by Cerys du Lys
I know what I must do. It is the only thing I can do. The only way Noah will be allowed to live is if he can no longer hurt me. He almost did, although I do not think he knows it. That is how it often is, though. We do not know that we are hurting the ones we love until it is too late and we have already hurt them. I wonder if it is possible for Noah to love me, or if he has ever loved me. Is love an impossible task? Does it exist? If it does, how will anyone ever know?
I do not know. It is not my place to know such things. I only know what I must do. It is not a good thing. Noah will hate me for it. I miss him. I wish to see him, even though it is wrong. He will hurt me again and again and again. That is what he does now.
He will. He has. I do not like it. I love him.
I am sorry, Noah. Please forgive me for what I must do. It is for the best.
*** Angeline
I return to my bedroom and prepare. This place does not fit with the rest of my home. I do not invite people into my bedroom, because it is a private room. I stay here sometimes and I hide and pretend that nothing else exists. I am transported somewhere else, as if in a dream, and I am living an entirely different life.
That is what I attempt to do, but it does not work. I own a beautiful vanity mirror and a cosmetics desk, with a soft, cushioned bench to sit on. I brush my hair and look into the mirror and pretend I am beautiful. I am not Angeline any longer, I am someone else who has never heard of Angeline. I do not keep a house full of nameless men trained to service my every need. Those men are someone else, living somewhere else. They are anywhere but here. They live happy and fulfilling lives without complications or worries.
I brush my hair and I look into the mirror and I force myself to smile. I am not happy, but if I watch myself long enough, I can pretend that I am. Perhaps I am a princess in a foreign country and I am brushing my hair in preparation for a summer ball. I may have a lovely gown in my closet which I shall wear. I keep cosmetics and jewelry in ornate boxes on a bureau, as well. I may try them on and act as if this is normal and regular.
I may dream I am going on a date. I do not know what a date is. I have never been on a date. I have read about dates, though. I think Noah and I went on a date, but he did not know it. That was my first date. Is that special? Did he think it was? I did not wear anything special to it, nor did I prepare like I should have. It may not have been a date, then. I cannot ask him about that now. He is going to hate me soon.
I am sorry, Noah. It is for the best.
My bed has frilly pink sheets and silly cartoon blankets. I know that is not what a grown woman should keep on her bed, but I do not know exactly what a grown woman should keep on her bed. I do not care. I am the only one who enters my bedroom, so it does not matter what I keep anywhere. I keep what I like, and I will kill anyone who dares say I should do otherwise.
I need to prepare. Not for a date, but I will be seeing Noah shortly. Oh, he will hate me. I understand why he will, but I need to do this anyway. I sit at my cosmetic desk and look into the mirror. I do not know if I look nice right now. I am uncertain what nice looks like. I look like myself. I do not dislike how I look.
There are two small jewelry boxes on my cosmetics desk. I take one of them and open it. I look inside. Sitting on a soft pillow are Noah’s fingernails. I have kept them. They are important to me. When I first acquired them, they were not in a good condition. That is fine. I have fixed them. I scrubbed them gently until they were clean, then I filed them down and made them look like small, shining scales. I painted them with lacquer and transparent polish in order to maintain them, as well. I do not want them to become brittle and broken. They are special to me.
There are six. I do not have the other four. I close the box and return it to its spot on my desk.
Carefully, I take the other box. I open that one and look inside and peer at its contents. There are ten fingernails in this box. They are smaller than Noah’s and I have kept them for much longer. I do not remember how long I have had them. A very long time. The person they belonged to is dead. That person was special to me, too.
These nails are perfect and small and painted. They look like the false nails that are sold in the beauty section of many stores, with colors and pictures painted on them. There is nothing extravagant about these nails, because I was not sure how to paint them. I used somber colors, like dark blues and purples, with a hint of brightness now and then. One of the thumbnails contains the image of a shooting star, with sparks flying off of it like fireworks. That one is my favorite.
Losing a thumbnail is the most painful, so I think thumbnails should have the prettiest pictures painted on them. Thumbnails should be more special than any other nail. I consider them a perfect gift.
