Abuse: The Complete Trilogy

by Nikki Sex

  Renata’s natural serenity gives me a sense of security. I feel as though I could tell her anything and she’d take it in her stride.

  I swallow nervously and take a deep breath. She calmly waits while my pulse slows

  “So, the thing is,” I explain. “I was feeling incredibly guilty. I’ve learned guilt is the status quo for victims of abuse. Abused people and particularly abused children, blame themselves for their abuse. In their hearts, they feel they deserve it. They know it’s their fault.”

  “Oh yes,” she nods her agreement, biting into her cone. “That’s so very true.”

  My own ice cream cone’s beginning to drip in this heat. I take a moment to lick it a few times so I don’t get sticky fingers. It’s hopeless. I have to eat it all before it melts all over me. Our conversation waits while we both finish our treats.

  With my cone gone, I sigh and begin again. “When I was working with André, I felt ashamed and I just couldn’t seem to get over it. I guess my whole, ‘I’m a bad person’ or ‘I’m a monster’ attitude really bugged him. I think that would eventually annoy even a saint, right? So, André suddenly jumps up and starts pacing back and forth while swearing in French.”

  “No! Really?”

  Grinning, I give her a long, slow nod. “No joke.”

  “I love it!” She gasps with a giggle.

  Renata’s eyes are bright and happy with excitement. I love to watch her; she’s so animated and alive. André’s unprofessional behavior tickles the hell out of her, just like it tickles me.

  Who’d have thought I could find it in me to laugh when talking about this subject?

  “Then what happened?” she asks.

  “He really lost it after that. I’ll never forget it. He actually yelled at me. He said, “If you must be ashamed, find something to be justifiably ashamed of! But do not feel shame for this!”

  When I quote him, I sit up straight and do a pretty good imitation of his mannerisms and French accent.

  I don’t know if it’s my fake accent or the story, but for whatever reason, Renata bursts out in whoops of uninhibited giggles. She’s really laughing now.

  She finally stops snickering long enough to choke out, “But he’s always so perfect!”

  “No,” I say. “He just likes to think he is.”

  We both crack up even more over that. Our shoulders shake and we bend over holding our stomachs. André’s unique personal antics are an “in” joke. Only people he’s worked with would fully understand.

  I take her hand again but she puts my hand on her shoulder, wrapping her arm around my waist once more. This time, her closeness feels natural and we’re able to walk comfortably together. There’s a bond between us now, a tug of companionable affection.

  I’m wildly attracted to her, but it no longer feels so awkward. This persistent and intense sexual pull I feel toward Renata’s nothing new. I'm getting used to it and can now accept it. It’s not so very wrong after all.

  Honestly? I’m beginning to realize what I feared, was her perfection. I was afraid of hurting her, or somehow tainting her with my screwed up crap. Now I know she’s already damaged. Just like me, she’s lived through a ton of shit herself.

  Renata can deal with the evil, ugly parts of my life. She can understand them better than anyone can. Why? Because she’s been there.

  This amazing and seemingly perfect woman has her own painful scars. I should've known better than to judge a book by its cover.

  I wrongly assumed that because Renata appeared to be perfect, she was innocent and pure. How ridiculous. After all, before my injury, I looked good on the outside—even though I was a complete mess on the inside. Still, I’d never have guessed Renata grew up living on the streets.

  In my mind, I was the monster with power to corrupt and poison. Renata was a princess, pure and perfect, who was at risk of being harmed by me. Now, I see that for all her outer beauty, there are monsters inside of her, too.

  “I’d like to hear your story sometime, Renata, when you’re ready to tell me,” I say.

  The look she slants up at me is sexy and playful. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours, big guy,” she says in a seductive, mischievous tone, as she bats her eyelashes teasingly.

  “Deal,” I agree with a smile. I love this naughty, flirty side of her.

  God, I want her.

  Renata stops walking and turns towards me. “I’d like to seal our agreement with a kiss,” she murmurs.

  I stop smiling and sober instantly, as I stare into her crystal blue eyes. They’re filled with an intoxicating mixture of affection and lust.

  Monster! Pervert! My internal voice snarls.

  I never kiss on the lips.

  I’ve maintained this lifelong courtesy, because I don’t want to contaminate anyone. I know where my mouth has been.

  Still, I’m frozen in place. I hold perfectly still as Renata moves closer. I feel a stir of wonder as I look into her compelling blue eyes. They’re dark with passion.

  My God, I long to hold her. I've never wanted anyone or anything more than I want her.

  We’re both less than perfect; we’re both tainted by our past. I can’t ruin Renata—she’s a survivor who’s suffered and experienced ruin already. Her heart’s been broken and her mind has known madness. Just like me, somewhere in her childhood, evil has touched her and darkened her soul.

  What could I do to her that hasn’t already been done?

  I never kiss… and yet, I desperately long to kiss her.

  I try to relax the coiling tension in my body, but I can’t. I’m too tense, too uptight. Renata trails her fingers gently down my scarred cheek. I’m surprised by letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I’ll never get over the sensation of her caressing my damaged face. It feels so good.

