Full Circle

My relationship with Dar sometimes feels like a never-ending, ceaseless roller coaster ride. He can be the most supportive man I’ve ever known, his sex drive is unmatched, his love for me is something I’ve never questioned, he is generous to a fault and, of course, brilliant. I often tell him I find him kind at heart and he looks at me quizzically, raised eyebrow and all, but I just smile and nod and kiss him on the forehead. A benediction of sorts, one that I hope conveys all the love and trust I have for him. After all, do long pained speeches, pretty words and declarations of undying love speak any louder than a simple heartfelt word and a kiss? It is true that Dar has caused me to write countless barbed missives and become rather melodramatic at times, but I think it’s the times when we are alone together in his study, and, looking up from my book, I catch him glancing over the top of his, taking me in, smiling that half-smile of his before he beckons me over and lets me continue my reading warmly nestled in the protective cocoon of his lap.

You know about the other times; the times he punishes me for some real or imagined infraction, my palm still bears a slight scar that insures I’ll never forget just how cruel he can be, and the times he grows cold and distant, telling me it’s not me but him, that he’s not fit for company, his mood too dark, that he doesn’t trust himself not to hurt me too much. Maybe my sanity is in question but I prefer his cruelty to his icy aloofness.

My life has slowed some since the party for Chase. Dar’s hasn’t. He’s been busier than ever and I see him much less than I’d like. We’ve been arguing over it, but it can’t change the fact that there are only so many hours in the day and the few hours of sleep he allows himself are a necessary evil. It’s not all bad; I’ve spent lots of time with Maggie and Teresa, enjoying watching my goddaughter grow up. It’s still bittersweet for me, wanting my own child so desperately and having Dar be so dead set against it. So it’s almost a pleasant respite when my mom calls and asks if I can house/dog sit for her for a week. Some friends of hers have been able to convince her to leave Manhattan and spend a week exploring Portugal.

I grew up in Queens, a bedroom community that even at my young age seemed like purgatory to me. We had a nice house and I went to good schools but my mother was always a cosmopolitan woman and she instilled her love of the city in me. She missed Manhattan and always found an opportunity to take me there. We went to Broadway, the MOMA, shopped on Delancey Street, and always had lunches at the restaurant of the moment. In the city, I always felt sophisticated and grown up. My love for Manhattan was borne of those days spent with my mom exploring neighborhoods from Harlem to Battery Park.

When I was twelve, my dad died in an accident that, between life insurance and a hefty settlement, left my mother, a consummate entertainer, well off enough to buy the house of her dreams, a West Side brownstone close to the Museum of Natural History. She invested the rest so that she had enough income to pay the mortgage and send me to private school. While we weren’t rich, we were very comfortable. The house was always way too big for her, even when I lived there, but it’s her home and she steadfastly refuses to sell it. I have not been able to convince her to do so despite all my well thought out arguments. She told me she wants me to have it when she dies, and I told her never ever to say that again. Losing my dad so early has left me very attached to my mom. I don’t even want to imagine life without her.

Her willingness to leave the city she loves so dearly was predicated by my agreement to stay there and watch Sadie, her old, beloved yellow lab. So I gather Diablo, who I know will torment poor Sadie, he’s still a puppy and so full of energy while Sadie just wants to curl up at my feet and doze, pack a suitcase and grab a cab, arriving in time to see mom off.

“Oh,” she says, looking slightly perplexed, “you brought Diablo. I hope he won’t disturb Sadie too much.”

Yes, mom, I think but don’t say, it’s not as though I’m going to abandon my dog to watch yours. Sigh.

“Don’t worry, mom, I’ll keep my little devil under control and take him with me to the office so he won’t have to be alone with Sadie.”

This seems to appease her and she begins checking items off her list, my mother and Dar are cut from the same organizational cloth: lists, lists, lists. Much to their great consternation, I have always been scattered, yet efficient; in a way that drives them both half mad.

Once she’s safely ensconced in the back of the limo, I take my time strolling through the house, remembering the parties, the dinners, the holidays and the quiet times with just me and mom. My room is still as it was when left for college. Though I went to NYU, and despite mom’s objections, I insisted on my independence and shared a miniscule studio with Maggie. That’s how we met, through an ad I placed at school, looking for a roommate and I have been graced with Maggie’s presence in my life ever since.

I love this house and all its memories. I lay down on my old bed, staring at the cloud mural painted on the ceiling, and think about how different my life is from the way I had imagined it as a girl. I had the fantasies of a big white wedding, monogamy, kids, the house like Maggie’s, all of that and here I am living an urban existence, and praying that Dar will one day change his mind about children. The wedding I’m willing to forgo. So much has changed for me since Dar.

In this bed, my dark fantasies developed and took root, though I never expected them to become reality and now, sometimes my reality is darker than anything I could have dreamed up in my adolescent head. I wonder if I’m crazy to choose Dar over someone like Chase, someone who would always treat me like a princess. But that’s just it. I need the contrast, I thrive on it; without it, like every other relationship I’ve ever had, it all seems so flat. I am passionate, I love extremes, Dar satisfies me in ways no one else can. I need his passion, the fire that burns in his soul, smoldering at me through his dark, smoky eyes.

The sing-song chime of the doorbell startles me out of my musings. Diablo leaps off the bed and scurries down the stairs like a small white tornado as Sadie slowly rouses herself and follows me. New Yorker that I am, I peek through the glass side panel as I ask who’s there. Dar answers and shifts so that I can see him through the glass.

