“Come in, Melinda.” Michael says through the closed door. His voice sounds bored, tired even. I know better. The monster inside of him is pacing quickly, back and forth, waiting to pounce.
I come in without a word. I still the shaking in my hands, so I can gently shut the door. I walk to the chair in front of his desk, keeping my head down and avoiding eye contact. When I sit down and notice the green silk slip dress I have on, I panic. Michael doesn’t like green. He prefers me to wear light pastels. I have closets full of pink, lavender, and yellow. Those are acceptable colors. I have on the green dress because Michael was supposed to be gone today. Is that what upset him? I’m so stupid! Why do I even keep this dress?
“It would appear we have a problem, Melinda,” he states calmly. Then again, Michael is always calm. Even when he is doling out punishment, his voice never raises. It stays clipped, concise, and in a proper tone. That somehow makes him scarier to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say by reflex. I don’t know what I’ve done, it doesn’t matter what I’ve done.
“I’m afraid that’s not good enough considering your crime.”
My crime. He always uses that term, as if he is the judge, jury, and executioner in charge, and I’m the repeat offender. I want to ask what I did. It’s on the tip of my tongue to question. I don’t, I bite my tongue and concentrate on the pain instead. When I make no move to question him further, Michael lets out a loud sigh. The sound is one of annoyance. Annoyance from Michael and directed at me, only means bad things. I can’t stop the way my heart kicks into overdrive, or the apologies which immediately spring up and rest on my lips. I don’t give them voice, I beat them back. You can’t show the monster weakness, he can smell it and he will devour you. I pull my eyes from my shoes, to look out the window. I search for the sun outside. I’m not free, but if I can concentrate on the warm glare of the sun it will help—another lesson I’ve learned over the last year. I try to focus my breathing and that’s when I see it.
On his desk is a tube of carnal, red lipstick. I love it and I put it on when I’m alone. I dream of a day when I can wear this color all the time. I’m not brave enough to buy it. No, I’m not sure I have any bravery left in me. It was a gift from Nicole. I try to keep nothing out in the open of Nicole or my time at Three Oaks. Nicole might have hated the place, but I loved every minute of it. If only because it allowed me to stay away from Michael. When his lawyers found a judge they could buy and had that portion of my father’s will overturned, hell truly began for me. I had no choice but to marry Michael and move in with him. I tried running. I tried and failed. I have the scars to prove it.
So, I stored away the good memories I had. Most of which, admittedly, revolve around Nicole. I risk a lot just to remain in contact with Nic, but she’s my lifeline. If I don’t hear her voice at least once a week, I feel hopeless. I can’t let hope fade. If I give in…I’ll never survive. Then, Michael will truly win.
How did he find the lipstick? I’m always so careful. I rack my brain trying to remember where I could have left it. Then I see it. The small, wooden box I keep hidden in the air conditioning vent in my closet. Inside are my most prized possessions. I may have been the Marinetti Shipping heir, but I had nothing unless Michael provided it. No, my most prized possessions would bring you nothing at an auction. They consist of four things. Four things that mean everything to me.
First was the lipstick Nicole gave me. Next was a note from my father. The very last note I ever got from him. I don’t know why I keep it. I hate him for what he did to me. There’s a picture of me and Nicole in one of those silly photo booths at a town fair. It was probably the best day I’ve ever had in my life. Finally, there is the one thing in this world that I need to survive. The one thing I touch every night. My mother’s medallion. She gave it to me before she died. It’s my last connection to my mother. I can’t lose it. I can’t.
My heart stops. The monster has them. I know he won’t give them back. He will destroy them, just to prove a point. He will relish in the fact that he is hurting me. A hundred words come to my lips, words I could use to beg him to give back my things. I clench my hands in tight fists, letting my nails bite into my skin. I can’t beg. Begging him only incites him to go further, to be meaner. I remain quiet, waiting.
“Have you nothing to say, Melinda?”
“I am sorry, Michael.”
“Is there some reason you have kept these things hidden from me, my darling wife?”
The fake sugary-sweetness he uses when calling me his wife causes the acid in my stomach to boil. How much hate can one person hold in their body? There are times, when I think I have nothing left but hate.
How do I answer? Do I tell him I didn’t want him touching them? That if he did, he would somehow taint them? Do I lie and say they are unimportant? I’m honestly at a loss on how to answer.