by Aya DeAniege
“No,” Mr. Wrightworth said with a shake of his head.
“No, Darling, you didn’t break the contract,” Nicole said, patting my left hand. “Do you remember what happened?”
Perhaps out of stubbornness, I shook my head. Looking back at that time and trying to piece together when exactly I knew for certain is difficult. I denied it so long, and for good reason. Over the next few days the pair of them would gently nudge me in the right direction and ask questions. It took years for me to recover enough to have some sort of coherent understanding. I still don’t remember most of it, but that’s for the best.
Pictures, which had been taken while I was out and the damage was still fresh, were taken again four days later to show the progression of healing.
Throughout the entire process, either Mr. Wrightworth or Nicole was there. I wasn’t left alone for seven days. Not even to go to the bathroom. Nicole was a cheerleader about the whole thing, Mr. Wrightworth stoically silent. He didn’t appear to enjoy my pain any more than I did.
At some point it came back to me in fragments. At least for a little while. When I couldn’t handle it any more the memories just seemed to disappear.
I knew the gist of it from the fragments and what the doctors said, from the damage to my own body.
My nails had been ripped out, several of my fingers broken. I had been beaten to the point that a rib had been cracked. Burned, cut, stabbed at leisure.
And of course raped.
All in a bid to get me to give Nathaniel up. It wasn’t even loyalty that kept me from telling his father all about our playing. At some point he had offered me an out, told me that once he knew what he wanted to know, I would be free.
Not free to go, just free.
I didn’t want to die. Suppose it’s a bit ironic, I had gone into the Program looking to die but when presented with that very option, I refused.
There isn’t a doubt in my mind that the moment I told him what he wanted to hear, my fate would be sealed. I didn’t believe he would keep his word and that I would be immediately free. To believe that would simply be insanity.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Wrightworth said, drawing my attention to him.
His face had that mask, the same one Nathaniel had had moments before his father came into the room. The only part of Mr. Wrightworth that seemed to be alive were his eyes and they were unreadable. To me—at the time—he was hiding something. Afterward, a long time after, I would learn that the mask hid his reaction to my confusion and pain. His eyes were a mingling of pity, sadness, and growing rage.
When Mr. Wrightworth was not with me, he was watching the tapes. It was his duty as head of the Program to review the evidence before it was presented to court. Some arbitrary law that stated as head of the Program he had to know the worst to happen to those who fulfilled contracts under him.
Don’t pity him for that, he quite enjoyed most of it.
“There will be time later to come to terms with what happened,” he said, patting my hand gently.
“Where’s Nathaniel?” I asked.
They were both silent. Nicole shifted awkwardly on the edge of the bed as Mr. Wrightworth tried not to make eye contact with me.
“Why isn’t he here?” I asked.
“Nathaniel is...”
A million things ran through my head. I didn’t fully understand why he had given me up, but the person I was then was unable to look past my own flaws. As far as I could tell, Nathaniel had been given a choice between his money and me. Of course he had chosen the money.
Rich people always chose the money.
How could I expect a man who I had only known a few weeks to choose me over a lifetime of money? No one would choose me over money. My own family had chosen money over my very life!
Who could ever love me?
“Busy,” Nicole said, filling in for the suddenly flustered Mr. Wrightworth. “Nathaniel is busy.”
She glowered at Mr. Wrightworth across me, causing the sadist to stiffen ever so slightly and turn his hazel eyes to her. There was a furious anger to both of them, as if they thought they could carry on an argument in silence. I thought they might come to blows, they were silent so long.
“Why don’t you give her the item?” she added finally.
Mr. Wrightworth sighed out through his nose. It was a sound that would later make me run from the man. His final nerve was pushed, he would not take any more hints or ‘suggestions.’ Yet still he reached to the side and picked up a book, which he showed to me, then set back down again.
“Your journal, from Nathaniel’s, and a pen,” Mr. Wrightworth said to me. “I or Nicole will watch you write your entries, but we won’t read them.”
I frowned at him, then looked at Nicole.
“There’s some concern about previous behaviour, mixed with your outbursts when we woke you earlier,” Nicole said quietly.
“What outbursts?” I asked.
“Again, there will be plenty of time later to discuss,” Mr. Wrightworth said sternly. “Right now, you need to focus on getting better and getting real sleep, not medically induced. I don’t care what they say, medicine cannot provide a better sleep than that which nature provides.”
“I am tired,” I murmured.
Nicole cleared her throat and looked away. I glanced at her, then turned my attention to Mr. Wrightworth as the man shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.
“We do need you to get up and go to the bathroom first,” Mr. Wrightworth said without meeting my eyes.
“No scat,” I said, and almost laughed.
They both stared at me. Then they both frowned at the same time.
“You do it,” Mr. Wrightworth said, then stood and left the little curtained area.
Nicole took in a long, slow breath, then offered me a hand. She helped me walk the short distance to the bathroom. In the relative privacy of the toilet, Nicole leaned against the bathroom door and eyed me as I dropped onto the toilet and groaned.
