Fighting Lust: A Deadly Sins Novel

by Jennifer Miller

  “You were only seven,” Ryder reminds me.

  Shaking my head, I don’t offer a reply to his reasoning. “As I grew older, he would continue to touch me inappropriately. And make me touch him. The worst was when my breasts started to develop and my pubic hair. He would make me stand before him naked. He would tell me that he needed to see my body, to make sure that I was growing into a healthy lady,” I choke on my words and take a seat for a moment on the small plaid chair we have in the room. Running my hands through my hair, I concentrate on my breaths, in and out. In and out. As I got older, he would make me watch pornography with him, or if not with him, standing naked while he did. He repeatedly reminded me-verbally or through his actions that I had no rights; no control and, as I aged, that I was a bad child.”

  Looking at Ryder, I try to discern what he may be thinking, but it’s impossible to tell. His face is stoic, there’s a sheen of sweat on his brow and his eyes never leave my face. Somehow his looking at me, and not my confession, is what makes me feel most exposed.

  “What about your mother?” he asks me.

  Laughing at the question, it takes effort for me to stop. I fear I sound on the verge of hysteria and do my best to calm myself. “If I would threaten to tell her because the truth that we weren’t merely playing games started to be seen more clearly by me, he resorted to flat out threats. He told me that no one would believe me, especially my mother. And she never acted as though she was aware. Never asked me about bruises. Never said anything about the nights he ended up lying in my bed instead of their own. She withdrew from me ---and he was the only parent I really had. And to this day she does not believe it to be true.”

  On a roll, I continue to unveil the truth. “Further, he said if I told her, a teacher, a friend, anyone at all, that the police would take me away. He said I would go to a home where I would be abused in more ways than I could imagine because of what I had done. Other times he would tell me that I would be required to live on the street like the homeless people we would occasionally see, would need to fend for myself and might eventually starve since I would have no money and no food. He said if I told I would be sent to a family that would not really want me and would never, could never, love me, and that if I thought what he was doing was unjust or unfair it was nothing compared to what others could do to me. Once he told me that if he couldn’t trust me to keep a secret, he would find someone and sell me to them to be used in whatever way they wanted. I was old enough to know what he was suggesting. And that he could do so if he really wanted. Through it all, he continued to tell me that I was lucky that he loved me.”

  Ryder drops his face in his hands and rubs his eyes before looking back at me. I hold his stare and plead with him to understand. “I believed him. Every single time, I believed what he told me. If there’s one thing that therapy did help me with, because yes, I’ve been, it’s that I do recognize that I was only a child that loved her father. Even though he hurt me more than anyone, ever, I was still just a little girl that loved her dad and didn’t want him to be angry with me. I understand that as a young child I trusted him the way any child would. And I so wanted and needed his affection, his approval. As I got older, I realized that the entire family needed him to protect us, to take care of us, to provide for our family, I could not be the one to cause that to end. So I was withdrawn, secretive. I worked really hard in school to be good enough. I thought…well, it doesn’t matter. For years I was so angry with myself for that. For deceiving myself like my mom did. For believing that telling on him would make me have to endure a hell worse than what I was already living through. So, I stayed quiet. His abuse continued way too long.”

  Standing, exhausted, I walk to the kitchen counter and grab the box of Kleenex there and take it back to my seat. Removing one from the box, I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. “To this day my mother still doesn’t believe me. I finally told her the truth, but that’s another story.” Grabbing another Kleenex I begin shredding it, needing something to do with my hands.

  “As a result of what happened to me when I was younger, I’m so fucked up in the head that I turn to sex as a way to escape. As a way to love. As a way to find even momentary acceptance; a reward for myself. My therapist told me that it’s a typical action for an adult that was molested as a child. In fact, some children avoid any kind of physical contact with anyone, ever. And then there’s the opposite end of that spectrum. That’s where I am. I can’t even begin to tell you how many nights I have cried, prayed and begged that I could stop, but I’ve never been able to. Not until you.”

  “I wasn’t lying when I told you that I wanted to try with you. I don’t want to be doomed to a life of being alone. Of having shameful hookups that I regret and that make me feel like I’m that little girl all over again. You made me feel whole again. At least for a little while. I fought against it and didn’t want it at first, but with your persistence, you made me happy, Ryder. Thank you for that.”

  “How long did you have to live with that, Tessa? How long were you abused before it finally stopped?”

  “Ten years. I was fifteen years old when it ended.”

  “How did it stop?” His hands form into fists, “Where is your father now?”

  “He’s in jail, for the time being.”

  Ryder looks at me in confusion, “How did that happen? You said that you never did anything about it. If that’s the case, how did he end up in jail?”

  “Another child came forward. I’m not the only child my father molested. I now know that there were countless others.”

  “Someone else?”

  I nod, “My father was a doctor - a pediatrician to be exact. There was a young girl that he hurt, and she told her parents and they came forward. That’s what got him his jail sentence, but later, others came forward as well.”

