Invasion (23 page)

My shrewdness is dead-gone as the fire in my belly is set alight with the prospect of a resolution. I fling the car into park, hurling the door open, and for the first time appreciating the deathly cold air that dances over my skin as I run through the knee-deep snow.

I can’t feel my jeans, my heartbeats, or any part of life as I know it. My body feels alien and inhuman. I’m simply running toward the last chance that I have.
Him
.

The chilly flakes perspire through my jeans, my skin icy and soon frozen. The air is deadening as I continue running toward the once perfect oasis lined with pine trees and cedar siding. No smoke puffs from the chimney, but I will not give up hope that he expects me.

There are a thousand ways this could end, and I won’t give up until it ends the way I want. With him in my arms.

I run as fast as my short legs will take me, reaching the stairs that are below the enormous wrap-around porch. The cedar planks are dusted with snow from the wind gusts. I see no footprints, but I will not tolerate apprehension to disappoint me.

Victory is deep in my bones, I have no doubt, and momentarily my heart will beat and my lungs will breathe when I catch sight of him. My physique travels to its own cadence, my limbs traumatized and working strictly on autopilot.

Hands shaky, startled with the likelihood of what is behind the green door, chipped paint decorating the wood, I waste no time turning the steel doorknob, prompt balminess engulfing me.

“Gavin!” I shout, the power of my knees departing.

I fall to the hard pine floors as the warm air envelops and sends me back to the way he would fuck me like I desired, wrapping me up into every single fucking part of him.

I’m needy, a dirty whore in this moment.

Still bleak, I hunger for the freedom only he can provide.

“Gavin!” I cry, hot tears streaming down my mottled face.

Rage ingests me, imbedding its way into every cell of my distorted being, combusting whatever was holding me together before. I grab a crystal vase sitting on top of the sofa table in the entrance, slamming it against the wall. My cries soon turn into moans, nonverbal pleas for answers, incoherent and destitute.

“Come to me, Gavin!” I whisper, hands tricking the clasp of my bra underneath my shirt.

I’m a follower and he is the only deity I praise. I am hooked on the thrill he gives me, the sentiments I feel when I am with him, and the way he makes me cum, conjuring me into another creature.

Our worlds collided, shattered, and merged into one. Our hearts beat in tandem, feeding from one another’s rhythm. The fastener of my perception is absent, long gone as the gates of my heart are forever broken, turning me from a once-lovable woman into a now shattered porcelain girl, shards dispersed about through brief moments reminisced only by me.

The silence is overwhelming, yet the memories haunt me. I will never be the same. My knees ache, turning flat on my back I discard my sweater, my bra hanging below my breasts leaving my nipples exposed, yearning for a touch from him.

I want his abuse, his love, his unapologetic lock around my throat. I want it all!

I pop the button from my wet jeans, skimming them down my body imagining they are his hands, calloused to perfection with tenderness and a hint of venom beneath. I let my legs fall apart, the heat between them leaves me starved and I yell, blaring his name one last time. This is my last wish. Him.

“Gavin! I beg you!”

The atmosphere is hushed. I imagine this is what hell must feel like, begging for the comfort that lurks far away from where you are. The desire so all-consuming, it turns me into a person who loses every bit of rationality. I’m ostracized, excluded, and unwelcome at the gates of happiness.

I heave, crying as my stomach knots and twists in disgust. Masturbating in a moment of crazed abandon, the past in this place returns, burning me with memories of shame … and pain.

My stomach contracts again, painfully, slaughtering my wishes and I vomit on the once-flawless pinewood floor. The stench of bile assaults my nostrils, the bitter salt-like aroma leaves me perturbed as my cognizance stifles the urge to stay in this fucking made up dreamland forever. I close my eyes, floating along a broken abysm that I very well may never find.

After wiping the edges of my lips, I crawl, scratch, and dig my way further into foolishness. My tears continue to torrent down my face, puffy from the sentiments that are overwhelming me. I remove my underwear, swiftly, the thought of his tongue claiming me in every way is gratifying. My hands, determined for a release, skim down my belly as my silken fingers imitate the bristles and scruff on his face; sexy, rugged, and mine.

There is nothing tame about Gavin and the way he loves me.

When true passion is discovered, rather felt, it consumes every pore and goddamn surface of your body. The world stops turning. The birds stop chirping. The fish no longer swim. Time stops and all that you have is love, because nothing else matters.

I pray, selfishly, because I never believed in doing that before. Every equation has answers. Science plays a role. That’s how my defunct brain worked before I met Gavin. He changed the makeup of how I work. He rewired every part of me; how I respond when touched, how my heart could love more as another second passed, and mostly, he gave me hope. I never thought I’d be worthy of such things, or changing, but here I am, ass naked on my cabin floor, crying as I contemplate masturbating as my mind is overcome with sorrow and lust.

Nothing will rectify this except Gavin. It’s an inevitable conclusion. Is this how all women are loved? Praised, then deserted? Adored, then conned?

My fingers become moist, my womb begs for him, and my heart aches to be embroidered back together. His touch, the way he makes me feel, his eyes and gaze, every fucking thing about that man is indescribable; no words can do him justice. My hands aren’t enough.
Nothing will ever be enough!
This is torture!

My fingers circle my tight hole, the once gentle movements now hard and tough as the fire becomes painful, burning through while threatening me with this lingering feeling forever.

