I smell it now, his cologne. He’s in the room with me. It’s pitch black, but when I wake up I know I’m not alone. I stay completely still, breathing deeply to make it sound like I’m still asleep. A hand touches my face and I manage to stay still, even though I’m dying to gouge his eyes out.
His hand trails down my cheek and then slowly moves down my neck. When fingers graze across my breast, I lean up quickly, and whisper in his ear, “I hope you rot in hell.”
“You’ll come around.” He sighs and leaves.
I hear commotion outside my door, but then it’s silent again. There are no outside sounds to give away where I am. It’s unnerving how hushed the air is. I doze and when I wake up, I wonder if I dreamed the whole interaction.
The first few weeks I was here, I was left alone. Usually a huge bald man, or sometimes a tall woman who only speaks French—came in while it was dark and left a tray of food. One tray of food for the day. I probably couldn’t have eaten more anyway, I was constantly crying.
I’m locked in a room with no outside light. I have a lamp attached to the bedpost. And books. The books help. There’s also a shower. No towels or washcloths … or shampoo … but there’s soap and water. Some days I have as many as four showers; it gives me something to do. My hair feels like straw.
I regret saying that to Nico last night—or it could be day for all I know—because I don’t want it to be weeks before he comes back. I haven’t seen my mother or Nico since that night in the car. They were both waiting for me. I’m almost positive it was my mother who gave me the injection after I was already in the car, while Nico held me down. Why they’ve treated me like a prisoner when I came willingly makes no sense. If this is their way of breaking me, the joke is on them. The last held-together piece of me crumpled when I gave my body to Soti one more time. When I tried to show him how much I loved him and had to bite down the words begging to be said. When I watched him sleep, trusting that I would be by his side when he woke up the next morning. When I walked away knowing I’d never have his love again … that destroyed every single piece of me he’d lovingly stitched back together.
I don’t want to live without Soti, but I’m afraid of what would happen to him if I die. I need to know why Nico is going to all this trouble and I have to keep Soti safe.
This is what keeps me going.
The books in my prison have a twist of the ironic.
Example: The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, a book of revenge. Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank, a book about being locked away while hiding from the Nazis. Room by Emma Donaghue, a book about a boy and his mother being held captive in a small room. The Godfather by Mario Puzo, the most well-known mob book.
Someone with a sick sense of humor. I don’t know if I was too naive to see it before, or if the past few years have turned Nico into a monster. Was he all along? How did I miss it all those years? I guess he hid a lot in the time he spent away from me but then made our four hours once or twice a week seem idyllic.
I look at The Godfather again and roll my eyes. Pssshh. Nico wishes he could be The Godfather.
I dog-ear the pages to The Count of Monte Cristo: one page for each day I’ve been here. I lost a few days in the beginning, but I think I’ve been here around twenty-eight days, give or take a day or two. Before the books came, I tore strips of toilet paper for each day I was awake. It’s often hard to tell if a day has passed or not, without the sunlight to help me gauge. I dog-ear to page twenty-eight, which is chapter five in the book.
I know that even locked inside, being in this room would have been a relief at times compared to my life as a prostitute. But during my time with Soti, I tasted freedom and soared. Life has never tasted so sweet as it did with him. It’s as if we were freeze-framed in a snippet of bliss, just happy being together. It makes being here even more bitter. Now I’m tossed back into a cage, aware of every bar and every lock. Some days I don’t think I can stand being cooped inside any longer. When the claustrophobia becomes too much, I visualize what might be on the outside of my cage, and how I might escape.
After what feels like a full day inside my head, I hear the lock on my door turning and I stand up. It’s the woman and she has her hands full—a dress and more food. Instead of leaving, she sets the tray on the bed and stands there, motioning for me to go ahead and eat it. I stare at her, until my stomach growls … then I sit down and eat.
When I finish, she holds out the blue dress. “S’habiller.”
I eye the dress and stiffen. This is the kind of dress that shows everything. The kind I haven’t worn since inside my fourth-floor bedroom with Nico. He’d buy dresses that I could only wear for him, too jealous to think about me wearing them for anyone else.
I washed my underwear earlier, so it’s still too wet to wear. The woman motions for me to hurry. She doesn’t seem at all flustered when I take my clothes off in front of her and squeeze into the dress. She smooths down my hair and studies my face, frowning, but then she nods.
“Tu vas bien.”
She leaves and I don’t know what to do with myself in my tight blue dress and smooth hair.
I don’t have to wait long.
Nico enters my cell, looking out of place in his expensive suit. I catch a whiff of the signature scent I’m sure he’s wearing for me and wonder when I should tell him it turns my stomach. He studies me and I do the same to him, neither of us speaking for some time. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he doesn’t know what to do with me.
“I was hoping for a better welcome,” he finally says.
I don’t bother responding.
“I’ve been out of the country, but now that I’m back, things will be different. I’m told you’ve been no trouble…” His white teeth suddenly appear like spears and then his smile is gone so quickly I think I must have imagined it.