There is a gem-laden bracelet in that box, too. It is custom-crafted to suit my exact specifications. I like it very much. It is a present. The bracelet has small indents circling it, which look like they are missing something. They are missing something, too. The painted fingernails slip into grooves near the indents, then latch down, held in place with a special hook mechanism. It is easy once you know how to do it. Sometimes I gently place the nails within the bracelet to see what it looks like. I twist and move the bracelet in my hands. The fingernails are small, but the bracelet is thick. It is for a larger hand than my own, too. It fits very loosely around my wrist. I cannot wear it or it will fall off.
I close this box, too, and return it to its place next to the other box. I like my boxes. I know they are odd, but I like them. This is my room and no one will enter here, so it does not matter if they are odd. I need to acquire another bracelet for Noah’s fingernails. I plan to get a smaller one that will fit me perfectly.
I must leave now. I will go attend to Noah. I am sorry for what I must do, Noah. Please, you must understand. It is for us. It is necessary.
*** Noah
I wake up and there’s light. I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember there being light before, either. Fuck. The room’s not black, that’s for damn sure. Everything’s as white as ever, except for the fucking lump of black hair and pale skin covered by a pink blanket in the corner. What the fuck is that frilly goddamn pillow under her head?
I stir and my shackles shake and clang together. Angeline stretches like a cat on the floor and turns to look at me. I don’t know what the fuck she’s doing or why she’s sleeping on the floor. I don’t know if I’m dreaming or not, either.
I’m starving. My stomach is fucking growling. I can’t stop it. I open my mouth to say something and I can’t even fucking talk because my throat is dry. Angeline smiles at me, but her eyes aren’t in it. She sloughs off her blankets like some butterfly emerging from a cocoon. She’s beautiful, but she’s also one of those poisonous butterflies. I don’t know how that shit works, but that’s what she is. Go ask someone who knows something about butterflies.
She’s not wearing pants again. This woman seriously needs to get some pants. You can’t just fucking walk around pantsless all the time. She’s wearing a man’s shirt. I’m pretty sure that’s my shirt, actually. What a fucking thief. She looks great in it. I want to fuck it off of her slim, sexy body. That’s how I got into this mess, though. Apparently fucking and falling in love or lust or whatever the fuck I did is not the answer to any of my problems.
“Hello, Noah,” Angeline says. “Are you thirsty?”
I nod, because anything I say will just sound like a harsh fucking rattle. My tongue is so dried up that it’s nonexistent. I can barely hear myself think over the sound of my rumbling stomach.
Angeline tiptoes over to a corner of the room on the balls of her feet like the cute fucking deadly nymph she is. I can’t keep my eyes of her gorgeous ass. Fuck, I want to grab it.
Yeah, I don’t know what’s wrong with me either. Lock me up in a room for a few days and apparently I become a sex freak for some bitch who takes sadistic pleasure in ripping out my fingernails. Who knew? I never would have expected it, myself.
She’
s hot, though. Fuck, her panties are clinging to her pussy, with a little wedge of cloth stuck between those delicious fucking lips. Fuck fuck fuck.
She opens some door in the wall near the floor, which is apparently a mini fridge. This place is well stocked, I guess. She takes out a bottle of orange juice, then moves to a freezer partition and grabs a tray of ice cubes, too.
She places the ice on a white table off to the side, then brings me the orange juice. After she unscrews the cap, she holds it to my lips. Her hand hovers beneath my chin, stopping the juice from falling onto her perfect white carpet. You have no fucking idea how careful I am not to spill that shit. Fuck, she’ll kill me.
The acid from the orange juice stings my throat, but it’s fucking delicious. She gives me everything, all of it. I drink slowly, quenching my thirst. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why she’s being careful and nice again. I don’t know why she’s not killing me. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. I’m just waiting to die.
“We are going to do something important today, Noah,” she says.
I can talk again. My throat is no longer made of sand. “What’s that, love?”
