Charlie's Angel

17

My sleeping was haunted by Aaron.

Restless. Fitful. Tossing and turning.

Paris was a relatively light sleeper, so I kept my murmurs and cries of fear to a minimum for her sake.

I juggled between two dreams–or nightmares.

In one, he made my daughter sit in a chair and watch while he tortured me. His smile was devious like a snake and his hands were grimy and gross as he rubbed over my body. I was at his complete mercy, sitting still so I wouldn't make things worse. He kept demanding me to keep her quiet or he'd punish her too, so I did everything I could to keep her silent. But her cries and pleads for him to let me go were echoing throughout the house. Every time her sobs got too much for him, he dragged me over to a bucket of water. My punishment. I didn't have time to take a breath before he dunked my head in the warm water, his dirty hands gripping my neck firmly to keep me in place. I didn't bother fight, because my doom was inevitable each time. I could no longer hear my daughter crying for me, but I could hear his laughter–maniacal and hair-raising–vibrate through the surface of the water. And soon my final seconds came and my body went still.

This whole time, his voice was nice, and dare I say it, apologetic. He was telling me that he loved me, that he was sorry that he had to do this to me–that it had to end this way. And his final words made me want to burn his insides with gasoline while I lit a cigarette from his flames and watched his body turn to ash. He told me that he'd take care of Paris for me.

The very thought of Aaron–dreaming or not–being alone with Paris had me shaking where I laid in bed. My back was slick with sweat and my palms were bunching up the sheets as my chest heaved in fear. That agony that warmed the right side of my rib cage had me biting back tears and wincing in my place.

Relax, Charlotte. It was my father.

When I wasn't being drowned by my husband, he was beating me and raping me. But that didn't bother me too much because that was what I was used to. Well, I was more used to the beating. Not necessarily the raping. I mean, sure he would tell me to have sex with him and I would. Even though I never really wanted to. But with the authority that Aaron had over me, I did practically anything he said. It made it easier for everybody if I just followed his orders. So when he said he wanted to have sex, we had sex. No love making, no feelings attached. He just wanted pleasure; he never cared about my needs and desires.

Where was I? Oh, right. My nightmares.

The beatings were much more crucial in my dreams. But thank God that Paris was never around. Aaron showed me no mercy. My pale-caramel skin was covered with my own blood, welts, bruises, and lacerations. It hurt to move or to cry or to do anything except let him do what he did. It got so bad that I just physically made myself go numb. He used belts to leave marks on my ass, and toys to 'arouse' me, but I never let myself crumble for him. Which upset him. A lot.

When he got what he wanted, or when he was too angry with me because I wouldn't cave in to his 'sexual fantasies', he was physically done with me. So he grabbed his pocket knife, held it to my neck, and told me he loved me while the blade dug deeper and deeper into my flesh and he watched me choke to death on my own blood.

Either nightmare ended in my death.

I couldn't lay in bed anymore, I had to go. I grabbed the teddy bear that Chris gave me–it hadn't left my sight since he gave it to me–and gritted my teeth so as not to cry out as I pulled myself to sit up. That alone had me breathing hard, but I willed myself to stand and trudge for the door.

I needed some alcohol. But not with Paris around.

Sam's house was a spacious, one-story house, so I tiptoed to the kitchen and into the fridge. I was surprised Bash wasn't with her in her room, but I shrugged it off. Their relationship, or friendship, or whatever they called it was moving very fast. But I couldn't be jealous. Sam was my best friend and I was more than happy for her.