by A. Zavarelli
“I don’t want him,” I say. “I only want you. Please, Javi.”
He glances back at the stranger and smiles. The stranger continues to eat his apple, unfazed.
I hope that Javi will ask him to leave. The person that I thought had come to save me is now scarier than the monster standing right before me.
“You want to please me, my sweet?” Javi asks.
“Yes. Anything you want. Please.”
He unzips his pants. And the stranger steps closer. Watching as Javi shoves his cock into my mouth. My eyes remain glued to the intruder.
Frozen.
Unsure.
Javi slaps my breast to get my attention. I close my eyes and forget about the guest while Javi fucks my mouth and fingers me again.
I’m so wet for him. So sensitive. I have to pee so badly it hurts. I try to tell him. To mumble around him. But it’s a lost cause. He’s lost in his pleasure now. Using my face to get himself off.
His fingers tangle in my hair, and his eyes stake their claim over every part of my body. It does not matter what Javi says or what he does. Because in moments like these, it feels like he cares. It feels like I mean something to him, even as he uses me.
Perhaps it is only my imagination. Perhaps I am simply trying to justify. But it’s there, and I want more than anything to believe in it. And when he comes, I swallow everything he has to give me, just the way he likes.
He pets my cheek again. And then replaces the gag I spit out earlier.
I think that it’s over. I think that I’ve done well and that we have a connection right now, as he looks down at me, and I see the warmth creeping back into his eyes.
It doesn’t last. I should know by now that it never does.
Javi retrieves a blindfold from his pocket and ties it over my face, obscuring my eyes.
My heartbeat slows. My stomach rolls. A chill creeps over me.
There are footsteps. The intruder. He’s coming closer. So close he can touch me. I smell him, and he smells different to Javi.
I shake my head and thrash against the restraints, repeating the same thing over and over again.
No.
He wouldn’t do this. Javi wouldn’t allow anyone else to touch me. Because I’m his. That’s what he says. But it isn’t true.
I flinch when I feel fingers on my breast. Touching me. Groping me. My mind is playing tricks on me. But my ears aren’t. It’s Javi’s voice that betrays me. Cold and hard and cruel.
“Now you can have a go.”
I scream through the gag, and he moves away from me. Abandoning me. Footsteps echo down the hall. And with them, goes my fight.
The stranger drags his fingers down my body. Right between my legs. Humiliation and shame wash over me, followed by blinding hatred. I hate him so much.
I will never forgive him for this. Never.
I sob as the hands pry my legs open. And it doesn’t feel right because this isn’t Javi.
I want to believe it’s a trick. I want my Javi. But he doesn’t come for me. Not even when the stranger buries himself inside of me. The blindfold blocks the sight, but nothing else.
I can still feel him. I can still feel everything.
He fucks me. He touches the parts of my body that belong to Javi. He twists the plug inside of my ass. My bladder can’t take it. I’m too full. There is too much happening. And I’m still too sensitive. I hate this man. I hate his hands on my body, his fingers working me over.
I feel sick for responding to him. It’s not me. My body is betraying me too. Because I come again. And this time, the floodgates open.
Mortification burns my cheeks as the liquid drips down my thighs and over him. There is a muffled groan.
And then he’s pulling the plug out of me. Replacing it with his cock.
I shake my head again, protesting as he pushes inside. The place that no man has ever been before. The place that even Javi has not been before. I beg him through muted sobs. I fight. I twist and thrash and bleed when the ropes chafe at my wrists.
Eventually, my chest caves in on me, and the only thing to come out of my lungs is a god-awful wheezing sound. It isn’t the physical pain. This pain inside has crippled me. Javi has stolen everything from me. Right down to my last breath.
The weight of his malice has finally suffocated me. I can’t breathe at all. I’m deep in the throes of a panic attack. And this is how I’m going to die.
My fingers make one last feeble attempt to claw at my throat. An instinctive reaction. One still hindered by the restraints. I fall limp. I stop moving. I stop fighting. The stranger’s fingers come up to touch my face, and I turn away from him.
The gag slips out of my mouth. The blindfold falls away, and still, all I see is black.
My heart has lost the will to go on. My chest is full of cement.
“Bella. My sweet Bella. Shhh, it’s okay now. Just breathe.”
Javi.
My Javi. My cruel, cruel Javi.
I don’t want to believe it. My mind has invented this. I squeeze my eyes to keep them shut, and he tries to coax them open with words so deceptively soft.
“It’s okay, my Bella. Look at me.”
He sounds so real. And I have to know. I open my eyes. Certain I will be forever damaged. Forever ruined and betrayed and filled with this hatred.