“You have been bad, Noah,” she says.
Fuck. I can’t help this shit. “Sorry. What the fuck was it? Mistress Angeline? That better?”
She gives me a funny, adorable fucking look. I can’t fucking deal with this. Angeline is too much. She is everything. I am gone. I’m seriously the fucking worst.
“I will blindfold you now,” she says.
“Sounds kinky, love,” I say. “Whatever you want.”
Yeah, that’s my good idea of the day. Use a shitty flirty line on the insane psychotic bitch who chained me to a wall. Good job, Noah.
She goes to the same place where she found the knife a long time ago, and gets one of those sleep masks that blocks out every trace of light. I’m about to be locked in darkness again. At least Angeline’s here. I can talk to someone. That’s more than I had before.
She places the sleep mask over my eyes and makes sure it stays tight. I’m now blindfolded.
“I am going to give you a mild sedative, Noah,” she says.
I can’t think of any way to make that sound kinky, so I just shut the fuck up. Less than a minute later, she pricks me with a needle. I wince, but take it, because, fuck, it’s just a needle.
“I am going to apply ice in order to numb you for surgery, Noah,” she says.
I’m not sure what the fuck to say to this. I should say something, though. Surgery? I can think of much better ways to play doctor with Angeline than this. Basically any other fucking way. Literally.
She rattles ice out of the ice tray. I don’t know what the fuck she does with it. I can’t fucking see, remember? Shit. She comes over to me. I’m about to find out where I’m being numbed for surgery. This sounds bad. Maybe she’s going to pull off the rest of my nails? I’m not sure how. We don’t have the table or the Dark Ages torture machine. This is bad.
Her nimble fingers unbutton and unzip my pants, then she lowers them to my ankles. My legs are not my nails. What the fuck is going on?
My testicles are not my legs, either. That’s exactly where she starts rubbing ice, though. Angeline is applying cold fucking ice to my balls. There are multiple ice cubes in her hands and I can feel my balls shrivel up and fucking die as she cups them in her hands with the ice.
“Ange,” I say, trying to remain calm. Fuck that. I’m not calm. Fuck you. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Surgery,” she says.
“What the fuck kind of surgery?”
“I will be castrating you, Noah,” she says.
I stand there, body aching from standing and being shackled to a wall for days in the dark. My balls are cold as fuck and growing more frozen every second.
“Is this about what happened before?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says.
“Ange, fuck, please, don’t do this.”
“It is necessary,” she says. “You will hurt me again if I do not do it.”
She leaves me. Fuck. She’s going to get a scalpel or some shit. How the fuck does this work? I don’t fucking know. I didn’t know how you ripped someone’s fingernails off before I met Angeline, either. She showed me that. Now she’s going to fucking show me this. Fuck.
She comes back. Thank fucking God it’s not with a scalpel, though. She brings more ice. My balls aren’t shriveled enough, apparently. I can’t fucking feel anything between my legs.
“Look,” I say. “I didn’t mean to. I won’t do it again.”
“You did not ask me if you could release your semen inside of me,” she says.
“Who the fuck asks that, Ange? That’s not something I ever tell someone. Listen, love, I get what you’re saying, but let’s calm the fuck down and talk about this, alright?”
“I may be pregnant,” she says.
Alright, so... I’d honestly never thought about that. Because, first off, what the fuck? Second, what the fuck? I don’t know what my third point is.
Yeah, it’s a real risk, and I get that. You know what I do? I make sure the bitch I kidnap is on birth control before the initial fuck, then I slip pills into her food while I’ve got her in my possession. If she fucking begs me not to fuck her because she might get pregnant, I make it seem like I don’t care and that’s a part of why I’m doing it. She’s not going to get pregnant, and I know this, but it’s easier to get them to listen to you if they think you’re doing some horrible shit to their bodies. Who the fuck wants to have a baby with some fucked up kidnapper asshole?
I don’t want to have kids, either. How fucked up would that be? It’s an unnecessary trail, anyways. DNA and shit. Some of the sick fucks I sell the girls to want to get them pregnant, but that’s on them, not me. I deal with that shit separately. I can only do so much.
