by Kitty Thomas
When I’m finished, he holds me for a long time, kissing me in a sweet, tender way, like I’m his most precious possession, and I know I am. His instinct is to kill me. His desire is to love me.
He takes me to the bathroom and bathes me. I soak in bubbles for what feels like hours as his hands run carefully over me, as if he can’t be sure or can’t believe everything healed. The water drains and he dries me without a word. Then he helps me get dressed. Jeans and a t-shirt.
“You’re going home.” He chokes out the words, and I can’t stop crying once they’re out there. He’s releasing me. I feel numb. I pinch myself and the feeling doesn’t register, so I must be dreaming. Please let me be dreaming.
I don’t believe it’s really happening until he begins to lead me to the car. “No! No, I don’t want to go. I can’t go back there, please! Please don’t abandon me.” I sound so pathetic, but I don’t care. Pride is such a stupid concept to me right now. I just want to convince him that we can somehow work this out. We can figure out a way to override his baser instincts to keep me alive, to keep this fucked-up relationship going.
I know I should be glad he’s letting me go. It’s not right to let the people who love me believe I’m dead or worry about me when I have any other option. And yet, Christian has become so large in my world that everyone else, even my own parents fade away, inconsequential.
Christian doesn’t react to my outburst. He just grips my arm and leads me down the hall. He stops in front of the mystery door, the one that’s none of my business, the one that has become almost invisible to me. I’d forgotten about it and stopped guessing about what could be behind it ages ago.
He turns a key in the lock and opens it. He pushes me inside as he flicks a switch and the room becomes illuminated in an eerie, bluish light. I try to process what I’m seeing. There are all these marble pedestals, and on top of each one is a brass urn. I can’t count them all, but if I had to guess, there would be somewhere around...
“One hundred,” Christian finishes for me. He must have caught my facial expression as I tried to do a mental calculation, some quick math multiplying vertical by horizontal rows to come to a total that deep down I already knew.
Oh my God. He kept souvenirs. These are the women he’s killed—the ones before me. Out of so many, I am the only one he’s deigned to give the gift of freedom instead of death. I walk through the rows in a daze. On top of each marble top, in front of the urn, is a small brass placard that gives a name and a date. They match the entries in the black book in his night table.
I attempt to pick up one of the urns, but it’s attached to the marble, whether by a screw or some type of industrial-strength adhesive, I don’t know. There is still space available in the secret room for more matching podiums. Christian can still have one put in for me, with a brass urn of my very own.
His voice is quiet and measured when he speaks again. “This is the only way I can let you stay with me, Juliette. Do you want to join my collection, or do you want to live?”
I don’t want to join his collection. I don’t want to leave him, but when I say that, I mean I want us to both exist together in relationship to one another, not for one of us to be ashes in a jar. It would be pointless. Although I’ve come so close to death so many times in Christian’s care, it takes this sterile, temperature-controlled room to wake me up.
I have to go home. I should be thankful that instead of selfishly keeping me until he can’t stop himself from killing, he’s chosen to give me my life back. I know it means he really loves me.
“I want to live.”
He nods. “Get in the car.”
He doesn’t have to drag me or force me to comply. I walk down the hallway, down the stairs, to the garage, and get in his car in the passenger side. Normally, getting in this car means going to the club. I try to pretend that’s all it means tonight. Even though I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of my normal slut kitten attire, I try to pretend we’re still just going to play in an environment that keeps me safe from him.
The driver’s side door slams as he gets in, his large and imposing body sucking up all the air so that it’s hard for me to speak, but I manage the feat anyway.
“What if we set up specific protocols to keep me safe? I was safe at the club? What if you kept me at the club somewhere and we saw each other that way.” I can’t help bargaining.
“No, Juliette.”
“But... ”
“I said, no. If it were so simple, don’t you think we’d already be doing that? All it takes is for me to give into temptation once to change even the most carefully laid plans and put your safety at risk. I couldn’t live with myself. You have to go live out your life and forget you met me.”
“That’s impossible.”
We’ve lost the way between us that we had. Somehow roles of master and slave have evaporated in an instant. I wish I could belong to him until the moment we arrived at my doorstep. It would somehow be easier to feel like I still belonged to him, but we just couldn’t be together. I would be able to hold onto the truth that I was still his.
But the way we are together right now in the car has demolished that illusion. His ownership of me ended the moment he said I was going home. He’s not my master anymore. I’m not his pet. We are two beings about to end our association forever with no further consideration of the nature of that association.
As we drive along, his haunting voice pierces the silence that before now has only been interrupted by my tears. “We must come up with a cover story for you. You can hardly tell your family and friends you were enslaved by a vampire.”
No. I can’t say that. I shrug because I’m past the point of caring.
“I could enthrall your family and friends, but it’s probably hit the mass media and I have no power to make everyone who could know about your disappearance, forget. So we must concoct a lie. If you couldn’t resist me, I would erase it from your mind and you would have no story to tell.”