I bend to pick up Diablo so he doesn’t fly out the door, feeling my lips stretching into a broad smile that plumps and blushes my cheeks, and let Dar in.

My smile fades as soon as I see the harshness in his face. It’s replaced by a vague sense of dread. I have no idea what has come over him, what has caused the dark to take over, but I recognize it immediately.

“Lock the dogs up, Tess,” he says, by way of greeting.

His tone is so stark and severe, lacking even a trace of warmth, I comply promptly. Placing Sadie in the room my mom has set aside from her, I decide to keep Diablo separate and put him in large bathroom on the ground floor. He looks at me with big wide abandoned puppy eyes and I lift him and give him a final snuggle and kiss, as much to comfort myself as him, before closing the door.

Dar hasn’t moved, he stands back pressed against the old wooden door and waits for me to come to him. I almost have to force myself to move toward him and I find myself stopping short of him, my wariness prevents me getting too close.

“Do you know why I’m here, bitch?” Do you know what has been in my head since I heard you were here?”

I look up at him, the distance even greater than usual with me barefoot, and shake my head. I feel small, so small, nearly insignificant, and I can’t distinguish whether I am merely anxious or truly afraid. There’s something nearly malevolent in his manner.

“It’s the thought of raping you here, in your mother’s house, on her fine furniture, in the bed where you used to sleep and dream of being ravaged. I couldn’t get it out of my head, and since I have work to do, the best way for me to regain my focus is to hear you beg, see tears stream down your face, and to bury my cock inside every one of your orifices despite how much you may struggle to get away. And you’ll struggle, of that I have no doubt.”

I open my mouth to speak, but there really are no words and less time before his hand is at my throat, not squeezing but holding me still for a long, long moment before propelling me into the wall at the base of the stairs. He fixes his stare on mine, dusky lips curving into a smile that exposes artic white teeth, before slapping my face hard and letting the back of his hand catch my other cheek. My anger outweighs my fear and I shout at him, “No, no, not here, Dar, please not here.”

“What’s your safe word?” is his response.

“Brimstone,” I whisper, bestowing my tacit consent with that one word.

“Louder,” he says requiring my consent to be that much more explicit.

“It’s brimstone, Dar. I’ve never used it, I doubt I will now,” I say with much more conviction than I feel given the look in his eyes. All his attention is focused on me. It’s that combination of alertness that you see in the eyes of predators, as if nothing I say can possibly break through the bloodlust that rages in his veins, and a glint of malicious playfulness, knowing how he’ll enjoy my resistance, as much as my fear and pain, that worries me.

He smiles in reply and his large hands reach for the neck of my sweater, though it is summer, it has been unseasonably cool and mom’s house always seems to retain that dampness common in old homes, and tears it away from my body. As he reaches into his pocket, the sleeve of his suit jacket lifts enough to reveal the fine steel Breitling watch I bought him recently for no occasion except that it reminded me of him, hard steel encasing a complex, delicate movement, precise and unerring. I realize I am distracting myself, knowing full well what will be in his hand when it becomes free of the confines of the fine Italian wool of his suit – steel of another sort entirely.

He slides the blade under the strap of my bra, rotates it, gradually increasing the pressure on my skin. I’m forced to close my eyes for a moment to gather myself, and when I open them again his eyes are still on mine, feasting on my anxiety. He slowly lifts the handle of the knife so that the honed edge of the blade slices through the thin strap and methodically repeats the same process with the other and then through the center of the cups, between my breasts. He bends to pull my nipple roughly into his mouth, sucking firmly at the hardened nub making it even harder. My cunt throbs despite myself. My eyes close again when I feel the cold tip of the knife against my nipple. My whimper breaks the silence and Diablo starts whining at the sound of my distress. Dar lets out a harsh ‘hush’ and silence returns once again.

Without warning he folds the knife and grabs my hair. The roots of the tresses he holds pulsate and throb in protest. Pushing me in front of him, he guides me to the dining room and presses my face into the smooth polished mahogany of my mother’s elegant dining table. I’m wearing a wrap skirt made up of a patchwork of brilliant jewel toned silk sari fabrics, a treasured find at a Soho boutique, and I start to protest when I feel his fingers gaining purchase on the thin fabric, knowing he intends to rip that off me as well. It’s odd the things I worry about, not the marks and bruises that will be left on my tender flesh, but my treasured skirt or what the odds are of finding an earring that I find gone from my earlobe after he abuses me.

The sound of the fabric ripping brings a tear to my eye. I try to hold it back but feel it gather weight until it falls down my cheek leaving a trail of silver shimmering in its wake. My skirt drops to my ankles, as I use my free hand to wipe my face, hoping he hasn’t noticed, and Dar quickly pushes my panties to my knees.

“Stay like that,” he says, backing away a bit, “I want to enjoy looking at you like this. Exposed, your clothes in tatters, I can see you trembling with rage and fear and lust. It is a combination of all that isn’t it, bitch?”

When I say nothing, he repeats himself not louder yet somehow more forcefully, “Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say, “it is.”

Then the knife is back, slowing tracing the curves of my body, from my neck to my ankles, to the toes of my barefoot feet. Not hard enough to draw blood but enough to leave bright pink trails along the landscape of my body.

“I am so hard for you, bitch. I’ve thought of nothing but this for hours. You’ve distracted me and I think you need to pay for that,’ he says softly.

To be continued

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~ by tesstorn on June 14, 2007.