I also hadn’t truly faced his anger before. He’d lashed out plenty of times—grabbing on to my neck, pulling my hair, the rare smack to the face when I made an escape attempt.
For the first time in weeks, since I had accepted my situation, I was afraid. Not of dying, not of the pain or even he who dealt it, but of the feelings that consumed me, the feelings I’d locked away.
Sarcasm was my security blanket. I used my obnoxious mouth to deflect and cover up. Making people laugh hid the insecurities that ate at me.
Lacey was a role. A chance to be someone else. But I missed the orangish tint of my hair. My couch and blanket with the TV on, binging on Netflix, curled into Digby’s side.
And that was the hardest thing in all of it, the sliding door. How different would my life be in that moment if I’d gone with Digby? Saddened as I watched the destruction of my former place of employment, and my friends inside, but I would’ve been alive and would’ve worked past those feelings. I wouldn’t have wallowed in depression over the last year, but I also wasn’t sure if I’d have been happy.
While the grass definitely was looking pretty green in that alternate world, because I wasn’t waiting for the chopping block, it was a vision built on a lie. I’d be safe and normal and not going to die before my time. There were reasons I didn’t go with him, fights we had about it. The yelling and screaming and crying. As perfect as we seemed, we were far from it.
When he asked me to marry him and the word no came out, we were both in shock.
I loved him. We had so much fun together, and the sex was amazing.
It wasn’t like I was afraid of commitment, just afraid of committing to him. Because I knew he loved me more than I loved him. Because as great and perfect and wonderful as he was, at least to me, there were also things that made us incompatible.
So when I told everyone and they asked what happened, all I could say was, “I don’t know.” A feeling I couldn’t put into words, an explanation I couldn’t give.
Which only added to my reclusive behavior of the past year.
My life may have boring and unfulfilling of late, but it was mine, not the sham I was living. The half death as an alternate personality.
“Are you ready to behave?” Six asked, twirling his knife between his fingers as he walked toward me.
I tilted my head to look back at him. There was utter defeat in my expression, I could just tell. A tear slipped from my eye.
One side of my mouth twitched up as my lips trembled. “Nah.”
Tiny word, big reaction. His muscles tensed, jaw so tight I thought his teeth might crack, and there was a furious fire in his eyes.
“I’ll play the game, play by your rules, but I don’t behave.”
He stared down at me, our eyes locked as he gauged my answer, then his arm swung out and I turned my head, flinching from the action. Instead of the pain from a knife slicing through me, there was pain of muscles relaxing that had been pulled taut for too long.
“Get yourself the rest of the way.”
I looked back to him, watching as he spun and headed back to working on his laptop.
Stretching my fingers, I held my hand in front of me, twisting and twirling, getting movement back in the stiff joints. I reached over, cringing as I twisted in order to get to my other wrist and work the tape off.
The remnants of his anger marred my skin. They were visible in the form of precise, edged welts his belt had created and blossoming bruises of varying shades. Every movement agitated them, causing whimpers of pain to slip from my lips as I twisted further, my nails picking at the edge of a substance I was beginning to have loathing for.
It wasn’t an overly complicated pattern. Yet it was difficult to unravel thanks in great part to my legs still being bound.
A few lost hairs on my arm, and I collapsed back down on my back. With my freed hand, I worked on removing the remainder of tape still around my other wrist.
After that was done, I threw the scraps on the floor and silently cursed out the creator of duct tape.
When I had my legs freed, I moved them around just as I had my arms. Ligaments and muscles burned, not to mention the welts. I slid off the bed and took ginger steps toward the bathroom. There was no energy or desire to move faster, with the exception of a full bladder. Just the need to wash my face and maybe soak in the tub.
I felt Six’s gaze on me as I passed him, but I refused to even look his way.
Upon entering the bathroom, I cringed at my reflection. My skin was marked with angry red splotches, making me look polka dotted. Nothing he did was permanent, lasting, but he made sure to make it hurt and remind me who was in control.
As if I had any doubt.
I turned on the water to the large jetted tub and threw in some of the bath salts on my way to the toilet. My hair was in knots and on the crusty side, and I noticed then that there was not only some muscle pain in my jaw, but the back of my mouth and throat were also a bit sore.
Bastard.
Fucking asshole.