Anyways, there’s no fucking reason Angeline shouldn’t be on birth control. What the fuck is she doing here? This confuses the fuck out of me.
“Love,” I say, “that doesn’t make sense. You don’t fucking use condoms when you’re fucking the guys you train, do you? Why wouldn’t you be on birth control.”
“I do not have sex with the men I train,” she says.
Well, fuck.
“Fuck,” I say.
“I do not enjoy sex,” she adds.
“You sure fucking looked like you enjoyed it,” I say.
“I did,” she says, with some faint hit of a smile. I can’t fucking see her, and that pisses me off, because this sounds real for a second. She sounds happy. I want to see that. “I do not usually,” she adds.
“You’re going to fucking castrate me because I fuck well?” I ask. “We had good, enjoyable fucking sex, and you’re going to castrate me. Fuck off, Ange.”
“I am sorry, Noah. It is for the best. You could hurt me if I do not do this.”
“Yeah, well, fuck. You know what? I don’t fucking want you to be pregnant either.”
“I am glad you understand,” she says.
Her hands leave my balls, and I really can’t feel shit anymore. No fucking sensation whatsoever. They might as well be gone. They’re going to be gone soon anyways. Is she just going to snip some shit or remove the entire testicle? Both testicles? I feel like I need those, but if you asked me why I couldn’t fucking tell you. They’re necessary for something. Testosterone or some shit. Also, I really fucking like them. Sticking your hands in your pants and holding your balls while you’re doing absolutely nothing is basically the most relaxing feeling in the world. Me and my balls are good friends. We understand one another.
“I don’t fucking understand,” I say. “Ange, love. Mistress Angeline. Fuck. Fucking fuck. Stop. Seriously. This isn’t the nails. I can live without my nails. I don’t even fucking want them. Take the rest. You want my toenails? Fuck. Take those, too. Take everything. Fucking shave me bald while you’re at it. Just... please? No sex. Fuck. Never. I’ll never have sex again. I can’t even fucking b
egin to explain how much I do not want you to do this.”
She’s standing next to me. I can feel her body pressed tight against mine. Her arms are roaming over my chest. One of her hands moves towards my balls. There’s something in her hand, I can feel it. The sharp blade of a knife skims across the shaft of my cock. I’m not erect. No fucking person in the entire fucking world could be erect right now. No fucking way.
She uses the flat of the blade, so as not to slice me, but I think that might be more terrifying.
“What did you say, Noah?” she asks. “Do you remember?”
“I’ll remember, love. I swear. I’ll remember to call you Mistress Angeline. No sex. If we have sex, or whatever the fuck we do, I won’t cum in you. Never. No kids. Fuck. Angeline, seriously, please? Fucking reconsider.”
“That is not what I meant,” she says. “I did not know if you remembered. I do not think you have.”
“Angeline, I don’t know what you want me to remember,” I say. “If you tell me, I will, though. I’ll try. Please, just don’t fucking... don’t do this. I know I’m not in any fucking position to ask you anything, but fuck. I just can’t fucking... I can’t fucking do this. I can’t even fucking imagine it.”
I start to tear up, because, fuck, what the fuck would you do? “I’m sorry. You have no fucking idea how sorry I am. I deserve this, alright? I understand that. I can’t fucking beg and plead with you like I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve done a whole lot of bad shit. I’m an asshole. I already fucking know it. I still think you’re kind of fucking crazy and psychotic, but maybe you aren’t. Maybe I deserve someone like you to do shit like this to me. I probably do. Fuck. Just do it. I’m done. I deserve it. Fuck. No, please don’t. I can’t. I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying anymore.”
“Are you truly sorry?” she asks.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I say. “I thought we were having a nice time. I know it was fucking rough, but I thought you liked it. You looked so fucking beautiful, Angeline. I’m a fucking asshole basically all the time, but this one time I didn’t actually mean to be an asshole. I’m sorry, love. I am. I promise.”
