Sinning On Sunday

Author's Note: This is incomplete. I really need some feedback to keep going. All are welcome.

The first step in controlling someone is to show them what great supremacy you have over them. Remind them every day that you are what make them. You are the air they breathe. You are the food they eat. Do what I say. I’ll make you sorry. You don’t want to upset me. Tell me you’re sorry tell me you’re my girl. My good little girl.

The second step is to brainwash them. Drill things into their squishy heads. Words like. You are nothing. You will never escape. Who would believe you? No one cares what you have to say. I do though. I treat you well; you don’t want to leave me. You don’t want to ever leave me.

The last and most important rule is that they obey without question.

I am not the controller, I am the controlled.

His name is Aeron. I am whatever he calls me.

Last night I was “Beautiful”. He called me this, voice muffled in my shoulder with the bed springs screaming beneath us, “Oh, Beautiful. Sweet Beautiful. My lovely Beautiful.” Beautiful. I didn’t feel beautiful. I felt hot and sick and hurt. I felt squished beneath him. I was being ripped apart. He was squeezing my hips so hard, I knew there would be marks as soon as he was finished with me. He should have been calling me “Shred” or “Bruiser.” This morning I am “Stupid Bitch.” I don’t have time to stand in the mirror and massage my tender hips and stare at the marks in the shape of his hands. He’s at my door, holding it open. “C’mon, you Stupid Bitch. You’re going to be late.” He hands me the shirt I am to wear today. It’s too tight around my breasts and has serious mid drift, but it has a tight collar. This is what he wants because I can’t let the teeth marks on my shoulder be seen. If anyone saw, I’d be dubbed whore of the school first day of freshman year. Then my teachers would catch wind of it and want to get involved and they’d call my house and if Aeron found out about my careless mistake, he would make sure it would never happen again. “Get my cup of coffee ready.” He grumbles this as he walks away to go get dressed in his room. I peel the top of my jeans down. The thumb bruise peeks up and says hello to me. Good morning, I’m your reminder that your world is a living hell. Don’t forget to turn the coffee pot off or there will be more of me to come. Have a nice day. I pull my pants up as high as they can go and search for a belt. A big bulky belt that will keep my pants up and the bruise out of sight. I hope I don’t have P.E. this year. I remember at my last school, the girls would talk about me behind my back and wonder why I have to go to a bathroom stall to change. “What are you looking for, Honey?” My mother’s voice is soft, soothing. Unaware. I am Honey to her right now. Stupid Bitch to Aeron. Stupid Bitch Honey. She’s standing at my doorway with a piece of toast in her hand, nibbling delicately at one corner so she doesn’t get crumbs on her nice business suit. She keeps rubbing her index finger and thumb together, away from her, trying to get rid of the toasty specks. Then she uses those fingers to grip the bread as she bites it. Then she dusts them off again, like she’s spreading fairy sprinkles. “A belt. I need a belt.” I say to my closet. I can’t let her see my face yet. I haven’t recovered enough from last night, when I was Beautiful. “What kind of belt?” “A big black one.” “Okay. Uhm, check behind that pile of sandals right there. I think I saw one over there recently.” I can feel her pointing behind me, then I hear a light crunch, chewing noise, the soft grating as she showers more bread crumbs onto my bedroom floor. I grab the tail end of the belt and yank it up like a dangerous snake. It has rhinestones on the front buckle. I got it in 8th grade when hulking, bedazzled belts were in style. I strap it on and sit with my back to her. Please leave. Please leave. “Don’t be late for work, mom.” I remind her in an insignificant voice. I clear my throat. She’s chewing again, her mouth is stifled with crust, “Yeah, you’re right.” Then her feet shuffle away. I get up to go make Aeron’s coffee, even though I want to poison it. I remind myself that this is nothing. As I’m stirring in the sugar, I hear them whispering goodbye at the door. “When will you be home?” She doesn’t know him as well as I do. I detect the hidden excitement in his voice. “Late night tonight, might sleep at the office again like last week.” Last week I was Sweetheart. I clutch the handle of the coffee mug until my knuckles are stark white. As white as Aeron’s when he grabs me. “I just have so much work thrown at me.” Mom goes on, “That cupcake business down the road is really taking off and I’ve been assigned to take care of all the legal paperwork since my partner’s dad passed. And don’t even get me started with the Gardening business. Whew. Nowhere near done.” When you want to get a company started, whether it is house cleaning service or woodshop, my mother is who you come to. Aeron has got a smile in his voice. “What a shame, you work so hard. I wish I still had my job so I could help out. But I’m proud of you.” A wet smacking sound. Kissing. I wonder if she can taste me on his tongue. “Have a good day.” She murmurs. He chuckles in reply. I stir the coffee fast and hurriedly flip the pot off when the screen door shuts and he comes around the corner. “All