And then you happen to glance to your left.
Your thrust falters.
My heart stops in my chest.
Fear bolts through me.
I am frozen.
You have seen me.
"X." It is a guttural command.
I am motionless, paralyzed.
"Out here. Now."
I push open the closet door. "Hello, Caleb."
"I did not take you for a voyeur." You are still buried inside Rachel.
"Neither did I."
"Yet here you are, watching us."
I have no answer. I will not argue.
Us. That word stings.
You smack Rachel's buttock, pulling your arm back, swinging it in a vicious horizontal arc. The impact against already rosy flesh is brutally hard, must hurt so badly. Rachel's head hangs between trembling shoulders, body rocked forward as you thrust.
"You want to watch, X?" Your voice is quiet with fury. "Then watch." You point at the bed. "Up there."
I climb on the bed, and now Rachel's eyes meet mine. There is no shame in that brown gaze. Excitement, rather.
You resume fucking.
Your eyes pin me, never waver. You spank Rachel's buttocks harder than ever, and the girl only rocks into you all the more and cries out in bliss and now glances up at me with sex-glazed eyes and winks at me.
I alternate watching you, and Rachel.
Both sets of eyes are on me, and I am excruciatingly aware that I am affected by this scene. I press my thighs together as I kneel on the bed and watch you fuck Rachel.
When Rachel comes yet again, it is while staring up at me, mouth gaping open, breathless, body jolting forward with each of your brutally hard thrusts, and it is bizarre, so strange, far too intimate a thing to watch another woman come, to see your erection inside a body not mine, to watch you fuck another woman to orgasm. I am torn apart with disgust. I hate this.
Yet also,
I am ablaze with arousal.
I watch you come.
At the last moment, you pull out, and your eyes are dark orbs of ice as you release your orgasm onto Rachel's back. I watch that, watch the white stream leave the tip of your penis and watch it hit pale, pale skin, watch your face as you orgasm.
You smack Rachel's bottom once more, almost affectionately, and then slide off the bed.
I am off the bed, darting past you.
"Come back here, X." It is a command.
I disobey. Run. Run. Slam into the silver door of the elevator, slam a palm against the call button. I hear your step down the hall.
"X, I said come back here!"
I do not reply. I am breathless, chest aching, lungs burning. I cannot breathe.
I am dizzy.
The elevator arrives, and I lurch onto it, stab at the button that will take me to the lobby. As the doors slide closed, I see you.
Bare from the waist up, wearing only slacks. Your chest glistens with sweat. Your hair is in disarray. You are furious.
Your hands stop the door from closing, and panic seizes me. But instead of freezing me, this time, it spurs me to action.
"Why do you never treat me the way you treat her?" I hear my voice say, breathless, shrill, nearly sobbing. "Why don't you fuck me the way you do her?"
"She's an apprentice--" you start.
I see Rachel behind you, peeking around the corner. Shamelessly naked, still. Curious.
"So?"
"You're worth more than she is. She'll only ever be a Bride. You're . . . You are Madame X."
Rachel, behind you, is livid. Tears fill brown eyes. "You bastard." This is hissed.
You whirl. "Rachel, wait."
You seem almost human, suddenly. Caught between Rachel and me.
"But I'm not worth being naked with. Not worth behaving as if you want to be with me. As if you enjoy fucking me, like you obviously do her." I cannot stop the words. It is an avalanche. "I am just a possession to you, Caleb. You keep me because you like owning me, not because you like me. Not because you enjoy me."
None of this makes any sense. I am jealous, but I hate you. Yet I also need you, want you, desire to be treated by you the way you treat Rachel. I want--
I do not know.
Nothing I want makes any damned sense.
I do not understand myself.
What do I want?
Freedom.
I shove you. Hard. Surprised, you stumble backward, and I hear Rachel gasp in surprise.
The elevator door closes.
"God fucking damn it!" I hear you shout this louder than I've ever heard you speak before.