  I’m shocked when Ryder flies up out of his seat. I stand too, a reaction to his abruptness. When he grabs my upper arms, I gasp, in surprise more than pain. The shredded Kleenex in my lap falls to the floor like snow. “Your father was a doctor that abused the children that were his patients?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your last name is Jameson. Was your father’s last name Jameson as well?”

  My mouth falls open at his question. “Why?”

  He shakes me in his urgency and his grip on my arms gets tighter. “Ryder, you’re hurting me.”

  He immediately lets go, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to. Tessa, what is your father’s last name?”

  “It’s Riverton. I changed my last name to my mother’s maiden name, a regrettable but limited option, as soon as I was eighteen,” I explain to him but he’s not listening. He’s taken several steps back from me and the look on his face is complete horror.

  “Your father is Dr. Riverton. Dr. Riverton is your father. And he molested you too.”

  “Ryder?” I say his name confused by his actions. “What’s going on?” He’s definitely processing something but I have no clue what it is. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh my god,” he says. “Oh my god. Dr. Riverton is your father,” he keeps repeating. His eyes finally connect with mine; and the pain I see takes my breath away. His face has gone completely white and his breathing is coming in shallow gasps. He’s visibly shaking and I automatically reach a hand out to offer comfort.

  “No!” he yells and I pull my hand back in complete horror. I feel as if I’ve been slapped in the face with a single word and tears immediately spring to my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper ashamed. “I’m sorry,” I repeat.

  He continues backing up toward the door, eyes wide and shaking his head the whole time. “I can’t. I can’t do this. No. Not you too. No.”

  He opens the door, and he’s gone.

  When the door closes, I slowly sink to the ground. My heart clenches in my chest so hard, that it’s sheer agony and I cry out from the pain. His words so simple, yet honest, are knives that leave scars. I begin to cry, my sobs turning to loud wai
ls. Tears pour down my face like rivers and I wish that they could somehow was the taint that’s upon me, body and soul.

  I hear feet rushing to me and Gina’s arms wrap around me offering comfort. “Shh, I’m here. I’m here.” She rocks me back and forth in her arms. “I’m sorry, Tessa. God, I’m so sorry.”

  When I calm down enough to speak, I tell her, “I knew it. Oh god I knew he wouldn’t be able to stand me. I disgust him, Gina. And how can I blame him? I can’t. I can’t blame him at all.” I feel her lips on the top of my head, she kisses me there and whispers lies to me. She tells me I’m not dirty. She tells me I’m worthy of love. She tells me that I did the right thing. She tells me that I’m worth loving. But all I can picture is the look on Ryder’s face.

  Looking to the sky I cry and rage at the injustice of finding a man to love, only to lose him after bringing the darkness that hides in my soul to light.

  All I could think about was getting away. It’s too much. Too fucking much. I can’t breathe. I’m sure that the emotion is going to suffocate me and someone will find me totally collapsed on the ground. This whole thing is a sick, twisted ironic nightmare that no one would even believe if they tried. I can hardly even believe it. What game is the universe playing?

  Racing through the streets, I only have one destination in mind. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been there over the last five years. The memories are too much. The pain is too much. Going there tonight will be more difficult than listening to the horrific tale of abuse that my ears just heard, but old wounds have been ripped open. They’re gaping and bleeding and therefore, there’s only one place I want to be. Only one place that I need to be.

  I can’t wrap my mind around Tessa’s story. Her confession. I don’t think it’s even completely sunk in yet, how could it? The whole time she was pouring out her heart, I felt off. This feeling of déjà vu made me feel nauseous, and then dread took over. I instinctively knew something was coming. The more she spoke, pieces and similarities started coming together – and my head was spinning. When the connection was clear, I couldn’t stay. I need space. I need to think.

  I need Carrie.

  Pulling through the cemetery gates, I follow the winding road up until I get to a hill that overlooks the valley. Parking the car, I take a few deep breaths before getting out of the car, and then begin the walk to her gravestone. Somehow her family got permission to plant an orange blossom tree next to her grave. She’s at the very end of a row backed up against the edge of the property tree line and the orange tree is just one of several other trees. I have no idea who cares for it, but it was her favorite. After five years, it’s bigger now and currently in bloom. The smell hits me when I’m still several yards away and the emotion it brings is staggering. I’ve never been able to smell an orange blossom and not think of her. She loved them so much and somehow managed to find a perfume that matched the smell perfectly. She wore it all the time.

  Standing before the marble tombstone, I look down upon it before falling to my knees before it. Tracing her name and the dates with my fingertips, I can’t believe that I lost her only five years ago. Sometimes it seems like it’s been a lifetime. Other times it seems like I only just found her yesterday.