I have hope for once. Though I don’t want to forget Christian or the weeks we’ve spent together, if it could evaporate like a dream, then I could go on with life. I feel sure of it. “What if I didn’t resist you?”
He appraises me, considering. “I’m not sure, but you’ve surrendered to me so deeply that it might be possible if you opened your mind and gave me everything.”
“Okay.”
So it’s settled. We drive on in silence. I can’t think of anything of consequence to say. It seems the same with him. We are both locked in our own thoughts and sadness, wasting the last moments we have left together.
“Christian?” My use of his name once again, without reprimand, seals the reality of the change between us, a change I hate so much I can’t quantify it with a straight thought.
“Yes?”
“What happened with the women you turned?”
His face closes off and for a minute I think he’s not going to answer, but finally he does. “As their maker, I had full power and control. I could hypnotize and control them. It changed things. They didn’t have the power to resist.”
“I wouldn’t resist you anyway, so what does it matter?”
“No, Juliette. I don’t want a puppet.”
“But how do you know it would always be that way? Maybe it wouldn’t? Maybe I’d be strong enough in time to have my own mind again.”
“Undoubtedly. Both of the women I turned eventually reclaimed their minds. But the things I did to them... ” Christian closes his eyes as if the memory is too painful and shameful to think about. “When they got control of themselves, they tried to kill me. They were physically stronger by then, so there was a chance I could lose. I had to kill one of them in the end. The other, I subdued without harming, but she later committed suicide.”
“How long were they your pets before you turned them?” I can’t help searching for an answer in the one thing I’ve feared and insisted I never wanted. It seems like the final hope.
“I turned th
em from the start. They were never a human pet.”
“So this is different, we could still—”
“No, Juliette. I’m not going there again. You must go home. I will try to take your memory.”
That’s it. He can’t be reached on the matter. I still believe we could make it if he turned me. I know we could. But whatever he’s experienced with these two women, he can’t convey the experiences to me strongly enough to make me understand why he’s so resistant. And he’s past the rationality of understanding where our situations differ, where there could be hope.
We arrive at my apartment and Christian takes my hand. “I do love you, Juliette. This is the only way I know to save you and take the pain away.”
Tears blur my vision. I want to be able to see him and remember every last detail of each line of his face for the last moments I have to remember it. If I surrender this one last piece of myself to him, he will make me forget.
He walks me to my door and takes both of my hands in his. “Look into my eyes and give me your will. Let down all your defenses, and let me in.”
“I can’t. I... just let me go. I can find a way to make it. I can’t lose the memory of you.”
“I want you to have a normal life and be happy. Please. For me. If anything between us has mattered, submit this final thing to me. You have to give me this freely because you know I can’t take it.”
It’s clear how much pain it causes him to think of me living with this and carrying it for the rest of my human existence. Knowing that I can ease his pain is the only thing that allows me to calm my mind, focus on his gaze, and let him in.
My vision clears. I must have spaced out. Why the hell am I standing on my front porch in the middle of the night? A tall, broad-shouldered man who looks like he works for the secret service is walking away from me, getting into a car and driving off.
Was he just standing here with me? Did I take something? Am I drunk? I don’t feel drunk or drugged, just confused. I dig in my jeans for my key and unlock the door. The last thing I remember is standing on a beach with a blindfold covering my eyes, waiting for Devon’s surprise.
I was scared for some reason, but I can’t remember now why that should frighten me. When I get inside, I toss my keys on the counter. All my things are in boxes. What the fuck?
I was only just here a little while ago. I look at the microwave in the kitchen. The clock says five thirty. It must be in the morning because in evening it would still be light out. I’ve lost time. My first concern is Devon. Is he okay?
I pick up the phone and dial his number, knowing I shouldn’t bother him right now. Whatever has happened with me, there is no reason to believe Devon is the one in danger. But he’s my last clear memory and I don’t know where he is now.
“Hello?”
I let out a little sigh of relief at his groggy answer. “Devon. Are you all right?”
“Juliette? Juliette!”
I’m taken aback by his response to me. “I… uh… I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“What do you mean, making sure I’m all right? Where the fuck have you been? We’ve all been worried sick. We thought you were dead. You’ve been gone three months!”
I hang up on him. I can’t help it. What he’s just said makes no sense and scares the shit out of me. I knew I’d lost a little time, and that was worrisome, but three months?
I think back to the man in the suit walking away from me. He’s a mystery. I haven’t even seen his face, just a sleek black suit gliding away and a non-descript black car disappearing down the road. No possibility seems too insane to me. Secret government experiment? Abduction by aliens?
I want to put the pieces together, but I only have one piece, and it doesn’t connect to anything else.
An hour passes, during which I sit on my sofa with a cup of tea in my hands, thankful that whoever packed up my things hadn’t finished the kitchen. My peaceful, if confused, bubble bursts before I get to the bottom of the cup.