His beard is the first thing that I see. And then the hood. I look down, at the place where we are still connected. And it has been him, the entire time. Inside of me.
Tricking me.
Tormenting me.
I sob, and it is not pretty. He is without mercy. Without humanity. I was wrong to think there was ever anything else inside of him.
He leans forward and kisses me, his cock still throbbing in my ass. He tastes my tears and licks my throat. He comforts me with the sweetest lies.
“It is only me, Bella.”
My breath has returned. And Javi does not waste this opportunity. He thrusts into me, groaning out his pleasure. And I don’t understand this. I don’t understand how I can be so broken. How I can be relieved that it is him, even after what he just did to me. He unties my wrists, and they are limp at my sides, but still, he drapes them over his back.
I claw into his sweatshirt, wishing I could draw blood, and he fucks me harder. Kissing me until I bite his lip again and force him away.
“I hate you!” I scream. “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
He kisses me anyway. And he fucks me anyway. Telling me how good I feel. How much I please him. And then, how I am only his.
“Mine, Bella,” he repeats with every thrust. “I would not share you. I never will.”
And with these final words, he bottoms out inside of me and shudders out his release.
He collapses on top of me. Kissing my throat. Stroking my hair. Comforting me with his hands and his lies.
“I hate you,” I tell him again.
But my voice lacks the conviction to make it believable, even to my own ears.
He unties me and carries me back to the conservatory. I am certain he will abandon me to my misery now. But instead, he climbs into the bed behind me and wraps his body around mine. Housing me with his arms and his warmth.
“My Bella,” he whispers into the darkness. “Forgive me.”
Chapter Twenty
In the quiet solace of night, her mind is still loud. Haunted by nightmares of the things I have done to her. The things I can’t stop doing to her.
Even so, she clutches me like I am her savior. This girl has it so wrong. And I don’t know how she still doesn’t get it. That I am no savior. I am only a monster.
I swipe away her tears with my thumb, and she opens her eyes. Bluer than ever.
“You’re still here,” she croaks.
I shift away, and she squeezes her fist in my shirt. One by one, I peel her fingers off and abandon her to the warmth of the bed.
“I hate you,” she says again.
But it is without heart this time. And wh
en I look down at the hurt etched onto her sensitive face, I wonder if she will ever really hate me. If there is anything I can do that will make it so.
"Do you like the house?" I ask.
She lifts a delicate brow.
"You mean my prison?” she snaps. “Why wouldn’t I love it here?"
"Then it is yours to do as you please," I tell her softly. "To feel at home."
"You're letting me out of the conservatory?"
She doesn't sound like she believes me.
"As long as you are a good girl."
This makes her happy again, and it is much better when she's happy. I tell myself so in one breath and hate myself in the next.
"The doors and windows are locked, so do not think about trying to leave."
Her face falls, but still, she nods.
"And you must promise to stay out of the West Wing."
"Why?"
"Just promise," I demand.
"Okay," she murmurs. "I will."
I let her get up, even though all I really want to do is kiss her.
"Come." I walk ahead and leave her to follow. "I will show you to your room."
Chapter Twenty-One
Javi was not lying when he said that the doors and windows were locked. I know, because I have tried them all. Room by room.
They are heavy. Well built. And impossible to open without a key. He has thought of everything to keep me locked away in this gilded prison. That is the first thought that comes to mind. But upon further inspection, I realize that the locks themselves are actually quite old. They have been in this house for many years.
An artifact from Javi's childhood?
I know from the footage I saw that his mother was mentally ill. This offers a possible explanation. Perhaps I have not been the only prisoner within the walls of Moldavia. Perhaps... Javi was the first.
My father used to tell me a story when I was a girl. A story about a caged bird who longed for the outside world. For the wind beneath its wings and the fresh mountain air.
The bird would sing every day, yearning to break free from its golden cage. But little by little, the bird adapted to the cage. Over time, the enclosure began to feel safe. Slowly, the memories of the outside world faded away.
The bird could no longer recall what it was like to soar above the wind. It wondered if the memory was even real at times. And when the bird thought of flying again, fear replaced longing.
What if it could no longer fly? How could it ever feel free in a world with so many unknowns?
Now the bird had everything it could ever need.
Safety. Peace.
It spent its days singing and napping and snacking on seeds. Until one day when the cage door was left open by accident. The bird found itself powerless to leave the confines of the space.
It realized that it did not want to. The cage was home. What felt like a prison at first was now a sanctuary.
Whenever my father told me this story, I always felt so miserable for the bird. Every time, I would ask him for a different outcome. I would huddle beneath the covers, pleading that the bird would find freedom again.