Things hurt that I hadn’t expected to hurt.
“Besides toilets and Mr. Wrightworth’s rooms, the whole of the Program building is under video surveillance,” Nicole said quickly and quietly. “The community cannot be mentioned, we cannot know each other besides when I drew your blood.”
“Oh,” I said. “I do have to go.”
Nicole sucked in another breath. I sighed and looked away.
“It’s good that you aren’t completely ... broken...” Nicole said.
“Fuck you,” I said.
“Although it’s probably just because the one who broke you was male,” Nicole muttered, pushing off the door suddenly.
The nurse was gone, suddenly there was a domme in a nurse’s outfit, glowering at me as I stared up at her with impudence. I get the whole nurse fantasy some men have, nurses are hot, even in regular scrubs. The Program enforced the whole perfectly fitting uniform of a dark brown-grey.
I didn’t think she’d hit me, I was so bold as to believe that a woman wasn’t capable of causing me pain. Her hands dropped to her sides, the right one curled just slightly and seemed to twitch, as if there were a crop in it.
“You are going to relieve yourself and you aren’t going to cause me problems,” she said.
“Then let me have privacy,” I said, motioning to the door.
“The concern of previous actions being repeated is very real,” Nicole said.
“With what?” I asked, motioning around the tiled bathroom. “The mirror isn’t even made of glass. The... there’s no toilet seat to pull up, this is a piece of... it’s not even a proper toilet! Everything is made of plastic.”
“You used to be a labourer,” Nicole said.
“And?”
“Is tile sharp?” Nicole asked in a tone.
It was the tone of voice a person uses when they believe you think they are stupid. It also, somehow, implies that you’re actually the stupid one, even if you were completely innocent in the first place.
“Yes.”
&n
bsp; “Go to the bathroom,” she snarled.
“Could you at least turnaround?” I asked.
“No.”
“Please?”
With an eye roll and a shake of her head, Nicole turned around. She faced the door while I did what was necessary.
The reason they insisted was to make certain everything worked. I’m not going to get into the details of the damages in that part of my body, but only say that they were concerned and had good cause to be concerned. I glean over the whole thing of my being in the hospital, but really that would be a lie. My coming to terms with what was done to me, and my recovery over that time played a huge role later on.
Recovery after abuse is not simply bed rest and then you’re magically better. It takes a really long time and there are moments where you’re alone and...
Everything just falls apart on you.
I was lucky, I had Nicole and Mr. Wrightworth there at every turn. They devoted weeks of their lives to getting me through the physical stuff. They picked me up when I fell, they wiped the tears away when I cried, they helped change the bandages, and when I wouldn’t go to the bathroom because it hurt too much, they were there to help me then too.
Healing hurts. And you don’t really have any other option. It just does. Pain is a part of getting better and getting stronger. The only choice you really have is whether it’s going to win, or if you’re going to persevere.
That day?
That day the pain won.
Chapter Two
Three weeks after my arrival, I was released from medical and into the general population. I was given a room which was large enough for a bed and a desk, with a small bathroom about the size of a closet but it was private. All the fixtures were new.
The bed’s frame was made of that fake oak stuff, its blankets and pillows a lavender colour. I might not have been allowed purple in Nathaniel’s home, but the Program didn’t know, or care about purple being claimed.
Inside the bathroom was a small stall shower, just big enough for one person, a toilet that was almost built into the wall, and small sink. There was one door into the bathroom.
My room had cheery blue walls and a thick grey carpet that all but silenced footsteps. Under the bed were two drawers filled with clothing in my size, which had been provided before I arrived. The bed itself had several blankets on it, with an extra one over the foot of the bed.
It was as small as my bed back home, in the slums.
I almost started crying at the thought of sleeping in such a small bed. It wasn’t that I was spoiled, but that it reminded me of what had happened.
Did I mention private?
Most of the Program building still had public washrooms. I had been given a private one because I was what was referred to as ‘recovered.’
What that meant was that I had been in a contract, but had been pulled out due to a breach of that contract. Whenever there was a breach, the one who was wronged was treated like they were the most fragile thing in the world. The Program even had some sort of insurance which would pay for a second contract of the same amount to the contractor if the poor person was the one who caused the breach.
It was also the first time I had been alone in three weeks. I wasn’t completely recovered, but they had needed the bed I was taking up. Mr. Wrightworth had even gotten into an argument with a doctor who had suggested I be taken to a slum hospital if I needed medical attention so badly.
The doctor was right. I didn’t need medical care any longer. Bones and fingernails take weeks to heal. A majority of the flesh damage was healed, though it would be months still before I was back to to my old self, physically.
After looking around and peering out the one window, out over the slum that the Program building stood over, I sat on the bed and stared at the wall just over the desk. There was a glossy black circle, like the one that had been behind the desk of the other Program building I had gone to for intake. Another camera, watching my every move. I stared at the camera for a very long time before I stood stiffly and walked to the bathroom.