  Once more I’m captivated, captured by her touch. She’s tall, maybe only an inch shorter than I am. She moves even closer, wrapping her arms around my neck, drawing me nearer. My hands move to grip her shoulders as her breasts meet my chest. Her hips and stomach push deliciously against my erection.

  I’m so incredibly aroused.

  With effort, I manage to subdue my impulse to groan with pleasure. But then her lips gently press against mine and I can’t help the sound that leaves my throat—something between a hum and a moan.

  Her skin is so soft and warm. Her scent thrills me.

  And her kiss is incredible.

  I shut my eyes with the unbelievable sensation of Renata kissing me. For one breathless moment, everything stops.

  I let myself sink into that sweet, gentle press of her mouth, that powerful symbol of love and acceptance. Renata makes the kiss brief, just a gentle press of lips, before pulling back to study me.

  Her eyes have darkened with arousal, yet her expression is concerned. From our time together yesterday, Renata knows I don’t kiss on the mouth. She’s making sure I’m OK with this. I feel so safe with her. I’m sure she’ll push me, but I’m confident she won’t push me too far.

  How did she get this way? How did she become so sensitive and loving with such a lousy upbringing?

  A thought strikes me abruptly. If she’s OK—then, maybe I can be OK, too. My heart fills with hope. With Renata’s help, I can change. I can get better. I can be better. She’s the perfect example of how not to let a shitty childhood ruin your life.

  My heart is so full—my barriers are down. I can't hold back and I don't want to. She sees me and accepts me for who I am.

  “I’ve never known what this is like,” I whisper in an awed sort of wonder. “I’ve never felt this close before.”

  Renata’s brows knit. “What? With a woman you mean?”

  “With anyone.”

  She tilts her head in a questioning manner. I can see she doesn’t understand me. She waits quietly, patiently trusting I’ll explain.

  Renata’s possessed my mind, my body and even my tarnished soul. She moves me deeply. Profoundly. She's found something good and rig
ht inside of me.

  The goodness inside of me is something I've always kept hidden and safe from everyone—even from myself. I don't think I ever realized it existed… until today. I have Renata to thank for that.

  What a gift.

  What a rush.

  What a woman.

  We stand face to face, so very close. “I’ve never known such an incredible feeling,” I whisper to her. “I’ve never experienced such happiness.”

  This can only be love.

  “It was just a little kiss,” she says in a teasing voice.

  She meets my gaze as I give her an amused smile in acknowledgment of her humor. She’s opened my eyes—and my heart. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. I want to give her the world. I want her to be happy. I want her life to be everything she wants it to be—everything she deserves.

  Yesterday, I’d thought maybe Renata had somehow lightened my darkness with her own perfection—but that wasn’t it. Now, I’m aware of goodness inside of me. André was the one who first touched upon it. Renata’s managed to bring it out, exposing it further and setting it free.

  André and Renata see past my scars and hang-ups. They see me as I am.

  Through their eyes, I can too.

  The problem actually isn’t the evil that's happened in my life—it’s keeping silent about evil, being afraid or ashamed to speak of it—hiding it away and burying it deep inside.

  Evil deeds and lies—kept hidden—ruin lives. Secrets give evil the power to grow.

  In the same way malignant cells need be cut out or they will multiply and destroy a healthy body; I’ve come to realize a person needs to be free of toxic secrets. Hidden, buried and unseen, secrets are a weighty burden. Every day they grow darker and heavier, disastrously poisoning a healthy mind.

  My father told me not to tell anyone of the games we played. I kept silent, but not just because he told me to. I realize now I hid the truth for reasons of my own.

  For me, concealing such wickedness was an act of love. It’s something a good person would do. I buried everything, hoping to keep such terrible knowledge away from others.

  Why?

  Because I didn’t want anyone else to suffer from the ugly truths I knew. Those truths damn near destroyed me. I didn't want to risk the destruction of others. Nobody deserves that.

  My actions were automatic and instinctive. Unfortunately, when I became tainted by so much hidden inner darkness, I think I became confused. Now I realize what's been going on.

  From my earliest memories, I thought I was evil. I thought I was a monster.

  Reaching out to Andre was the first step towards regaining control over my life. Sharing stories of my abuse empowered me further. Being with Renata and pushing my limits is leading me toward further self-awareness. Each life-affirming step shines light on the darkness that has been controlling me.

  As a child, I learned what I was taught by my abuser—that love was selfish and twisted. Love was nothing but an act, a perverse pretense that couldn’t be trusted.

  Those were the wrong lessons.

  What my father had for me wasn’t love at all, it was a sick imitation. Real love is good. It feels right. It’s healing and it’s empowering. True love is when you know who you are. It allows you to find your own heart and soul.

  It’s that moment when you recognize and accept the beautiful perfection of your own imperfections and you want to weep from the joy of it.

  I’m NOT a monster. I’m NOT a pervert.

  Once I felt lost and lonely. I believed I was doomed to live a loveless life, alone and immersed in self-hatred. Now, I know better. I deserve happiness.

  “I love you,” I tell Renata fearlessly, even though I have no idea what I really mean by those three words.

  Is this joy I feel inside love? And if this feeling isn’t love, what is?