I dig deeper, desperate to seek a remedy near to him, but barrenness is the result. My ears are piqued as my body acts like a predator listening for its hiding prey. The body I live in no longer belongs to me. I am his, and when the man whom I praise is absent, the shell in which my soul lives will go to any extreme to find him. I fear what that means.

Removing my fingers I open my eyes, focusing on the panels that line the vaulted ceiling. The blades of the oversized fan are circling in a low, lazy manner. I hold my breath as I feel the blood in my veins surge, going from cool to bubbling within seconds.

I never leave the fan on. I don’t recall flipping the switch by the door. Would a man such as Gavin be so careless? Did he lead me here?

Standing, my skin tingles with hope of his proximity. I look up the staircase, the hall to the right is dark and unlit, haunted by moments with Mark. I attempt to wipe them free.

Instead, he’s in my memories … before me on the stairs.

I am trapped, arms outstretched and tied to opposing sides. My legs parted and restrained to the wrought iron left me exposed to his criticism and abuse. There’s a difference between kink and consenting adults, and belittling abuse.

“You can’t give me a baby, Carly. Why can’t you give me a baby?” Mark towers over me with dark eyes. He knows how desperate I am for love. I can’t answer him. It is a sore subject, his berating makes it worse as I am subjugated to the realization of being less than a woman.

“Are you not woman enough for my child? To carry MY baby?” He continues to scold me, dark eyes peering, belittling, full of loathing and withering revulsion.

I turn my head to the side, trying my best to bury it deep where his words don’t hurt. I want a baby, someone who will love me despite my flaws. Someone who will have faith in me unconditionally, but after a year of trying I remain fruitless.

My skin is blanketed in shivers, the humiliation cascading over me like a suffocating waterfall. My lungs are tight. I’m unable to breathe because he hasn’t permitted me to. I can’t offer him a return regardless of his demands. I know what the repercussions entail.

Previously Mark subjected me to his sufferings beyond my sexual preferences and endurance. I was wrapped around his finger so tight, he was willing and able to bend me until I snapped. I was breakable in his eyes as he stood there panting like a vicious dog about to rut, revulsion filling him as he stared at his failing mate.

I wanted to tell him I tried everything; vitamins, ovulation calendars, basal temperature checks, and recently Clomid to stimulate my ovaries. I changed my diet made up by him, eating only the foods he had cleared me to, meats and vegetables without fruits that were high in acid. Mark wants a girl. He desires that so he can mold her into the perfect woman, opposite of me.

As much as I hated to resort to medication, I had begged my doctor with tears to allow it, even though all my tests had come back normal. We had been trying for a year, and Mark swore it was me despite his refusal to submit a sperm count to determine if he could be a factor. He is perfect in his eyes, a man unable to fail his wants and goals. I am the shortcoming. I am the reason.

Mark stoops down, naked and hungry. Not for me, rather for his bloodline. His smooth jaw tickles my empty womb while his soft lips tease me. That is what he does. His manipulation turns sweet for brief moments.

That’s how I am convinced it is my fault. His words cut me apart. His actions hurt me, but after it all, he sews me back together with his false charity.

“You’re a worthless woman, Carly. You’re worthless.” I am used to it, but his accusations prove right. There isn’t much I wanted in the world, but a baby was one.

Mark walks away for a few moments and I wonder how I got where I am, so desperate for love. Angry at who I am. I begin counting the lines between the panels, completely ignoring the air grazing my exposed crotch. This is his game. I am the instrument, part of his success story, the pupil who daren’t disrupt her teacher.

My wrists begin to ache, stretching excruciatingly so the bones in my shoulders are near their separation point. My ligaments, usually limber and willing to contort in any position Mark pleased, throb as I beg for pity.

The back of my skull pains, pushed against the hard steps that I walked up hundreds, thousands of times, without realizing I would ever be in such a predicament.

My back, lodged between two steps, is bent like a master contortionist. Buried in a hole of despair I am eager for a way out. My selfishness and need for love shall get the best of me as I soon face the deepest form of hate and monopoly of marriage from my husband. Vows will prove to be meaningless. Hushed reminders of this night will haunt me, even during the days when light shone in.

“This should do it,” Mark seethes, ascending the stairs like Lucifer himself. Clutched tightly in his hand is a clear bottle, tinged with a yellow liquid. Oh god. What has he planned?

“I can give you a baby, Mark. Plea –,” my words fall short, intercepted by a slap to the face. My cheek stings, tingling with the aftereffects of his distaste.

His lips turn down in a frown, the sides of his eyes wrinkle with spite while he looks me up and down, repeatedly shaking his head like I am trash. To him I am. I couldn’t follow through with the one thing that matters to him. I wanted to tell him I was doing everything he asked of me. I wished he would let me explain my recent visit to the doctor, but it wouldn’t have mattered. It was a moot point. Men like Mark have no concern for anyone other than themselves.

“You will give me the daughter I’ve been demanding, Carly. When you do, we will raise her to be nothing like you. She will understand what thick skin and backbones are made of. She will know that men are superior, and that women are merely put on this earth to be plowed and have babies. Do you know the meaning of the word husband means to ‘plow a field’. I am your farmer, Carly. I put seed in you but nothing grows! She sure as fuck will learn to cook better than you too. Daddy will teach her well.”

I realize in this second his intention. Sick and disturbing, laced with control and cruelty. I can’t let him impregnate me. I won’t let him destroy my baby. I feel sick, simultaneously riding the guttural need to flee.