Dark Mysteries (9 page)

She
turned to see him. Tall, dark, handsome. Cool, confident. All the
ridiculous stereotypes that women have been known to go gaga for
since the beginning of modern civilization. And he was talking to
her. Of all people.

“Here,”
he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out an actual
pocket square. “May I?” he asked, holding it up, waiting
for her response.

She
had fallen hard and fast. Before she had any idea what he was really
like. What he did for a living. And how he conducted that business.
She had moved in before she even started her fist college classes.

It
hadn't started for a while. There were five blissful months of lazy,
albeit unsatisfying, lovemaking, afternoon picnics, random gifts on
the bedside table in the morning, and enough compliments to build up
her fragile ego. She had called her friends and boasted about how
lucky she was. How she was living a romance novel. How men like him
were too good to be true.

It
turned out she was all too correct.

He
had taken her to a restaurant with a bunch of his business partners.
When he had asked her to step outside for a while right when the
entrees got to the table, she had quietly objected. He had turned
back to the table, his charming smile glued on his face and asked the
men to excuse them for a minute. He helped her out of her chair and
led her through to the back of the restaurant, his hand holding onto
her arm roughly enough to leave bruises.

He
pushed her out of the back door, waiting for it to slam behind him,
locking them down a long, abandoned alley... and then he had turned
her to face him quickly, then shoved her hard, making her slam back
into the brick wall of the building next door.

She
barely had a moment to register the pain before he was right in front
of her, pulling an arm across his body, and backhanding her across
her face.

“You
stupid bitch,” he had yelled, making a bird perched on the
light post startle and fly away. “Don't you ever fucking
embarrass me like that again,” he said, his hand reaching out
and grabbing her throat.

She
didn't fight. She didn't even argue. Just stared at him, wide-eyed,
too shocked to do anything but stand there, his hands tightening
around her throat.

“When
I tell you to do something, you do it. No arguments. Do you
understand me?” he asked, his hand pressing harder into her
throat, making her make a gagging sound. “I asked you a fucking
question. Do. You. Understand?” Her breath was caught under his
punishing grip, making words impossible. She nodded her head slightly
and he quickly released her, moving to push his cuff links back into
place. “Now get yourself cleaned up and come back to that
table and do what you're told,” he said, swinging the door open
and storming back inside.

Alone,
she fell back against the wall, slowly slinking down, hugging her
knees to her chest. She didn't cry. She sat there in stunned
numbness, her hands shaking, for a long few minutes before the door
opened again, making her yelp and straighten immediately.

But
she didn't see him. She saw Bobby, one of his business partners. Or
friends. She wasn't quite sure what the connection was at the time.
All she knew was he was always around. Almost twenty-four hours a
day, he could be found within yelling distance of them. He looked
down at her, his eyes oddly empty, taking her in. “I'm supposed
to escort you to the bathroom to clean up,” he said.

She
should have run. Made a dash down the alley. Hailed a cab. Went
straight home to her cop father and told him what had happened. She
should have done anything but what she did.

She
stood up, nodded, and followed him back into the building. Inside the
bathroom, she carefully wiped the long gash on her face, courtesy of
the huge malachite stone on the ring he wore on his right hand. Even
wiped clean of blood, it was red and angry-looking. Her throat had a
slight hint of blue under the skin. She straightened her hair,
adjusted her dress, and walked back to the table, not meeting the
eyes of the men sitting there, and staring down at her lap.

His
hand settled on her thigh, light and friendly. Like nothing had
happened. “Why don't you eat your dinner, Eleanor?” he
asked and despite the rolling of her stomach, she picked up her fork
and did what she was told.

He
didn't touch her in anger again for weeks. Things settled back down
and she had somehow convinced herself it was an isolated incident. He
had been in a fowl mood. He didn't mean it.

She
knew better. She had been raised with a father who had carefully
detailed to his teenage daughter the touchy subjects of rape and
domestic abuse.

Yet
somehow, despite what she knew, she didn't realize until it was too
late that she had fallen for every last trick.

He
had made her move in with him. Had happily suggested she share his
cell phone plan. Slowly convinced she had outgrown the childish
antics of her old friends. Taken her own words about how her father
had been absent a lot of her life, twisted them, made them into
something ugly... and made her believe the man who had wanted nothing
but to love and protect her was, in fact, a maniac. He'd convinced
her to drop out of college. Because a degree in literature would get
her nowhere in life. And didn't she want the free time to travel all
around the world with him?

He
had successfully isolated her from everything in her life. And
replaced it all with himself, making her emotionally and economically
dependent upon him. So by the time the physical abuse started, she
had no where to turn. No one to go to for help. No way out.

The
next time he had hit her was after a night at the symphony. They had
had a great evening. Or so she thought. Until they got back home.
Back into their bedroom where she stepped out of her high heels and
was pulling one of her earrings out. He closed the door quietly.

“That
was so much...” she never finished her sentence, feeling his
hand grab her throat and throw her to the ground. Before she could
even suck in her breath, he was down on top of her, his knee stabbing
into her ribs, pressing with his weight until she felt a snap and
cried out in pain. “What did I do?” she whimpered out,
hating herself. Hating her vulnerability. Hating that she loved him.

“I
gave you a beautiful fucking diamond necklace and you don't wear it?”
he raged, moving to straddle her waist. “You wear these cheap
plastic earrings instead?” he asked, reaching for the one still
in her ear and pulling at it until it tore the piercing hole wider.
He leaned down close to her face, reaching behind her head, grabbing
her hair, and pulling it violently to the side. “You will wear
that necklace whenever we go out. In fact,” he said, leaning
forward and biting her lip hard, “you will never take it off
again. Do you understand me?” Too terrified to do anything
else, she nodded rapidly.

