Temptation & Truth

Truth

"Let's just ignore that, shall we?" he said calmly.

 I was terrified. There I was, in a room alone with a man that was not my husband. This man that I for whatever reason felt I could trust, but who would be harmed so badly if he opened the door. Because it had to be Christian. He had come to retrieve me, his lying wife.

The truth was that I was scared of Christian. I was scared of the things he would do to me, and how he could make me believe that I wanted it. I no longer knew what I wanted, and I hadn't for a long time. Everything was one big blur from the moment he whisked me away from the bar after I had too many drinks. That night he had been able to track me down and find me, a mousy girl he hardly knew. I was naive, I was plain, I was impressionable. I could see that now, as I sat silently in a velvety chair in the corner of a room where I had never been before.

How many years had it been since I'd gone to a new place without Christian leading me by the arm? How many years had it been since I didn't have to think about how Christian would feel about every move I made, every word spoken? I might never be free of that cord that bound my thoughts to him, just as he would bind me in the Red Room of Pain and make me feel things I still wasn't sure I liked. I had to stop thinking about him--the way his breath felt on my neck, his teeth as they bit at the tenderest parts of my body, the exact shape of his hand that was nearly imprinted in my ass after he took me over his knee and spanked me raw. That was it, that was the thought I shuddered at: the first time he "disciplined" me, the pain and degradation. Did it ever stop?

The man was swiftly cleaning the mess I'd made of a gorgeous tea set. Armed with a broom and dustpan, he looked like a regal knight, the picture of honesty and integrity. There was another knock at the door. We continued to ignore it.

"Your subconscious," he said as he finished tidying. "Does it speak to you?"

"It used to, at times," I trailed off. I almost mentioned my inner goddess, but thought better of it.

"Right. So it's not saying anything now?"

"No, but it would be. It would be screaming at me, throwing things, pleading with me."

"Well, I suppose it's not the problem now. Though you should know, the subconscious really doesn't work that way."

"Of course." I laughed. I realized I felt oddly at ease.

He took a step toward me. "Anastasia, listen. From what you told me the last time we met, and from what you're saying today...," he began, casually taking a seat on the arm of the chair, almost too close. "From what you've told me, it sounds like you're in a relationship that's... really taking its toll on you." He paused for a moment and stood up again. "Look, I'm going to put this word out there, and you might not agree with it, but you seem to be in something of an abusive relationship."

"No, no. He doesn't hit me. I mean, maybe in the bedroom, if we're being honest, but that's... y'know."

"Look, I'm obviously not well-trained in this field." He motioned to the notebook on the table, still open to a blank page. "But just... You don't have to accept what I've said. Just tell me: are you happy?"

My vision was blurry. Large tears began to fall in my lap as I weighed the word "happy" in my mind. It was like iron. It pressed down on my skull, happy, happy. My head was aching. My ears were ringing but I did not hear a helicopter anymore. But I heard yet another knocking on the door, this one rather sharp, going on and on until it was pounding. Someone was pounding on the door and I knew it was my Christian there to sweep me away again.

Boom. Boom. The pounding on the door got louder and louder, and the man who stood before me put his hand in his back pocket. Was it a gun? Was he going to shoot my husband? Did I want him to? No. No. This was all wrong. I didn't want him to die. I still loved him.

"Don't!" I cried. The noise stopped for a moment, and the man flinched at the panic in my voice.

Suddenly the door burst open, and there he was: my Adonis, my world. His face was red, wrenched into an expression of unimaginable fury. He was panting. Another man stood behind him, a man I recognized: Christian's bodyguard, Taylor. Taylor looked at me with a torn expression, not moving from where he stood. The man before me turned to look at Christian, removed the object from his pocket, and put it to his own ear.

"911," he said, as calmly as ever.

"I'll fucking kill you," Christian growled, not looking at me at all. He took two steps forward, looking like a lion hunting its prey. I saw Taylor walk further into the room, just behind Christian. My husband Christian, the man to whom I had devoted so much of my life.

Christian pounced on the man, aiming for his throat. The cellphone clattered to the floor. Had he managed to call the police? He was going to be killed and I couldn't count on anyone coming to his rescue.

I leapt up from the chair and snatched the broom from the wall. "Stop!" I screamed. "Christian!"

It all happened at once. Christian threw the man to the floor and lurched toward me, his eyes empty. Was he going to hurt me? The man clawed at his leg trying to get a hold of him. I turned away, uselessly swinging the broom, hoping somehow it would protect me. He couldn't hurt me like this. Christian would never hurt me like this. He swatted the broom out of the way and grabbed me by the wrists. Behind him, the man unsteadily got to his feet.

"You lied," he snarled. "Ana, you lied to me. You ran away from me to see some other man?"

"I-It isn't like that," I whimpered.

"You're just like her, Ana. You're just like that crackwhore."

My world crumbled around me. I felt my body go limp, the broom slipping out of my weak fingers and dropping to the floor.

"Christian, no, I--"

A gunshot. Christian let go of my wrists and clutched his side, grunting. I nearly fell to the floor, but braced myself on the armchair. I couldn't think anymore. My whole life was dust at my feet. All I could do was look at Christian hunched over in front of me, the look of pain and hatred in his face. My husband is dying. The words bounced around my empty mind, ricocheting like numbers in a lotto machine. Shot, dying. Dying. Christian.

I was looking at him on the other side of a short tunnel. Time must have been passing, people were moving, but I could only grip the velvet upholstery tighter and tighter in my white hands.

And then, focus. The clouded background became suddenly clearer, and I saw him.

Taylor, the bodyguard, holding the gun.