I am cognizant of nothing but my own gasping, ragged breath as I cross the lobby, and I know I'm sobbing, but I don't care.
For once, the noise of Manhattan does not paralyze me.
In four-inch Gucci heels, I run.
In a custom couture dress, I flee.
There is only one place in this city that I know, and somehow I find it.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
I have no money for the admission fee. But when I arrive at the ticket counter, there is a little old black woman behind the desk.
She recognizes me. "Oh, it's you! I haven't seen you in . . . oh, years!"
"Hi . . ." I don't know her name. But I know her, it feels like. "It has been a long time."
"Where's Mr. Indigo?"
"I . . . I came without him."
A look crosses her face. "Oh." She tilts her head sideways. "Honey, you all right?"
I shake my head, unable to summon a lie. "No. No. I need . . . I need to go in, but I forgot money. I don't have any money. And I need--I need to go in."
"It's pay what you want here," she says. "Even if you got a dollar I can let you in."
"I have nothing. Not a penny."
A moment of hesitation. Then she reaches into her back pocket, withdraws some crumpled green bills, stuffs two into her register drawer, and hands me a ticket. "On me today, sweetie. You used to love this place. You was here all the time, back then. Every day."
"Thank you. Thank you so much."
She waves her hand. "Ain't nothin'."
"You don't know what this means to me."
Neither do I, I don't think. But I go in, and discover that I know the way. My feet carry me to the painting.
There is a bench, low lighting. White walls. My painting is not prominently displayed, just one of many, and not an important one. I take a seat on the bench, ankles crossed beneath me.
I stare at her.
Portrait of Madame X.
She possesses such poise, such effortless strength. The curve of her neck, the strength in her arm, the calm expression on her face.
I stare for a long, long time. Find calm in the painting, finding some measure of strength.
There is one more to see. I wander the halls, and somehow cannot find it.
There is a guard, tall, black skin so dark it glistens. "Excuse me, sir," I ask. "Where is the Starry Night?"
I receive a blank stare. A shrug.
A nearby visitor glances at me, a middle-aged woman. "Honey, you're at the Met. Starry Night is at the MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art. Just down the road a bit, in Midtown."
I thank the woman and return to the bench in front of the Sargent.
Thinking.
I have memories, distinct memories of being here with you, and you wheeled me from this to the Starry Night.
But how can that be? They aren't at the same museum.
I've distracted myself well enough, thankfully. I am no longer seeing over and over Rachel with you, your eyes on mine, no longer feeling my arousal and disgust and sense of betrayal.
I have pushed those emotions down, deep down where I won't have to deal with them just yet.
And then I feel you.
"I knew I'd find you here." Your voice is quiet, like the rumble of a subway train below the streets.
"I have nothing to say to you." I do not look at you. Scoot to my left so there
is a foot of space between us.
"Too bad. I have a lot to say to you."
"That would be new."
A sigh. "X, you don't understand--"
"If you say that to me one more fucking time, I will scream," I hiss.
I like cursing. It makes me feel powerful and free.
"Why did you spy on me?"
"I do not know. I wish I hadn't, yet also I am glad I did." I struggle to breathe past the subtle power of your cologne and your presence. "I understand now what I mean to you."
"You mean more to me than you can possibly comprehend, X."
"Which is why you never even bother to take off your clothes when you're with me? Why you never stay with me, afterward? Why you treat me like I'm . . . delicate?"
"What, X? You want me to do that shit to you?" You say this a little too loud, glance around, and lower your voice so it is barely audible. "You want me to treat you like I treat the girls? You want me to come on your face? You want me to pull your hair and hurt you? Is that what you want, X?"
I shake my head. "I don't know. I don't know if I want that. I don't know, Caleb! I just know, watching you with her, I felt jealous. And angry. I felt . . . as if you enjoy her more than you do me. I don't want to be just another girl among many for you."
"I can't give you what you're asking for, X. You don't--I know you hate it when I say this, and I'm sorry, but you really don't understand."
