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His name is Clayton. I heard Don call him that before I was sent away. I can only speculate that he’s a business acquaintance. He was alone when Don caught him, and I never got to see him at his table, so I had no idea who he was dining with.
But who is Clayton, really? Why the hell did I not blush and panic when he saw my breasts? Was it his soothing voice?
Perhaps.
But as vivid as the African sunset, it was his eyes. Before anything else—before he spoke, before his fingers were on my skin—his eyes whisperedtrust me.
I place my hand on my chest, feeling my nipple behind the ivory silk kimono Don had chosen for me tonight.
“Clayton.”
His name rides my tongue like a surfer on a wave.
I touch my neck at the spot where his fingertips landed when he tried to fix the strap of my dress. I’d be forgiven for saying he was a dream, but he wasn’t.
I let him touch me.
I wanted him to touch me.
And his touch was comely and proper like it was meant to be.
When you’re held hostage, you will take any reprieve you can get, and logic doesn’t have to be part of the equation.
I wanted more of him—if only I could.
The door creaks open, and my nightmare enters like a rain cloud, overcoming the sunshine and rainbows that have been flourishing in my heart thanks to the stranger in the dark.
I sit on the bed, relinquishing any control as Don strips himself naked mechanically. He never shows that he wants me, but what he’s going to do next will be driven by desires that know no boundaries.
He forces me down, then peels off my blonde wig, growling as he watches my real hair fanning on the pillow. It’s his thing—the blonde-to-brunette transformation. It gets his prostate working, he claims.
Time to mask reality.
Where do I go tonight?
My default escape is to go back to Rio. It’s an insane city, but I was happy there, a four-year-old with no care in the world.
My eyelids flutter shut when Don exposes my breasts.
Erasing him, I go back to Rio—Christmas twenty-five years ago.
Mom takes me shopping to buy a new dress. After choosing a sunflower-patterned sleeveless dress for church, she agrees to buy me another one. For whenever, she says. I can’t believe it when she says yes to the Cinderella-like gown I pick. She even chooses a tiara for me. I can’t wait to go home and stand in front of our Christmas tree, posing like a princess while Mom takes endless snaps with her new camera.
Mom’s smile warms me, but the warmth soon turns to pain as I assess where I truly am—or rather, where Don is at. When I get to that part of my Rio story, when the force he imposes on me starts tearing my body, that filth is usually close to finishing.
But he’s still on top of me, grunting like a pig. He must’ve taken the pill tonight, and I have to find another story to survive his assault.
Another story—because I don’t want to go past the Christmas tree part. That’s when the Rio tale takes a turn, and there is no happy ending.
I move my lips away from Don’s ravaging mouth. His hand squashes my jaw to keep me in position. My breathing hitches, but that somehow numbs my senses. With that, I see Dad. He just comes home. Instead of inviting me to sit on his lap, he yells at Mom and me to pack everything.
My eyelids press hard, trying to stop the memory from playing on, while on the other side, I’m battling the current reality.
In the end, I choose reality, letting my senses take in the Reaper who’s flaying me alive. This is no better than the ending of my Rio story, but I keep reminding myself that whatever I accept of this man, I do it to keep my son safe.
I pant, desperate for a new story because Don doesn’t show any sign of stopping.
The dark.