He folds one hand across his waist and the other hand rests above his lips, tapping his mouth.
“You put this into action, Lilith. I hope you know that.” He has the audacity to look angry with me. “Our life can be so much better than this.” He steps closer and twists my hair around his hand. “Remember how good we were?”
His hand caresses my face and my eyes close. I hate myself for the tear that rolls down my cheek.
“Baby,” he whispers. “I’ll remind you of what we had before, but you also need to know the consequences of what you’ve done, and what you stand to lose if you don’t cooperate. You have the choice.” His eyes appraise my body again and I sit on the end of the bed, suddenly feeling weak. “I’ll tell you how it’s going to be. Divorce papers have already been sent to Christos, with your signature. It’s merely a formality, not a necessity.” He gives a mocking bow. “You ever try to escape and I will kill your soon-to-be ex-husband.”
The blood in my veins turns to ice. I swallow and keep my eyes trained on his.
He takes a breath and smiles. “Now that I’m here, there’s no need for you to be completely isolated. You’ll be in my bed tonight.”
I struggle to keep my expression neutral, as I close my eyes and give a single nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.
When I open my eyes, Nico’s smug expression sickens me. He seems satisfied by what he sees. I struggle to hide my thoughts from him; I don’t want him thinking he knows me anymore.
He moves toward the door and turns before opening it.
“I’ll let you gather a few things. Don’t forget a book—I know how you love to read.” He winks and walks out.
He’s trying to keep me off balance and, so far, it’s working.
I get the huge guy instead of the woman when it’s time to move. He puts a blindfold over my eyes, and by the time we stop, I’m dizzy. The blindfold is removed. My dizziness and the faint light make the surroundings blurry, but when Nico steps closer, he’s all I can make out.
I’ve never been afraid to speak my mind with him, but here, on his turf and with his threats about Soti, I’m terrified. He kno
ws it.
He takes the book and change of clothes I brought with me and sets it next to him. Then he leans forward and with his lips on mine, he says, “Strip.”
I pause and then hear it before I see it—a blade being unsheathed. I lose my breath.
My hands shake as I try to gather composure. I need to hold onto a few more seconds of dignity.
“I came willingly. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out you married Soti after your mother paid you a visit?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Big mistake, Lilith. You have to learn that I don’t make idle promises.”
Please don’t do this, my heart whispers, but no words come out.
Tears swim in my eyes, making it impossible to see him.
“You can make this easy or you can make this a nightmare,” he says, digging the blade to my stomach until a dot of blood appears on the fabric of my dress.
I tremble harder, angry that he has all the control, but not too proud to give it to him if it means I’m the only one he hurts. I pull the tight material up as fast as I can manage, struggling to get it over my head while his blade lingers on my skin.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks.
I swallow and shake my head. I can do this. This is what I know, what is instilled deep inside. Soti’s love was foreign to me, but this—this is my birthright. I cannot break who I am. I can only aim to protect.
When the dress is finally wedged over my arms, the rest comes off easily. I stand tall, naked, my shoulders back. It all comes back to me, like singing an old familiar song. This is the role I play so well, where everything goes dead inside. Everything Soti awakened, every dream … disintegrates into nothingness.
Nico knocks me back on the bed, looking excited to finally unleash his pent-up anger toward me. The knife never leaves his hand, always hovering, but it isn’t necessary. I don’t resist.
Chapter Eighteen
LILITH
Why?
The day he brings the divorce papers with Soti’s signature, my sanity shatters.
I can’t do this.
I’m on the floor in a ball.
I lose hours. Days. Weeks, maybe.
I’m being pulled out of bed. Dressed.
Weak.
There is a small ceremony in Nico’s room, if you can call it that when strangers surround you and coerce you into signing a marriage certificate. My second marriage is the antithesis of the first marriage Nico unknowingly forced on me. There will be no bliss this time.
Throughout my life, I’ve tried to not be a why me? person. The kind of person who’s always expecting the worst. One of my clients used to come in once a week and pay for two hours of my time. The first hour and forty-five minutes he’d talk, and the last fifteen minutes he expected me to do my job. In every story he told me, his life sounded as close to perfect as I could imagine, but he could never enjoy it. He expected it to all crash and burn because every good thing always crashes and burns. I’ve been guilty of holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But a why me? girl can have all the money in the world, the finest clothes and house, the love of her life, and when she gets a flat tire or a summer cold, says, “Why does this always happen to me?”
I’ve preferred to be a never expect anything and be pleasantly surprised person. I never expected to meet someone like Soti. I didn’t need material things or vacations in beach houses. I wouldn’t let myself admit I even needed a friend, so it was mind-blowing to have something I couldn’t fully dare dream about actually coming true.
Now I see that it doesn’t matter what kind of person I am or want to be. My stint of being seen as anything more than an object was short-lived and I have come to terms with the fact that I am nothing. Whores simply don’t count. We are disqualified, discounted: our thoughts and feelings bear no weight.
This isn’t me moaning, “Why me?” I know exactly why.
