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A Tower Is Entirely Possible

Bridge, Three Days Later

The riding crop hurts. Hurt so bad that now even his fingers trailing over the marks he left made me cry out in pain, but the cry is muffled by the gag that chokes me. Between the rag stuffed in my mouth and the snot and swelling of my nose, I can't breathe. I will probably suffocate soon.

"All you have to do is ask me, my sweet beautiful girl, and this is all over. After all, you're a lady," The monster's whisper shakes with mocking laughter in my ear. "I can't possibly compromise you without your consent. You may have to beg, actually, to overcome my sense of propriety. Do you want to end this and ask me now?" he teases.

He takes my gag out.

"No," I gasp.

I'm ashamed that I don't tell him to go to hell or fuck off, but it makes him more determined. He hits harder.

"No?" he asks, sounding amused.

I shake my head. I won't ask. I won't beg. He can do what he wants, but I won't do that.

"Well then, my Lady, I think you need more encouragement." He trails the riding crop down my spine. I tense, expecting the harsh bite of the whip, but then he strikes me harder than he has yet with the back of the horsebrush. I cry out and it immediately turns to loud, choking sobs. I can't stop. I know I should, but I can't stop.

Not if I want to breathe.

"Oh, how unladylike, especially for a Countess," he says in faux-horror. "Let me help you correct your gauche display of emotion." He stuffs the gag back in my mouth and I choke on it as he hits me again. And again.

The door opens and cuts off the memory. Dev—looking tired but composed—enters my hospital room. I see him from the corner of my eye, but I don't look at him. I can't bear to. I know well how tragedy polishes him. Makes his cheekbones sharper and his eyes more soulful and his manner even more refined in its preciseness.

Pain makes him beautiful.

Not me. I am disgusting. I smell like the horse barn and blood and pee and him. I am foul. I am scarred. And I am barren, now, too. I am barely human anymore. I can't ever imagine wanting to do any of the things that make one human. Like laugh. Or play music. Or love.

"I'm sorry that I left," he says lightly. "I had to take a call. I thought you would sleep longer."

"It's okay." He has a life after all. Business and friends and responsibilities. He can't sit here in this room, ignoring his life. A life I used to share with him.

Right now he thinks we'll both go back to that life. He thinks it will all be fine. I know I have to try. I have to walk and talk and go back to work. I have to show him I'm not going to die. I have to show him I can go on. Eventually, I have to show him that I don't need him--and don't want him--anymore.

I can't ruin his life, too.

"The nurse made me walk around," I say. Actually, she took the catheter out and made me walk to the bathroom, but it's not really necessary that he know that.

"Yeah? How was that?" He comes near the bed. I pretend to watch a flock of birds flying in the sky.

"It hurt," I say flatly.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, reaching a hand toward my head. His hands stop mid-air, and it's only then that I realized my shoulders have drawn practically up to my ears at his approach. I slowly lower them at pretty much the same time he drops his hand.

"It will get better," I say flatly. "I know I have to get better. I can't just... lie down and die, can I?"

I was aiming for brightness, but I sound bitter, even to my own ears.