothing I’ve been searching for. I want it all to just disappear. I’ve fought against the darkness long enough—it’s time to give in.
Just before everything fades to black, I see his face one last time—those green eyes blazing with promise and dominance and everything I’ve always needed, but never really wanted until I met him.
Bryce.
I feel the darkness. It engulfs me—consumes me. Inside and out, I’m numb. My body is functioning on survival and instinct. There’s a buzzing in my head, my memory is foggy, but if I feel like this, then it has to be Sunday.
I have things to do on Sunday. I have to visit my mother and my brother. First I have to have coffee and a cigarette. Then I think I’ll have some oatmeal.
There are people here so I smile. Linda is talking to me, asking me what I’ve been up to. I tell her not much, then sit in silence while she tells me about her week. I drink my coffee, eat my oatmeal, smoke my cigarette, then politely excuse myself back to my room.
I got paid last week since Luke was out of town this week. I pull two hundred dollars from the envelope I keep hidden in my closet. I shove the money inside my duffel, along with a change of clothes. I need the extra suit in case my others get blood on them.
My car isn’t here, but Linda’s is outside and I know she leaves the keys in it. I’ll just borrow it. I have to visit my mother and brother. It’s Sunday. I have to repent.
I crawl out of my window, sling my duffel over my shoulder and pull my hood over my head. It’s still dark out, so no one should see me. If they do, I’ll lie and say I’m going to see a friend. I won’t say I’m going to Baton Rouge—Bryce won’t like that if he finds out.
It must be cold outside, but I don’t feel it. I’m only aware because of the goosebumps that cover my skin and the involuntary jerk my body does every few steps. The wind is howling—whipping stray strands of hair across my face. Still I feel nothing. But what is nothing?
“Delilah?” Bryce?
My eyes follow in the direction of his voice. I have to speak. I have to smile. I have to be polite. I can’t let him know where I’m going.
“Hel-lo.” I’m stuttering. My teeth are chattering. He’s close to me.
“Where are you going?”
“A friend’s.” His eyes drop to mine. Even though everything else is a blur, mostly dull and lifeless, I see the intense green of his eyes. They’re blazing and hypnotic.
“Did you hear me?” Did he say something?
“A friend’s.” I’ve repeated my answer to his first question, but he doesn’t seem to understand. He mumbles something, but I can’t make out his words.
“Listen to me, Delilah.” His fingers curl around my arms as he brings his face level with mine. I need to go to my mother’s. It’s Sunday. But for some reason, I need to listen to him more. “What did you take?”
“It’s Sunday. I have somewhere to be. It’s my day off. Luke says I have Sundays off.”
I’m guided to a truck—Luke’s truck. Bryce lifts me and puts me in the passenger seat. I’m not supposed to be in here. I need to borrow Linda’s car. But he’s in the driver’s seat. In Luke’s truck. And he’s driving us away.
“Tell me what you did today.” His voice is so soft, I almost don’t hear it. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to talk anymore. I don’t have to. I was polite. I smiled and listened and said hello. “Talk to me, Love.” His voice is louder. Is he angry? Mario hits me when he’s angry. It makes me feel better. But Mario is dead. My brother hits me when he’s angry too. He’s not dead. It’s Sunday.
Something is touching my leg. I can feel it. I shouldn’t but I do. I look down, and Bryce has his hand on the inside of my thigh. He squeezes, and somewhere deep inside, I feel a tiny ache. I want more of it. I close my eyes, and the tiny pain grows like it’s trying to push to the surface.
“Look at me, Love.” His threatening demand has me wanting to look at him. So I do. He glances between me and the road. “Can you feel that? Does it make it better?”
I shiver. Then I realize I’m cold.
Cold…not nothing.
“Answer me, Love.”
“I’m cold.” His hand leaves my thigh. The pain fades—sinking deeper back into the darkness with me. Then he puts it back. I watch as his big hand pinches my thigh again. The ache returns, but it’s small and distant.
The truck stops moving. I don’t know where we are. He’s not touching me anymore, and something inside me yearns to feel his hands on me again. I want him to touch me. I want him to hurt me. I need him to hurt me.
I’m in his arms. It’s cold outside. I can feel it, and my body shakes. He’s carrying me inside a house. It’s not cold in here. Lights come on, but everything is dull. Not like his eyes that are green, and shine bright.
He’s taking off my clothes. I don’t stop him. I can’t. I think he told me to stand still. I don’t remember. My arms are stretched out. My hands are tied. I’m lying on my stomach. He’s next to my face, looking at me.
“Did it make you feel better when I pinched you?” I can’t look away from him. He’s all I see. His voice is paralyzing. It’s all I hear.
“Yes.” It made me feel cold…not nothing.
“Do you want me to make you feel better?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to spank you, Love. Twenty times. And you are going to count each one. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I hear him. His voice makes me want to listen. I want to do what he tells me to do. He’s going to make me feel better.
I can’t see him anymore. He’s behind me. There’s a buzzing in my ears, and I can’t hear anything. Only his voice. “Are you ready, Love?”
“Yes.”
Something strikes me. I don’t know what it is, but just like in the truck, there is a distant ache. He’s spanking me. I have to count.
“One.”
“Good job, Love. Again.”
Another strike—this one can be felt more than the last. He said twenty. He told me to count.
“Two.”
He’s hitting me over and over. I’m counting. I’m at fifteen and the ache is no longer distant. It’s on the surface. It hurts. I want more. He continues to give me more. After twenty, he’s beside me again.
“How do you feel, Love?” I don’t want him to stop. When he stops, the hurt goes away. I want the hurt.
“I need more.” He doesn’t look sad, or angry. He looks in control. I want him to control me.