finished?” “Yes.” I pass it to him, keeping my eyes carefully leveled with the floor. He takes a timid sip, as if it may be too hot. When I first met Aeron 6th grade, I knew from the start he was trouble. He was a struggling swimsuit model. He was having more trouble finding places to model for, because he was past the ripe age of twenty-one, and so he spent most of his time bumming around his parents’ house. He refused to do anything to help out; he believed he was too good for that. They got fed up with his lethargic attitude and kicked him onto the streets. He happened to bump into my mom that day as she was commuting to and from businesses that were in work and progress. He dazzled her. He knew she had money and latched right on. Aeron flattered her and ruffled her feathers. They both knew he was twelve years too young for her, but they hooked up anyway. I suspect my mom liked the idea of stepping outside of her comfort zone with a younger guy. She hadn’t dated anyone since dad split in ’99. It wasn’t but a week later that she started letting him stay at the house because he didn’t have a home. I was furious. “We don’t know this guy.” I told her in the bedroom, hissing angrily. “What if he’s some kind of killer?” Mom sighed at me, like, you silly little girl, and put her hands on my shoulder and gave me this whole look full of wisdom or whatever. “We don’t know anyone in this town because we just moved here. I have a feeling he’s got connections. Besides… Sometimes you just know about people. He isn’t a bad person, and he’s sticking around. I love him.” Because she was never around, I did his laundry and made him dinner and kept him company within limited means, got him coffee every morning. I did her job. I tried to be civil. After a while, I noticed that this is what he expected from me. Clean shirts, always. A sparkling, dustless, crumbless house. Food made when he felt the desire. Mom would come home and she’d say, “The house looks wonderful, you did such a good job!” And they would hug and he would smile at me over her shoulder, like we were at tug-of-war with her love and he was winning. It was three weeks later when Aeron got lonely, that he turned to me. First it was long hugs, quick kisses, then deeper kisses followed by touching, petting, feeling, groping. Clothes were less involved, and then soon no clothes were involved. During, he would huff threats in my ear, sweetened by his desperate tone. “You tell, and I’ll kill you.” Then he’d kiss me and plunge deeper. His hands on my throat, not too tight, the feeling of his fingers serving as a warm reminder that I’m not going anywhere. I tried to stop him in the beginning, and he hit me. The heat of his punch sent me reeling and I melted in his fingers. “You don’t want to do that ever again now, do you?” He asked me afterwards, nursing the bruise on my back with an ice pack. “It might be worst next time. Do you understand?” I nodded although I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand why he wanted me when he was here for my mother. I didn’t understand why he wanted to hurt me for his advantage. I tried to get away from him once when he had me bent over, face in the pillow and I couldn’t breathe. He grabbed hold of my throat after my feeble escape. “Couldn’t breathe?” He said through his teeth, squeezing tighter. His fingers overlapped around my tiny neck. “You couldn’t breathe? I’ll show you what that’s like.” I was shoved to my knees and he forced me to take every last inch of him into my mouth, to the back of my esophagus. My eyes watered. I gagged. He showed me the meaning of not being able to breathe. A year later and nothing has changed. Aeron takes another spoonful of sugar, dumps it in the dark brown brew. A glittery white cascade.  “Not sweet enough, Stupid Bitch.” He scolds, taking another drink of it as he runs his fingers through his dark, unkempt hair. He used to be remotely attractive to me. He had sexy eyes, green emerald. Thick lips, nice teeth. A straight nose. Decent body, a little less than what I expected from a swimsuit model though. But after seeing the way those eyes drink me in, feeling his lips touch sacred places, hearing the threats they make when my mother’s back is turned, his teeth sinking into my thighs, I think he is an ugly, empty person. The pores in his nose are too big. His muscles are deteriorating and his skin is pale. If my mom was around more, she would see it too, and he would be gone. Because the only reason she keeps him around is because he’s a cute boy toy to her. She doesn’t know what love is, only lust. And to him, I’m his toy. “Come here.” He whispers, sitting his drink down. I take a slow step closer, head bowed. Aeron places his lips to my forehead. Stale morning coffee bean breath falls around me like steam, and it gets hard to breathe. Then I remember that one night, and tell myself this is nothing. Aeron points to my shoulder suddenly. Another bruise emerging. “Put on a jacket and get outside.” He orders. I don’t complain about how hot it is outside or that I only have one jacket, which is too small. I don’t try to get out of it by explaining to him that I haven’t worn it since three years ago, when he used it to wipe up puppy pee when we were dog sitting for one of mom’s clients who had been trying to start a pet grooming business. I put on my jacket and remind myself that this is nothing.