And I will never expect anything again, so there will be no happy—or sad, for that matter—surprises.
This is reality and I accept it.
Every moment I’m not with Nico, and many when I am, I am reliving my memories with Soti. I go over every touch, every smile, every conversation in my head again and again. I can almost feel his hair in my fingers, almost feel him when he’s close to moaning my name. I draw his tattoos in my sketchbook, along with my wedding dress and wedding ring. Our apartment. His messy car. It’s all in my mind and sketched in my books.
I may be withering up and dying here, but I’m keeping him alive in me. His voice, his eyes, his lips, the feel of his hands on my skin—that’s what makes me get up every day. I don’t hope for a future with him, because if I never get out of this prison and I never see his face again, the way he loved me is enough for the rest of my life and then some. It was that good and sweet and real.
I talk to him. I pray for him. I encourage him to move on, to live. I will him to stop smoking cigarettes and to eat something healthier than Cap’n Crunch every morning and night. I imagine him with a tall, beautiful woman who can be the mother of all his babies and his partner at the community center … someone as loving and kind as he is. Someone with a sense of humor.
He made me laugh when I didn’t think I had anything to laugh about, and he needs someone who makes him laugh that barrel-y laugh that always swept straight through my heart like a tidal wave.
I wish for him wealth that makes his service to others less work and more fulfilling. Health so he has the strength to hold up under all the pressure it takes to love people so hard. He deserves happiness after so much loss and heartache, some of the heartache I know I’m responsible for. I long for him to forgive me, even now, before any more time passes, so he doesn’t carry the weight of hating me.
I let his words sweep through my mind and coat the dry places. I function for him. I breathe for him, because he saw something in me worth fighting for and the tiniest part of me hopes he was right. But mostly, I am relieved for him, that he got away from the sullied shell that is me before I wrecked all that is beautiful in him.
Shame is a disease. It takes root and spreads throughout your bloodstream, blotting out what is flourishing and leaving festering wounds that never heal. Common sense has no room to grow. Self-doubt is all that is visible in the murky looking glass we peer through.
Nico gets off on feeding my shame. Lord knows I had enough before he discovered my weakness. My sins are how I wound up locked away, and my shame is what will put me under the ground.
It hasn’t been so bad here really. I deserve this and much worse.
Chapter Nineteen
LILITH
Some days have too much sand in the hourglass.
MONTHS LATER
Weeks ago, I asked for a calendar and someone pushed one under my door a few minutes ago. Christmas early. Nothing fancy, just a sheet with the whole year in tiny font. That doesn’t tell me what today is, but I found out yesterday in Nico’s room. I ended up on his side of the bed and his watch faced me on the nightstand. Knowing the date has felt urgent—it’s ridiculous really—but I’ve needed the stability of one constant in this house of madness.
I hold the paper in the light and go back to the last date I was with Soti. I think it was June twenty-sixth or twenty-seventh. We were about to celebrate July fourth. I don’t know if it was five days or exactly a week before, when I left. The days seem all jumbled up now. I’ve missed more days than I realized of dog-earing The Count. Today is … November eighteenth. My hand shakes as I circle June twenty-seventh and November eighteenth. Almost five months in hell.
I haven’t had to go back to that first dark, smelly room again. Good behavior is rewarded, so for maybe three months now, I’ve been a well-kept prisoner who doesn’t lack for much of anything, except freedom.
Sometimes it feels familiar, as if I’m back at Maison D’amour, but now the only man I have to service full-time is Nico. He visits every night, unless he’s out o
f town. The only time I leave this room is when Nico decides he wants me in his bed for a few hours.
The days drag on endlessly, even though I have things to occupy my time. Any movie or book I could wish for shows up if I mention it. I have art supplies, a beautiful vintage typewriter, a treadmill, a sauna … all within this space. Gourmet meals are prepared for me daily. Sometimes Nico joins me; mostly I’m alone.
Until nighttime, when I long for the time I’ll be left alone again.
It’s impossible to imagine what I once felt for Nico when every touch from him now curdles my blood. All the obscenities Alexis never allowed in the house roar through my mind when he comes near me. His dark black hair that is thick and shiny slithers like oil through my fingers. His perfect shade of smooth skin feels like poison. His curly eyelashes dry up my insides. He disgusts me. My hands burn to choke the life out of him.
But I don’t. Like an opossum playing dead, I lie in wait.
He pulls the knife out occasionally to encourage me to perform with more emotion. I do just enough to appease him, and when I don’t, he cuts me. Sometimes I need the slashes to gash me open, so I’m reminded to keep feeling. Sometimes I need them to punish me the way I deserve.
The lowest times are when even the touch of the one I hate sounds better than no touch at all. I wish I could say I’m fully void of desire for him, but that would be a lie. My body sometimes betrays me. It has a twisted longing for contact. When I find myself wanting interaction so badly that I’m willing to talk to him, make conversation, hear his thoughts … that’s how I know my soul has died and left this shell in its place.