  It doesn’t even matter.

  Nothing matters right now, except this boundless joy—this goodness I’ve discovered buried within me. For once, I actually like who I am. I’m in harmony with myself.

  Light can vanquish darkness.

  Truth can set you free.

  For how can evil possibly compete with love?

  Chapter 13.

  “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”

  ― C.G. Jung

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  The world seems the same, at least on the surface. Nothing looks as if it’s changed, yet everything’s different now.

  I’ve never felt so carefree.

  “I love you, too,” Renata says to me.

  I hold perfectly quiet and still while I process her words. This is a love I’ve never known. When she says “I love you” she isn’t saying she wants to marry me. There are no conditions—no strings attached. This isn’t sex. It isn’t ownership. By saying she loves me, she doesn’t mean that from now on I need to act a certain way, or do certain things.

  Renata’s saying she knows who I am. She’s saying she cares for me. The real me. The person I truly am.

  Renata said she loves me.

  Impulsively, I grab Renata by the waist and raise her up. She shrieks and laughs as she gazes down at me. I’m laughing too. I swing her around high in the air, around and around, before finally putting her back down.

  I’m buzzed and lighthearted. Both grinning, both happy, we look at each other with wonder in our eyes. The sun is shining. It’s a beautiful day. All shadows have been banished. There’s not a cloud in our hearts, or in the sky.

  This wonderful woman makes me feel so glad to be alive.

  All people require food, water and sleep for their body—but for the mind, the heart and soul? Everyone needs to be loved.

  When I bring Renata back to her apartment, she’ll probably offer to make love, this time on her bed with her cat, Mitten, watching us. As much as I ache to take her into my arms, I know it’s too soon for me. That’s sixth-floor level when I’m barely in the front door. Small steps forward… hopefully very few steps back.

  Today, I’ve come so far.

  I long to bury myself inside of her again, but I know I’d be uncomfortable afterwards. I always feel ashamed, guilty and awkward after sex and I don’t want to risk losing this rare, upbeat mood I’m in. I want to enjoy feeling loved. My cock is long, hard and ready, but you know what? I don’t care.

  This isn’t about sex.

  Right now, I’m happy. Really, truly happy.

  It’s so incredibly rare. I want to savor that feeling. I just want to stand here and soak it in.

  Chapter 14.

  “There is some self-interest behind every friendship. There is no friendship without self-interests. This is a bitter truth.”

  — Chanakya

  ~~~

  Stan Huber

  The District Attorney was a big man, tall with short, dark brown hair and bushy eyebrows. He sat behind a big wooden desk with a computer on it. The DA’s Office had one big window that faced the staff parking area, a couple of filing cabinets and an oil painting of cowboys watching another cowboy ride a bucking bronco.

  “Did any admission of homicidal intent occur previously?” the DA asked.

  “No. Never. You have to understand,” Stan Huber said. “The guy was drunk. Really wasted. I didn’t think anything of it. He was just venting, you know?”

  The District Attorney, the Assistant District Attorney, Stan Huber, his father and his attorney, were meeting in the DA’s office. Stan was speaking earnestly with an honest expression in his round face and appeasing helpfulness in his green eyes.

  Chester Wilkinson’s exhumed body had tested positive for an over-the-counter drug called scopolamine.

  Scopolamine, used for motion sickness, had an unfortunate side effect of making an individual highly suggestible. Conceivably, Mr. Wilkinson’s murderer may have simply suggested he walk onto the balcony and lean over, where he could’ve easily been pushed off.

 
“What did this man say?” the DA asked.

  “He told me everyone loved the guy, but his dad was a real bastard,” Stan said. “He said he hated him and often dreamed of killing him. He knew exactly how he’d do it and get away with it. Then, he went into detail about scopolamine. He said he got the idea from a TV show. It may have been on CSI or something.”

  “This was at your home?” the DA asked.

  “No. It was at the Country Club.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “No.”

  “Who told you this?”

  Stan glanced up at his Attorney, who pushed his steel-rimmed glasses back on his nose and nodded. “I get full immunity?” he asked.

  “Yes.” His lawyer said. “All you have to do is testify at the trial.”

  “Counseling, Narcotics Anonymous and probation for three years, right?” Stan said, confirming the pre-negotiated agreement.

  “That’s right.”

  Stan took a deep breath. “OK, then.” He looked at all three men, who looked back at him expectantly. “The man who killed Chester Wilkinson was his son, Grant Wilkinson.”

  Chapter 15.

  “No memory is ever alone; it's at the end of a trail of memories, a dozen trails that each have their own associations.”

  — Louis L'Amour

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  My cell phone vibrates in my pocket and I frown. I’ve had it on silent because I’m on vacation and want a break.

  No one ever calls me unless there’s trouble at the shooting range. But I have good staff, so I doubt they’d call anyway.

  I put Renata down, put my hand in my front pocket and pull out my cell. There are a ridiculous number of missed calls and messages from my mother and my sister. They only phone when they want something—but they know I’m away. So why call?

  My brother's name shows up on caller ID. Some kids are playing softball nearby, clapping and calling out loudly.