  My mind flashes back to a day I will never forget as long as I live. Her strange phone call to me where she told me goodbye. Comprehending the finality to her words – the pain in her voice. Speeding to her apartment. Doom sickly spreading through my body with every step I took down the hall to her room. The moment I opened her door and had a fleeting moment of hope that she was just sleeping and that I overreacted. Racing to her side, seeing the bottle of pills still clutched in her hand, knowing she swallowed them all. Trying to breathe for her, begging and pleading in my mind that every breath I gave her would be the one to save her.

  Knowing it was too late.

  Losing her.

  Mourning her.

  The two of us met in high school. We’d been assigned as lab partners in chemistry. During our classroom and study time, we created our own chemistry together. We were an unlikely pair. She was shy and I was a high school jock, but I loved her and I loved her well all through high school and into college. I thought she was it for me and I had planned to ask her to marry me.

  Her depression was something that was just a part of who she was. She took medicine for it and as long as she stayed on her meds, she was fine. She had moments that were harder than others, and I just loved her through them. She was only ten years old when she came forward about what Dr. Riverton did to her. There was a time when Carrie went to the doctor routinely. She had very bad allergies and received monthly allergy shots, requiring regular check-ins with her doctor. When a nurse actually walked in and witnessed his inappropriate touching, all hell broke loose. I remember her telling me that she was proud of herself for the testimony she gave that put Dr. Riverton into jail.

  At first I didn’t understand how such a thing could happen. How did a doctor even get to these children? It turns out he was a pediatrician and he would manipulate the parents into leaving him alone with them. He would say they needed to leave the room for various tests or procedures, or even told them that the child wanted to be a big boy or girl and didn’t want their parent in the room. Upon hindsight, it was disturbing, but it worked.

  The matter was dropped as far as Carrie was concerned. It was something that was in her past, and she wanted to move on. She buried it. A few children came forward when she did as well, but their parents didn’t want to put them through the trauma of pressing charges and testifying in court.

  Then, a news station got hold of the story because a new victim came forward. The new victim was an author that wrote a book for parents from a victim’s perspective on how to help your child through something so horrendous. The reporter that was covering the story, managed to get the names of the other victims. By this time they were over eighteen, and their names were leaked to the press. Suddenly, Carrie’s photo appeared in newspapers and magazines telling the story without her permission. Her parents got an attorney, and although they agreed to bring charges, the damage was already done. And all of Carrie’s buried emotions came forward and she was hit with post traumatic stress disorder, which ultimately took her life. Those pills didn’t kill her, depression did. It’s deadly and it’s real and when it grabs hold of you, it isn’t something that should be taken lightly.

  Carrie couldn’t handle the attention. Couldn’t handle reliving something so vile. Couldn’t handle feeling like the entire world knew this disturbing part of her past. She believed that people were looking at her differently, treating her differently. She became increasingly withdrawn. Depression got its serrated hooks into her and wouldn’t let go. And we all lost a beautiful soul. My only comfort was that she was finally free. Free of the silent deadly killer that sucked her life away.

  “Hi, beautiful,” I tell her. “I know I haven’t been here for a long time and I’m sorry. You’re probably so mad at me because I could have at least brought you flowers, huh? Forgive me. And not just for the flowers. Please forgive me for not coming to see you sooner. It’s just… it’s hard. This isn’t how I like to think of you.”

  A tear runs down my cheek and I swipe it away. “I have something to tell you. I fell in love. I didn’t think it would ever happen again, in fact, I made pretty damn sure that it couldn’t. No doubt you’ve been disappointed in me if you’ve peeked in on me at all over the last five years. I haven’t exactly been…” I break off finding the words hard to say.

  “The truth is, I’ve been a real douche to women. You’d be ashamed of me for that, I know that much. Can you see me at all? I’ve got a crap ton of tattoos now and piercings.” I pull my sleeve up and run my finger across the small angel on the inside of my upper arm. “I even got one for you,” I tell her. “I like them, sure, but I think the real reason I started to get them was to use them as decoration to cover up the real me. I mean, I do look bad ass which is awesome, don
’t get me wrong,” I laugh, “But it began as a way to build a new me – to develop a new persona. It fit the image that people assumed I had as a fighter anyway. But then, I met this girl and she didn’t take my shit, and she gave me a chance and likes me, for me. Her name is Tessa, by the way.” I smile, “I think you’d like her.”

  Picking up an orange petal from the grass I bring it to my nose and breathe it in. “I’ll spare you the details here, but Tessa used me. She used me the same way I used women, and the sad thing is, it took that to get my attention. And hell, did she ever get my attention. Then, the weirdest thing started happening, I started to become myself again.” I laugh out loud, “I swear it’s like I can hear you asking me if that means I’m still a smart ass. I don’t know that that will ever go away, sorry babe. But, I became… I don’t know… softer again. I started doing things and thinking about things I don’t generally do. I started to want again. I started to care. I started to feel. So, I began pursuing this girl who initially wanted nothing to do with me. I think it’s because I recognize myself in her. I knew there was a sadness – a story - there that matched my own and I wanted so much to take it away. To fix her like I couldn’t fix you,” I whisper.