I groan in frustration, loudly enough that other visitors stop and stare at me. "Then help me understand!"
"How, X? What am I supposed to say to you?"
"The truth?"
"What is the truth? The truth about what?"
"About me? About us? Why you keep me locked up in that fucking tower like . . . like Rapunzel."
You do not answer for a long time, staring at the Sargent painting for which I am named. "How many hours have we both sat in this spot, staring at this painting?"
Apropos of nothing, that. But also . . . relevant. I am here of my own volition.
"Many indeed." I hesitate, and then continue. "My memories are faulty, it seems. I distinctly remember being here, in the wheelchair, with you. Looking at the Sargent, and then you'd push me through the museum and we'd look at the Van Gogh together. I remember this, Caleb. As clearly as I am standing here, I can feel it, see it. But now that I'm actually here, I've discovered that what I remember isn't possible. Because the Van Gogh is at a different museum entirely. And I . . . I don't understand. How can I remember something falsely?"
You breathe out through pursed lips. "I did some research on memory, while you were in rehab, learning to walk and talk again. The storage and recall of memory is a subject we understand very little about. But one thing I remember reading was that most of our memories, from childhood and things like that, we aren't actually remembering the event itself, we're remembering a memory of a memory. Make sense? And the farther we are away from the core event, the more distorted the actual memory becomes, so what we are remembering might actually be very inaccurate when compared to what really happened."
This rocks me. I have to remember to breathe, remember to stay upright. "So . . . the few memories I do have, they may not even be real?"
I cannot trust my own memories? How is this possible? Yet what you say makes far too much sense.
"That's what scientists say, at least." A shrug, as if it's inconsequential.
"I have so few memories. You, Logan, Rachel and the other apprentices, Len . . . you all have lifetimes of memories. A linear identity that you can hold on to. I do not have this. I have six years of memories. That is all. My identity is not . . . linear. It is . . . fractal. It is disrupted. False. Created. I am not me. I am a me that you created."
"X, that's not fair--"
"It is fair, Caleb. It is the truth. You created me. You gave me my name. You gave me my home, my apartment on the thirteenth floor. You bought all my books, and if I have any identity of my own, it is in those pages. You taught me manners and poise, bearing and comportment. You asserted upon me my identity as Madame X, the woman who schools idle, entitled rich boys. What have I chosen for myself, Caleb? Nothing. You buy my clothes. You buy my food. You structured my exercise routine. I exist entirely within the sphere of your influence."
"What are you saying?" You speak carefully, slowly.
"I'm saying you created my identity. And I'm beginning to feel as if it doesn't fit. As I'm wearing a dress that is either too tight or too loose. Too tight in one place and too loose in another." I pause to breathe, and it is a difficult task. "I am . . . unraveling, Caleb."
A long silence.
And then: "You are Madame X. I am Caleb Indigo. I saved you. You're safe with me."
My outbreath becomes a tremor. "Damn you, Caleb Indigo."
"I saved you from a bad man. I won't let anything bad happen to you ever again." Your hand twines into mine. There is sorcery in your touch and in your voice, weaving a palpable spell over me.
You pull me to my feet and lead me out of the museum.
Into your Maybach. Classical music plays softly, a cello solo wavering gently. I focus on the strains of music, seize it like a lifeline as Len slithers the long car through the sludge of traffic, taking us back to your tower.
Your hand rests on my lower back as we stand in the elevator. You twist the key to the P, for penthouse. We rise, rise, and I can't breathe. The higher we go, the more constricted become my lungs.
At the penthouse, I am greeted by the black couch, upon which and over which you have fucked me so impersonally, more than once, and I am panicking, gagging on my trapped, rotten breath, on the slamming knot of my pulse in my throat.
You step out, expecting me to follow, but I spin the key abruptly. Not for the lobby or the garage or the third floor or the thirteenth floor. Any floor, at random. You sigh and watch me, let me go. One hand in the hip pocket of your perfect suit, the other passing through your thick black hair. A gesture of frustration, irritation, resignation.
