Girls Who Dreamt of Castles

Chapter Twenty-seven

"The secret to happiness is freedom... And the secret to freedom is courage."
                        - Thucydides.

"I'll tell him today. I'll tell him today," sang Brenda as she paced up and down the living room waiting for Henry to come in. She wanted to break the news to him and she couldn't just get herself to sit. She wasn't nervous (she had drunk five cups of tea), she was just happy.

It felt like she had finally gotten the freedom she continuously yearned and sometimes begged for.

There was a curt knock on the door, then suddenly it swung open.

"Oh, God. Mosquitoes will kill me," she mumbled.

Henry strolled into the house, one hand in his pocket looking as though he owned the place. Which evidently, he did.

He stood for a while eying her pensively, then he smiled. "Won't you sit down?" he told her and sat on one of the sofas.

Brenda simultaneously lowered her tall frame into one of the armchairs opposite him. She could hear the fast beating of her heart in her chest. She stopped breathing for a while trying to steady her heart rate. It didn't work.

They stared at each other. Brenda with hate and he with hunger. He was always ready.

"We need to talk," she broke the silence before he did.

"We are talking," his voice was very cool. Too cool and it sounded somehow dreamy to her.

"Okay," she sat quietly.

"Okay? Okay, you wanted to talk to me, start talking. I'm all ears."

"It's sickening."

"What is?" he asked, his index finger rubbing the tip of his nose.

She sighed. "I'm tired."

"Tired of what?"

"Of everything."

"Everything?" he murmured and stared at her so much it became scary. "You can't just be tired of everything. What is everything to you?"

"I'm tired of being your whore," she finally said. She had to admit, it hurt to say it out loud.

Henry almost choked. He leaned forward. "My whore?"

"Yes."

"Why would you say that? Why would you even call yourself that? Who gave you that impression?"

Brenda raised her eyebrow. Was he mocking her?

"Brenda, you aren't even a whore."

"But you pay me," she declared.

"Yes, I do. And I do that because that's our thing. That is the right thing to do."

Brenda broke into a laugh abruptly. "And you say I'm not a whore or are you just saying that to make yourself look good or to make what we have sound better?"

Henry leaned towards her. "You don't leave in a brothel."

"But you pay me," she stressed.

"Yes, I do. I pay you for your time and not your body. Seemed like the right thing to do. It was what we agreed on right from day one. What are you acting oblivious now?" he said patiently. "And no, I am not trying to make myself look good. I'm far better than that."

Brenda couldn't move from where she sat. Her breath was laboured and she felt afraid.

Henry shifted in his chair and glanced up at her.

She hated sensitive conversations with men. They lacked both oomph and importance and they made her feel sick inside. They also bored her.

"Now that one is settled, can we go back to how we were? Back to business, eh?"

"No," she said adamantly. "I was very serious with what I said. More serious than I have ever been about anything in my entire life. I am tired of this. My parents didn't die for me to become a slave. No!" she got up and glared at him.

"Oh, now you think you're a slave? I thought you were a whore," he returned.

"Oh, just shut up!" growled Brenda. She had had enough of him. "I have had it with you and your nonsense."

Henry stared at her, clearly mystified by her actions. Then, he smiled. "It's clearly familiarity," he muttered strangely. "That's why I'm getting all these insults from you."

He stood up and walked up to her. "It's not you. I've always known you to be the stubborn type. Hardheaded, wild." His face was a few inches away from her. He was a huge man. It made her look like a frightened child. "It's me. I'm becoming too soft, isn't it?"

The electricity wasn't on so Brenda could hardly see him or tell what expression was there in his eyes. He moved up to her and stopped when he was so close. So close that when he spoke his breath fanned her face.

"How many times do I have to tell that you're mine, Brenda?" he put his hand on her face. "Hm? How many?"

Brenda didn't answer.

"That's alright. Let's put it all on the tiredness. Let's blame it all on the tiredness, alright? Or am I getting too old for you?

He chuckled softly when she didn't answer.

"I'll give you a day off," he walked to the door the same way he came in, as though he owned the place. He had always been proud. "See you next week Monday, Brenda and this should never repeat itself. Ever. I hope I've made myself very clear?"

"No," Brenda answered shortly.

"What did you say?" he half turned to her, suddenly livid.

"I said what you heard me say. I said no. You did not make yourself clear to me. You never do. And I am sick and tired of you using me."

"Using you?" he asked, his face grimaced in anger. Then he turned completely, facing her. "For God's sake, Brenda! I have never used you. This - what we have, it's a transaction. When will you stop this childish act of innocence? When will you stop behaving like this wasn't planned all along? You're not the victim here. No one is."

"I'm tired of it. I want to quit. Can't you see me? Can't you see what you're doing to me? Henry, you're killing me."

He looked at her direction. "Then do away with everything I've given to you. I'm killing you? You would have been dead by now if it wasn't for me. Do you think anyone cares about you as much as I do? The answer is no Brenda because if they did, you wouldn't need my help at all."

Just as the words hit Brenda, the electricity came on. It was as if the lights wanted him to see her. See how much his words had affected her. She looked drained from everything.

"If you're tired of everything, get rid of them."

Then, he was gone.

Brenda stared at the door, she was unable to move. Whoever said crying for the same thing over and over again was impossible lied. She knew this because she had cried a million times for him, and as she stood there staring at the door, she cried again.

There was never going to be a happy ending for her. She knew no matter how she tried, she couldn't be happy. She knew she would never find love.
That was exactly what a person got when they made a deal with the devil himself. There was no turning back, there was no end game. It was like being sandwiched between insanity and madness.

There was no salvation.