There, I closed the door, sat on the closed toilet lid, bent over and started sobbing. I wept about what was done to me, about Nathaniel abandoning me. In the end, I cried about being useless yet again. They hadn’t even told me what to do with myself, just shown me to the room.
Eventually, the tears stopped coming.
When they did, I went about the process of giving myself a sponge bath. My fingers were still throbbing, though most of it was a phantom pain, but I didn’t want to step into the small cubicle shower. The idea of being locked into such a small space was no kind of comfort.
After my sponge bath, I shuffled to the bed naked, no longer caring if someone watching me saw me naked. I climbed under the blankets, dragged them over my head and slept.
A great deal of the Program building was automated. There wasn’t just a bed and a desk. There was also a screen built into the wall. The curtains were automated and opened upon an alarm that was set by the controllers of the building. No one ever worried about not setting their alarms, because they had no control over the action.
My curtains opened at seven in the morning and sunlight spilled in. That damned room faced east, I’m pretty certain I was put in that side of the building on purpose. It’s nearly impossible for me to sleep when there is direct sunlight on my face.
The television turned on and trilled several times. A news broadcast started, telling me all about recent events. Nothing was said about me or Nathaniel, let alone his father. It was all about rich people getting married and I just didn’t care.
I rolled over and dragged the pillow over my head until the broadcast ended. Then I had to get up and drag the curtain closed, before going back to bed, not even caring that I probably flashed someone outside the window.
I slept through the day, getting up several more times when the curtain opened and the television turned on with news broadcasts.
No one brought me food and I didn’t bother trying to go out looking for it. I stayed in bed the entire day and then the next day as well. The next day the broadcast was louder, the curtains wouldn’t close, and the lights stayed on despite my flicking the switch by the door. In the end, I climbed back under the blankets and dragged them over my head, resolute to ignore everything.
When my door opened sometime in the afternoon, I sat up. Mr. Wrightworth stepped in without knocking. He stopped just inside the door and glowered at me with his hands in his pockets.
“This is not a romance novel from just before the collapse,” he said sternly, approaching the bed as I struggled to get my body to work. “You don’t get to pine and act like your world is ending because a man isn’t here to save you. He’s not coming, no matter how much you fester in bed.”
He came to a stop at the head of the bed as I cringed away and hid in the corner. I turned away from him, afraid he would strike me in his anger.
Don’t poke the sadists. That’s good advice in and out of the community.
When the strike I expected didn’t come, I peered out from under my arm.
He was frowning at me. It was a puzzling sort of look like he knew what he was seeing but couldn’t quite make the connection. I probably had the same look on my face, not understanding why he hadn’t struck me. He was obviously angry with me.
Mr. Wrightworth stiffened and pulled away ever so slightly. “This isn’t about him.”
The man swore and crouched, opening one of the drawers, then the other. He pulled out some clothing and almost threw them at me. I saw the twitch of his hand, then the way he seemed to pull away. In the end Mr. Wrightworth placed the clothing very carefully on the edge of the bed. He even smoothed out the wrinkle from where he had gripped it tight when he had been about to toss the item at my head.
“Dress. Now.”
“I don’t want to,” I said, though I have no idea where the courage to say no came from.
“That is a command, Darling. Dress.”
He m
oved back to the door, then stopped and walked into the bathroom. A moment later he came back out.
“Better plan. Shower, then dress, now. If I need to shower with you to make certain you wash, I will be very unhappy.”
Mr. Wrightworth barely finished speaking, I bolted past him so fast. There wasn’t enough space in the shower for two people to stand separately in the stall. I certainly didn’t want to be crammed into the stall with an angry sadist.
I showered, whimpering the pain that every motion of washing brought out in my body. My fingers ran through my hair, not understanding what had happened to it. Yes, I had been around plenty of mirrors, but I had avoided looking at myself in the mirror.
By the time I was washed, the dead feeling inside had turned to an anger.
I marched back out of the bathroom, ripping the clothing out of Mr. Wrightworth’s hands as I went. I pulled on the black underwear and threw the bra at his head before I dragged the dress over my head. The dress was a dark grey colour, form-fitting but not too tight. It covered from shoulder to knee, and had no sleeves.
“Now take it off,” Mr. Wrightworth said, then threw the bra back at me. “And put on the entire outfit. I don’t give a damn if you were gifted with a pair of perky breasts that any woman would kill for, you wear a bra while in this building.”
“No one would kill for these things,” I snapped back, stripping the dress off.
I put on the bra and then pulled the dress back on over top. Suddenly it fit differently. Suddenly my breasts weren’t just there, they were right there and I swore I could use them to set a cup of water on without spilling any of it as I walked. Even when I had worn something, it had been a binding to keep my breasts as close and tight as I could, to get them out of the way. This felt weird and different in a weird and different way.
“Your orientation was supposed to start yesterday morning, but when you didn’t get up, they cancelled it and contacted me this morning when you ignored yet another wake up call. Good job getting your camera shut off, by the way. They don’t appreciate looking at that much of any woman unless they’re auditing.”
