by Belvin, Love
“Yes.” Marva’s picturesque smile fell. “It is your pleasure. On your first day you get an impression of the organization that makes your future checks possible. We’re undergoing changes here on the ministry and business front, and all parties representing us should be aware of our zero tolerance for insubordination practices.”
I saw the decided scowl on her face. The elder diva had a bite. She paid me an inspective regard from top to bottom, making me feel like a damn freak show as I towered both women, though with Precious by a mere few inches. What I’d done to jump on this lady’s shit list, I had no clue.
While eyeing me, she spoke over her shoulder to Precious. “We have a Nurses Ministry meeting this evening. Why don’t you invite her so she can get an idea of the ropes around here?” She then addressed me. “You need to know the order of operations around here so you’ll understand the hierarchy.”
I couldn’t speak to respond. Why did Christ Cares appear so territorial now? Where did the cliquish mentality come from? And why as an employee did I need to be subjected to it? What the fuck was going on here?
“I think that’s a great idea. The meeting starts at six tonight. That wouldn’t be a problem for you, would it, Lex?” Precious asked, or more or less hinted at the correct answer.
I exhaled and forced a polite nod. “I don’t see why it would be. I’m looking forward to it.”
Precious giggled in a fraudulent pitch. And I couldn’t gain a hold of my breathing to react to it.
“Okay. I’ll be on my way. Just stopping through to make sure all is operating well.” Marva turned for the door.
That’s when I noticed her Chanel bag hanging from the crook of her arm. Precious didn’t do a good job at hiding her amusement at me being clipped at the wings. Why did I suddenly feel like I was being bullied? What was it that this older woman had to prove? What was her deal with me?
I continued my ‘orientation’ with Precious. It consisted of nothing really, but a tour of the small building and some of the staff. Once done with her, I went back to my office where the I.T. guy had just finished with my computer and sat through his instructions. I immediately went back to completing my human resources packet. The day breezed by, but no matter how great that may have been on any other workday, I couldn’t shake the conversation earlier with Marva. I also began to regret agreeing to attend the meeting later on.
Ezra
“I read an article yesterday claiming the number of woman-on-woman rape and violent crimes are spiking.” I thwacked the paddle ball across the table field. “The irony in it was the cases involved in this particular article were transgender women.”
I lunged to swat the small ball when it sprang to my side.
Yaroslav quickly smacked it back to me, grunting during his upswing. “Then that does not qualify as woman to woman. That is man to woman. A man is born from the inside, not just his outside organs being surgically removed or the fallible mind being rotten to think otherwise,” he grated, leaped on one leg and batted again.
I snorted, “People believe God has gotten it wrong.”
I lunged and nearly missed the ball but for a quarter of an inch.
“Your perverse government has gotten it wrong. You can now declare your gender and be believed here. Children who haven’t experienced the world beyond their communities can voice to society what gender identity they choose to take on.” Yaroslav swatted again. “Those numbers from that article are grossly skewed and invalid because those are men committing the crimes against women. They’ve chosen their sheep’s coat to implement their agenda. Ruining the pecking order.”
When he said things like this, it made me question the identity of the man who was serving time in federal prison for human sex trafficking. From where had his moral antenna stemmed? But I knew the answer to that. He was a new creature. Many would argue that evolution is impossible, I would argue they knew not the sovereignty of my God.
As we continued going back and forth with the ball, I asked, “Have you written the letter?”
“N’et.”
“Still unyielding, I see.” It had been six years since he was assigned the task.
“It is not an issue of mulish determination, Ezra. It has not been the right time. I am simply not ready.”
I caught the ball with my hand as I gazed at him, in search of a relapse.
“It is a part of your treatment, your healing,” I reminded him,
With his only arm, Yaroslav swiped his forehead swiftly, visibly anxious at the prospect of contacting his daughter, whom he conceived with his victim. The victim who developed into his lover. This was unusual coming from a Russian man, nearly seventy, who had spent his most vital years in the sex trafficking industry. He’d made millions from the gory profession. In fact, he headed up a major operating ring—the largest of its kind in Northern Europe.