I do not even know which floor I get off on. I find a staircase leading up, and I climb. Climb. Until my legs ache and I'm sweating in my three-thousand-dollar dress, I climb. A door appears where the stairs finally end. I can climb no more, my legs turned to jelly. I twist the silver knob, push. The door sticks, unused to being opened, and then suddenly flies ajar. I stumble, lurch out onto the roof of the tower.
My breath is stolen, and I take a few slow, awed steps farther out onto the roof.
The city is spread out around me in the darkness of night. Squares of light glow from high-rises across the street and across the city. The sky above is dark, charcoal gray, a crescent moon shining low on the horizon.
When did it become night?
How long was I at the museum, alone, staring at the portrait? That long? I have no memory of the car ride back here, only the sensation of movement and blurred faces passing and cars, yellow taxis and black SUVs, and the cello playing quietly.
I move to the edge of the building, a long walk across white stones scattered on the roof. A silver dome twists off to my right, and to my left a fan spins in a large concrete block, roaring loudly.
Stare down, fifty-nine stories down at the sidewalk. The people are specks, the cars like toys. Vertigo grips me and shakes me until I'm dizzy, and I back away.
Collapse to my bottom, knees splayed out, unladylike.
I weep.
Uncontrollably, endlessly.
Until I pass out, until my eyes slide closed and sobs shake me like the aftershocks of an earthquake, I cry and cry and cry, and I do not even know truly what I weep for.
Except,
perhaps,
everything.
FOUR
I am drowning in an ocean of darkness. The sky is the sea, dark masses of roiling clouds like waves, spreading in every direction and weighing heavily on me like the titanic bulk of Homer's wine-dark seas. I lie on my back on the rooftop, leftover heat from the previous day still leaching out of th
e rough concrete and into my skin through the thin fabric of my dress.
I sense a presence as I wake up, but I don't open my eyes. Perhaps you found me. There are only so many places I can be. I feel you sit beside me, and your finger touches my hair, smooths it off my forehead.
But then I smell cinnamon, and cigarettes.
I crack my eyes open, and it isn't you.
"Logan." I whisper it, surprised. "How are you here?"
"Bribes, distraction, it wasn't hard." He shrugs. "You weren't in your apartment. I don't know. I just felt . . . pulled up here. Like I knew I'd find you up here."
"You shouldn't be here."
He fits a cigarette to his mouth, cups his hands around it, and I hear a scrape and a click. Flame bursts orange, briefly, and then the smell of cigarette smoke is pungent and acrid. His cheeks go concave, his chest expands, and then he blows out a white plume from his nostrils. "No, I shouldn't."
"Then why are you?" I sit up, and I'm self-conscious of the fact that my dress is dirty and wrinkled and has hiked up to nearly my hips, baring far more of me than is proper.
"I had to talk to you."
"What is there to say?"
Your eyes flick shamelessly over me. A breeze kicks up, and my nipples harden, my skin pebbles. Perhaps it isn't the wind so much as Logan, though. His eyes, that strange and vivid blue, his proximity, his sudden and unexpected and inexplicable presence on this rooftop, in my life.
"There's a lot I could say, actually." His eyes, certainly speak volumes.
"Then say it," I say, and it is a challenge.
Smoke curls up from the cigarette between his fingers. "Caleb, he's not who you think he is."
"This is not the first time you've said that," I say. "And you know, do you? Who he really is?"
"Certain things, yes." He takes a long drag on the cigarette, holds it in, blows it out through his nose again.
"You sneaked in here to tell me Caleb's secrets?"
He shakes his head, almost angrily, blond hair waving around his shoulders. "No, I didn't," he confesses. "You made the wrong choice. You should have stayed with me. We could have had something amazing."
"There was never a choice, Logan." It feels a little like a lie.
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