He
stood up and moved toward the door, opening it and calling Bobby in.
He walked in, looking down at Ellie like it was the most normal sight
in the world to see a woman laying on the floor, clutching her broken
rib, struggling to breathe. “Eleanor seems to have fallen and
hurt herself,” he had told Bobby, “you need to take her
to the hospital,” he said, reaching down and hauling her to her
feet, completely oblivious to her scream of pain. He went over to her
jewelry box and pulled out the necklace, putting it on her.

“Yes,
sir,” Bobby said. He led her down to the car, put her inside
and drove her to the hospital, never allowing her a single moment
alone with the doctors. Never letting her have the chance to get
help.

It
escalated slowly. Days or weeks would pass and she would forget the
pain. She learned to go out of her way to please him. Keep her head
down and do what was told.

She
never wore earrings again. She wore the necklace even in the shower.

But
as she got more obedient, he got less tolerant. Everything she did
irritated him. Every small misstep made him fly at her, slam her
against walls, kick, punch, bite, and throw objects at her.

Ellie
laid awake at night next to him after another session of obligatory
sex she had tried to convince herself wasn't rape. No matter how much
she hated it. No matter how much she didn't want it. She would crawl
out of bed and shut herself in the bathroom, staring at herself in
the mirror. Not crying. She never cried. She just watched herself,
trying to figure out what had happened. How it had happened. What
could be done.

But
she never did anything.

One
year in, she missed her period. Two months in a row. The nausea
becoming overwhelming and she knew without having to take a test that
she was pregnant. So, she started planning. She counted the steps
through the house. Timed how long it took to get from her room to the
front yard, from the kitchen to the back access road. And then a week
later, when he was on the phone, yelling at someone about a botched
deal... she grabbed a small bag and ran.

She
had gotten as far as the end of the access road before he caught up
to her, grabbing her and dragging her all the way back to the house
by her hair. His silence was the most terrifying thing she had ever
experienced. As he pulled her down the basement stairs, through the
storage area full of cheerful Christmas decorations and through a
door she never knew existed.

Inside
she found a small square room, the cinder block walls covered in some
sort of foam tile. There was a wooden chair inside, and two sets of
shackles: one hanging from the ceiling, one poking out from the
floor. He threw her against the wall, quickly securing her wrists and
ankles and moving the chair away from her.

And
then her left her. For two days. Standing. Hanging at times from her
wrists, her legs too tired to hold her up.

When
he finally returned, he had a sly grin on his face and a newspaper in
his hand. He held up the paper, showing her the headlining story. The
death of a decorated detective. Shot in the back of the head,
execution style.

Her
father.

And
then he had beat her. Savagely. Mercilessly. Until he was as drenched
in sweat as she was in blood. Until she felt the blood trickle down
her thighs and knew she had lost the baby. Until she was in so much
pain that she passed out.

She
spent six weeks in that room of pain.

Beat
until she was bruised everywhere. Starved. Humiliated. Left with a
raging infection and hallucinations for days before she was released
to be cared for by one of the maids in the house.

--

Ellie
woke up screaming, jumping into a seated position, looking around in
the dark. Her pulse hammered in her ears as she reoriented herself to
her surroundings. Safe. Safe in Xander's apartment. She leaned
forward, cradling her head in her hands, rocking. Trying to soothe
herself. Trying to block the memories away.

“Hey,”
Xander's voice said from the other side of the room, sounding rough
from sleep, but alert, “you okay?”

She
didn't know what made her do it, but she was moving, her feet sliding
silently across the floor. She sat at the foot of his bed, looking
down at the sheets. “No,” she admitted, surprising
herself.

“Come
here,” Xander said, moving the blanket aside and patting the
space next to him.

She
shouldn't. She should just go back to her couch and try to catch her
breath. But even as she was trying to convince herself that, she was
crawling in beside him. He reached down, dragging the blanket up and
over her body. He snaked an arm underneath her shoulders, turning her
and pulling her against his chest.

Ellie
settled slowly, holding herself at first rod straight, her arm glued
to her side and her face hovering just barely over the warm skin of
his chest.

“Want
to tell me about it?” Xander asked, bringing his arm around her
back and placing it around her waist. He looked down at the top of
her head which she was shaking rapidly. “Okay,” he said,
feeling the uncharacteristic urge to lean down and kiss her hair.

He
wasn't going to press the issue. He was just going to lay there and
offer comfort. She wasn't sure she ever felt more grateful to anyone
as she did in that moment. She slowly pressed the side of her face to
his chest, scooting her body to press against his side. Her arm moved
across his belly and then up toward the skin on his shoulder.

She
forgot how nice it was to just... be held. How long had it been? Five
years? Longer if she didn't count... him. If she discounted him
entirely because the arms around her were the same ones to beat
her... then never. There had never been anyone else.

Underneath
her ear, his heart was slow and steady. The hand on her shoulder was
rubbing slow, small circles across her skin. She closed her eyes,
taking a deep breath, smelling a trace of his soap on his skin, but
mostly just... him. A slight, personal, pleasant smell that she felt
a little drunk on.

Xander
tried to focus on the circles he was tracing. Tried not to think
about the fingers on his shoulder moving slowly across his skin, her
warm breath on his chest, her breasts pressed up against him, her leg
she was pulling up and around his waist.