“I am not ready. When I think of her…I…” His eyes squeezed and he inhaled audibly. “Ya sibyA ploha chUstvuyu!”
He felt sick…
I didn’t speak Russian fluently. The few phrases I had been familiar with I’d learned from Yaroslav since he collapsed his wall of silence with me. I knew him well enough to identify the small measures of emotionalism he’d display. Admitting that went against his inborn, maladaptive pattern of behavior. This slip of exposure was difficult for him, and while he was not in my care, officially, I still encouraged his development. I’d discharged him two years ago, but still visited him on occasion. It kept me grounded. If I were to be honest, he kept me leveled back here in the States. Yaroslav reminded me of the flagrant disparities between first world and third world issues. How pampered we are as a society here in the United States. He was a stark personification of a dark world most Americans won’t have the misfortune of experiencing. The one I escaped, because I had the option.
“You’re not the man you used to be, Yaroslav. You’re a new creature.”
“One she won’t respect!” he gritted.
And I caught his sentiment right away. It was his fear. I met Yaroslav Kozlov just after returning to the U.S. while finishing up my Master’s. He was a case study. A patient none of the psychologists cared to take on after a general diagnosis of Antisocial Personality Disorder—also known as APD—which is a cluster B personality in the DSM IV that is intimately related to psychopathy. The problem, I knew very early on, was not psychopathy, which is not a clinical diagnosis. That is simply a developmental disorder discovered by neuroscientists. Yaroslav was like many individuals with APD who are not psychopathic. He exhibited traits with limited empathy and grandiosity, which does demonstrate psychopathy. But I was able to discern in my spirit the day I met him, he was not a psychopath. He simply played by a different set of rules to purse wealth and then survival.
He didn’t speak much—morbidly muted unless making demands—and had been sent to this uncharted federal prison to serve out his eighteen-year term. The U.S. government had use of him. He held the cards of the gruesome underworld of sex trafficking. Once a major player himself, he knew the worldwide network and its troupe. He cooperated, and in return he’d been off the map, serving his time in a small classified federal facility that so happened to be an hour away from my home. I hadn’t seen him since getting married and decided to come up on Alexis’ first day of work while I had the time.
One of the terms of his agreement with the U.S. government was psychological treatment. But he’d made no strides with well-seasoned practitioners. It wasn’t until I was able to find an angle with him that we broke ground. One day, sitting in the day room watching CNN news with him, a report of a score of teenaged girls having escaped from an Australian brothel played on the screen. That’s when I learned I had something in common with him. Apparently these women were kidnapped from their Ecuadorian tribe four weeks before, but of course, it went unreported by the mainstream. After weeks of torture, the women managed to escape. The news report didn’t detail how.
Simultaneously, and deeply engrossed
in the screen, Yaroslav and I murmured, “They didn’t separate them,” in our respective languages.
Our eyes leaped to meet one another’s in alarming inquisition. It took at least an hour to explain to him my time in India and my knowledge of slave training. I’d never participated in illegal sex-slave trade or training; however, it was understood that those associated with the groups I’d spent time with were in the illegal enterprise. I’d learned how to mentally break down human beings to strip them of their dignity and common freedoms, to build their wills to yield to their masters. I’d worked with willing women, who culturally required the training to survive; they needed husbands…sponsors to subsist in hostile environments. Needless to say, Yaroslav no longer viewed me as a privileged American with no clue of how barbaric the world could be outside of the U.S. boarders. From then on, he interfaced with me with less protective walls.
Continuing with the game, again, I came close to a miss, hyperextending my arm to paddle.
“Ahhhh!” I cried out, and quickly straightened.
My eyes swung over to the guard by the door, whose usual vigilant demeanor turned alarmed. The television set to CNN news played in the background and the peak of the late morning sun glared through the two wired windows in the room. Yaroslav followed my actions and nodded at the young Asian man caped in navy blue livery with various badges and shields decorating his upper torso.
