My brain keeps playing the same thought on repeat. I want it to be over. I just need it to be over. I want to hesitate. To cause him anger. To push him until he hurts me to the point of no return. That would be the easiest thing to do. This is the solution I keep coming back to. No matter how many times I recalculate this problem, there’s only one solution. Only one way to solve it. And that’s to take myself out of the equation entirely.
But my brain and my body aren’t on the same page. I’m doing as he asks, even though my mind is still fighting it. I’m falling to my knees before him. It isn’t about submission or even fear. These things don’t resonate with me anymore. There is no pride or morals or even strength at this point. He’s siphoned all of those things right out of me. Right now, the only thing I have left is my self-preservation. It’s a natural response. A biological need to protect oneself. Bowing to his whims is the only way I can ensure he doesn’t carry through on his threats towards my family.
Still, I question it. If I’m dead, he wouldn’t need to hurt them. Because then it won’t matter. It’s the only thing keeping me here. You can’t outrun the mafia. You can’t hide from a man like Blaine. But Emily’s safe in California now. It’s just my Ma. And she’ll be safer if I sever the one tie that could hurt her. And that’s me.
I look up at him. This man I once thought somewhat handsome. And charming. There’s nothing when I look at him now. Nothing but emptiness and a black pit of insanity in the shape of a man. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone. My Ma raised me to be good. Do good. I’ve never wished anything bad upon anyone. But I wish it on him. That he would step outside and get hit by a bus. Or when he goes out with his crew he will be the one who doesn’t come back.
It’s awful feeling this way. Wishing those things on another person. This is what I’ve become. This is all that’s left of me since he set his sights on me two years ago.
“Tell me how sorry you are,” Blaine repeats.
“I’m sorry that I looked at him.”
“Do ye like looking at that freak?” he asks. “Because he’s always fucking staring at you.”
I don’t respond. Because I do like looking at him. The man with the troubled brown eyes. He has a way of captivating me like no one else can. The one who is quiet and mysterious. The only one who I think notices that something might be wrong with Blaine. All the rest of them, they don’t see it. They don’t want to see it. He acts so funny. The clown who hides his evil behind the laughter. They all think that I’m his by choice.
“I asked you a fucking question!” Blaine spits in my face and then grabs me by the hair, ripping strands of it out as he shoves my face onto the floor and rubs it into the filthy carpet. I don’t fight him. I can’t even muster up tears anymore. There’s just… nothing.
I’m only grateful that the club has shut down for the evening and everyone is gone. I don’t want anyone to see. That’s the worst part of it. Thinking how humiliated I would be if someone caught him doing this to me. But then they would know. Would they help me? Would they even care?
He would. I know he would. That man with the brown eyes. Or maybe that’s only what I want to believe. Because it’s easier to believe that someone would care than to face reality.
“Answer me,” Blaine growls. “Do you have a thing for the retard?”
I just want it to be over.
He’s staring down at me expectantly, waiting for me to lie to him. To tell him there’s no other but him.
“He’s nice to me,” I whisper.
“Nice to you?” he bellows. “He’s never said a fucking word to you. How the fuck can he be nice to you?”
He moves to unzip his pants. “Suck me off and I’ll be happy again.”
A sound of disgust rips from my lungs before I can tamp it down. And like a switch, Blaine flips. There isn’t even time to ponder the consequences of what I’ve done before he’s heaved me into the wall. The impact disorients me, and all I can make out is his blurry shape charging towards me again. He pins me to the ground and slaps me over and over, harder with every blow. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. I don’t feel anything when he hits me. My body has found a way to separate itself from the trauma.
Maybe that’s why I’m so tempted to defy him all the time. I should give him what he wants. The crying and the begging and confrontation he so desperately craves. But I just don’t have it in me anymore. He sees that. He can always read me, and he knows. He’s looking right into my eyes, dissecting what I’m too weak to hide right now. The emptiness. The numbness. The hatred.
And it only makes him angrier.
His hands wrap around my throat and squeeze. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snarls. “You stupid fucking bitch. You worthless whore.”
“I never wanted you,” I croak.