Now it’s visitor after visitor. My parents. Devon. My friends. Teachers from the school. Police officers. Reporters. They all seem to think I’ve been missing. They all want answers, and none of them seem to believe me when I say I don’t have any. It’s like they think I’m maliciously lying to them after running off on a trip around the world.
Finally, someone comes to my rescue: my neighbor from the apartment across the hall. “She’s in shock, the poor thing.”
I’m hustled to the hospital for an examination to try to fit the pieces together. But there are no pieces to be found. It’s still only the one piece with the stranger in the suit. I could tell them about the stranger, but it seems pointless because it can’t lead to anything. It’s too vague. Still, I know I should say something and can’t understand why I feel so strongly about keeping the small bit of knowledge private. Everything inside me screams that the knowledge is mine and not to be dissected by others.
I hear the doctor speaking to my parents behind the curtain. “Have you considered maybe she just ran off and is concocting this amnesia thing to stay out of trouble?”
My father says, “How dare you say something like—”
My mom interrupts with, “Why would you say that? What possible excuse could you have for—”
“There isn’t a mark on her. Nothing. Not a single scar or scratch or bruise. No indication that she has in any way been physically harmed. Similarly,” the doctor lowers his voice, but I can still hear him. He must not realize how his voice carries. “There is no sign of rape. Her hymen is intact. She’s still a virgin. Nothing has been done to her. If someone had taken her, something would have happened. But nothing. There aren’t even rope burns on her wrists or any tears in her clothing. There is just no sign of a struggle or mistreatment of any kind.”
The curtain draws back and my parents come in. They seem to be studying me harder in light of this new knowledge.
“You’re sure you don’t remember anything?”
“Dad, I swear. Nothing. I wish I did. I wouldn’t lie about something like this. You know me.”
I’ve never been a troublemaker. I’ve never had big issues with my parents. They know I’m not the type to make shit like this up. As their faces soften, I know they’re thinking the same thing.
I’m not sure what has happened to me, but the knowledge that I haven’t been harmed in any way is comforting, at least. It’s disconcerting to have such a wide gap in my memory that no one can fill in—except maybe that man. I brush that thought aside. If I haven’t been harmed, as unsettling as this is, surely I can pick up and move on. There’s no trauma to heal from, just a puzzling confusion.
As I go back to school, people give me a wide berth. I can see most don’t believe me like my parents did. Not even Devon. That hurts. I thought we had something. Teachers, friends, they all keep a wary distance as if I’m some sort of psychopath who would create this type of lie.
The only place where anything feels normal or safe is the bakery. It’s difficult to get up so early to ice cookies now. I feel like I should be sleeping different hours. I can’t remember it being this difficult before, but it seems there are a lot of things I don’t remember.
“No nightmares?” my mom asks one morning as she takes cinnamon rolls out of the oven. As usual, she’s covered in flour. The familiarity of the moment would be comforting if not for her question.
“What? I told you I don’t remember anything and there’s no evidence that—”
“No. I mean from before. You used to have nightmares a lot, but you never told me the details no matter how hard I pressed. I eventually gave up trying to find out.”
Nightmares? I don’t recall ever having nightmares, not enough that they would be some standing feature in my life my mother would comment upon.
“Oh. No. I haven’t had any recently.” Or ever. I don’t bother to tell her I can’t remember any nightmares. The incongruity would only upset her. My family is still coming to terms with the disapp
earance I can’t remember. The doctors have done brain scans and found nothing amiss. This revelation would just cause them added distress that can’t be fixed.
I try to shrug and go on with life. At night sometimes I have what I can’t quite describe as dreams. They are more gaps, black voids. The void frightens me for some reason. There is nothing there, but it’s just the fact that I’m experiencing this weird black nothingness in the place of a dream. It feels like there should be something there, something I’m blocking.
I think the nightmares my mom says I had, the three-month memory gap, and the mysterious stranger are all somehow connected, but no picture, no narrative is emerging. I’m afraid to know what it is. Though no marks were found on me, I still fear the truth of what I’m missing is so horrible it’s best forgotten. Maybe that’s why I’ve forgotten it.
As the weeks drag on, I regret not calling out to the man. In my head I’ve played this out a million times... I imagine things went differently, that I called out to him and asked what just happened. Different wild scenarios play out in my head, but none of them feel true. And anyway, he probably wouldn’t have answered the question. He probably wouldn’t have even turned around. Somehow I know he would have kept moving, gotten into his car, and driven off, just like what already happened.
***
I wake in a cold sweat. The void dream happened again, only this time, I heard something. A strange male voice: “Pray I don’t love you, Juliette.” The voice reverberates in my head long after I wake. It’s three a.m., so I go ahead and get up and get ready to go to the bakery.
“You’re here early,” my mother says, a note of concern in her voice. “Nightmare?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I start mixing the icing for the butterfly cookies. In the weeks since I lost my memory, my parents have each been surrounded by a chaotic energy. It’s like they don’t know what to do with me. It seems as if only they have suffered because I don’t remember anything, except now I do.