“A strong vibrant young man like you, screaming like a skinned cat?” Yaroslav grabbed the ball. He made a displeased sound with his tongue before serving me. “Must be the new wife, huhn?”
I couldn’t help my snort.
Alexis kept me on my toes, for sure, but I wouldn’t tie that to my physical wellbeing. Last night was an exceptional mixture of sensual exploration and a regressive withdrawal of headspace. I ejaculated in her face, and saw the pure exhilaration in her response to it. When I pumped my engorged dick in her face, Alexis struggled against lunging at it. Her hunger for my anatomy was palpable. That electrified the beast in me, but as her dominant, I could not ignore the dichotomy of the lover in Alexis and the wife. My lover submitted to me with little reluctance. My wife was unsure of me.
The more I tried to create an environment conducive to her comfort for trust, Alexis showed signs of unease around me. Something had changed for her, and that had confounded me. We’d arrived at an amenable place after her third trip down to the sandbox when she endured—and thoroughly enjoyed—her first spanking. For as much as she was capable of her vulgar outbursts to express grievances toward me, she withheld something significant in our development as man and wife. My beloved was struggling with something, withholding from me. And I needed to find out just what.
“What’s she’s like, your wife?” Yaroslav asked, now standing straight.
It took moments like this to realize he had a right elbow disarticulation and a left knee disarticulation. Physically, he had no lower right arm, and the lower half of his left leg was removed. One occurred during war as an adolescent in the Soviet-Chinese war. The other was sacrificed during a different kind of war, one of illegal matters in his thirties when he almost lost his reign as the leader of his organization. Oddly, Yaroslav wore a prosthetic for his leg, but never bothered for his arm.
“She’s strong-willed, determinately appeasing to those she deems worthy, reasonably nurturing to most…fiercely independent, resolute when decided, but she does falter to give room for concluding.” I twisted my lips, ending my assessment.
We stood at opposite ends of the table, both trying to gain a hold of our breaths while I rolled my shoulder.
“Ah!” he replied excitedly. His one cheek bone peaked with a sinister glare and lips twitched darkly. “Difficult to train. She’s one that I’d leave in my dungeon for weeks upon her arrival to my camp. Give her little light of the sun, and flimsy mattress that would be removed daily until it was time for her to sleep. Keep her isolated from all the others until she complied with focusing her eyes downward and calling my men ‘мастер’ with unrepentant pride.” His eyes cast out into the distance, I was sure managing the old world demons.
Meanwhile, I stood across from him, body tensing to dangerous strain as I allowed my raging anger to roll off of me. The thought of Alexis being held captive by ruthless sexual deviants boiled my blood. Her calling another man master or any moniker expressing his superiority had venomous heat dispelling from my nostrils. Within seconds, I recovered.
I swallowed hard. “Write the letter,” I felt the gravel in my tenor.
Yaroslav’s sable eyes rolled over to me. “YA poklonyayus’ svoy bog. Pochemu vy khotite bol’she?”
I worship your god. What more do you want?
“I want you to live a life of abundance.” I was pleased when Yaroslav declared Jesus as the son of God, and his Savior two years ago with tears streaming down his face. It was my most prized moment in ministry. I placed my hand over my heart. “In here. God’s grace and promises aren’t limited to forgiveness. He wants healing and deliverance, moy drug.”
God has the power to remove the prison walls that surround our hearts. Man has the ability to replace them…in his mind.
He removed his pained eyes and gave a quick nod of understanding.
eleven
Ezra
I closed the book I’d just completed and examined the cover. “Words for Turbulent Winds,” I murmured the title to myself as I sat in the lounge area of my home office. After my visit with Yaroslav I returned home for a conference call with the state of New Jersey about licensing of a product we were testing for an engineering company out of Colorado. I then worked on my sermon for Sunday morning worship, and had to finish this book to do so. I was glad I’d purchased it. The insight was much needed and well-timed.
My hands swept over the glossy cover. It depicted a nearing tornado sweeping through, what appeared to be, a residential neighborhood causing damage with harsh winds, flooding, and property damage along its route. I sat back and reflected on what that meant to me. When had life been such a paroxysm of misfortunes to the point of irreparable damage? How could I incorporate it into my message?
“She be here soon,” Ms. Remah announced after a quick knock on the doorframe.
I glanced up to find her eyes on me expectantly.
“You’ve heard from her?” I asked.
Ms. Remah grunted her response. That caused an odd sting to course me. I hadn’t heard from Alexis all day, not even about the flowers I had delivered this morning. Not that I needed a gushing response for the gesture. However, a simple confirmation would’ve done. All day I’d operated with a quiet sense of awareness of it being a big day for her. I expected her two hours ago when I entered the kitchen to find Ms. Remah preparing dinner. Apparently she’d been expecting Alexis as well. We stayed around that area of the house, both awaiting her return, but neither expressing it. It was confirmed by her announcing Alexis’ whereabouts.
“Text,” Ms. Remah qualified. “Should be here any second.”
I stood from my desk and followed her out. She went into the kitchen and I gaited straight into the dining room to retrieve a glass and bottle of wine. Unusual prickles of excitement shooting through my chest as the seconds past.
“So, we should discuss you getting transportation. I know it will be difficult for you to get around independently now that Alexis has returned to work.” I broached the subject as soon as I entered the kitchen.
Ms. Remah only grunted.
“Well, what kind of vehicle do you prefer driving? Something with four-wheel drive would prove helpful in this terrain come winter.”
“No preference. Me nuh drive.”
I placed the glass and wine bottle down on the island and felt my brows rise. “Never?”
She shook her head with her back against me as she stirred the pot then turned the eye off.
“Ever?” I asked again.
“Nuh driver’s license.”
“Well, that presents a dilemma, doesn’t
it?” I murmured, pouring wine into the glass.
Just then the garage door sounded. I placed the stopper in the bottle and carried the glass to the far side of the kitchen, near the hall where Alexis would enter the house. My mind raced with sensual ideas of how we’d spend the evening celebrating her accomplishment, especially after an extended day. I hadn’t been expecting that.
I heard when she cut the engine. I rested against the doorway, awaiting her.
“Do you know how to operate a motor vehicle?” I continued with Ms. Remah.
She shook her head again, eyes cast downward.
“We can get you lessons. There’s nothing more I’d like than to see you come and go as you please. I’m sure Alexis would be at peace knowing you could come and go at your will.”
Ms. Remah grunted again. I do believe she was communicating her willingness to consider my proposal. She was a cantankerous spirit, but had been growing on me. I was beginning to see what propelled Alexis to her. Ms. Remah wasn’t much of a talker, but she was a worker bee, who quietly accommodated those around her. She simply wasn’t the one for small talk or endearments.
The sounds of Alexis strutting into the house called to something in my groin. Amazing, my visceral response to her. More than sexual, it felt great welcoming a woman home at night—into my home. I could smell her nearing and hear the jingle of her keys.
I was put off however, when she breezed past me and crossed the room to dump her purse and a thick packet of documents on the table. She didn’t speak when she marched heavily over to the counter, yanked the door open and pulled out a tumbler. My face stretched as I watched her remove a bottle of Hennessey from a paper bag I must have missed during her windstorm in here. Alexis poured herself a shot, gulped it down and slammed the glass on the counter.
“Lexi,” Ms. Remah called out to her wearily. It was clear something was amiss. “Di man mey yuh drink!” She pointed across the room to me.
I raised the glass to emphasize the gesture. That only seemed to further infuriate my beloved. Alexis marched over to me, grabbed the glass, trudged back to the sink to toss the wine down the drain, and slammed the glass on the counter, making a clash of the delicate crystal. My brows raised questioningly in response.