But it never did.
My father told me that it was idealistic of me to ask for such an outcome. That life is not always so pretty. He said that sometimes the monsters lurking within us are worse than anything outside our safe spaces.
I never really understood those words. But here in Javi’s home, they have become crystal clear. I get the analogy now. And I know what the bird represents.
Javi is afraid.
Afraid to leave Moldavia. Afraid to show anyone his true self.
He was imprisoned here too as a child. Taught to fear the outside world by his mother. And when she died, her predictions were only all too accurate.
Javi was taken away. Locked up. Abandoned with the rest of the bad apples. I don't want to feel sorry for him. How can anyone justify murdering a parent in cold blood?
I certainly never thought I could.
But my thoughts are shifting, the longer I am here. The longer I spend with Javi and come to understand his deep-rooted fears. He has been alone his entire life. Cast out from society. Taught fear and avoidance. Hurt by the one woman whose role it was to nurture him. The extent of which, I may never know.
Is it possible he snapped? That one day, he finally got tired of her hurting him? Is there a length of time that could ever justify his actions that day? What amount of pain must one endure before it is okay to make it stop?
I don’t know. But I want to. I want to know everything about him. And that is a dangerous want to have. But once it takes shape in my heart, I can't stop it. I can't stop the sickness from growing inside of me. Day and night, it haunts me.
Javi told me not to go into the West Wing of the house. And this is how I know that is where my answers are.
It starts out small. I learn his schedule first. I observe which rooms he occupies the most. They are in close proximity to each other. All in the East Wing. Even his master suite is only two doors down from my room. But he has not come to me again. Not since he showed me the house that day two weeks ago.
He has left me to make my own meals. Meals consisting of what I find in the fridge and pantry. It is all child's food. Macaroni and cheese. Fruit snacks. Chicken nuggets. Hot dogs. And the makings for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I didn't realize it until now. These are the same things he's been feeding me the entire time I've been here.
He eats peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day.
It occurs to me that Javi probably does not know how to cook. Because nobody ever taught him. I make a mental note of it. I make a mental note of everything. How long he spends in his office each day. Working on several computers. Doing what, I don't know.
Something for the agency. Something I probably don't even want to know.
At night, he goes to the room at the end of the hall. I would call it a gym, except it consists only of a punching bag and a weight bench. He works out like he's trying to kill himself. Then he showers. And he reads. This last one, I find surprising, though I'm not entirely sure why.
There are no televisions in the house. He doesn't listen to music. I suppose this is all he's ever had to do. Work, exercise, and read. He is a caged bird if ever there was one.
When I am confident I know his schedule, I decide that it’s time to move forward. It is mid-week. After lunch. His office door is still closed, and I know he won't be coming out anytime soon. I also know that he can check his cameras at any time. But I can only hope that his avoidance of me has spilled over into the digital aspect too.
My journey is a slow one. This part of the house is dark. Quiet. Ominous. I stay near the wall and keep to the shadows, trailing my fingers over the wood paneling to guide my way.
The first room that I encounter is a bedroom. Another master suite. But this one belonged to a woman. Javi's mother. Her things are still here. Just the way she left them. Preserved beneath a thick layer of dust. Her blankets are turned down, nightgown draped over the end of the bed. Nothing looks out of place. It appears as though nothing has been touched since that last morning she woke up.
I move through the room like a ghost, afraid of any noise I might make. Afraid to even breathe.
It is her desk that has captured my attention. A desk stacked with journals. One by one, I leaf through them.
They are chronicled by time. The earliest are the works of the brilliant scientist she was known to be. But as the years progress, they catalog her descent into madness.
The later stacks are filled with gibberish. Words rewritten over words. The pages are almost entirely black in some of them, impossible to read. But the ones that I can see are clear enough.
She talks of the implants. Her fears for Javi. She speaks of the steps she needs to take to safeguard the house. Her shopping lists. Her projects. She details her suspicions of the mailman. The maid. Her co-workers. And gradually, one by one, she tars them all as spies.
&
nbsp; It is when Javi is five years old that the surgeries begin. She describes them in horrific detail, right down to the precise muscles she believes the devices are implanted within.
She decides it is not safe to keep Javi in school and withdraws him. Shortly after, she loses her job, citing irreconcilable differences. There is an indication that the doctors are trying to poison her with pills. Pills she refuses to take. And the journal entries continue over the span of Javi’s brief childhood.
Until the very last day.
Only one entry was penned on that day. Haunting last words.
They got to her too.
She can feel the device inside of her.
And it has to come out.
Chapter Twenty-Two
My exploration of the West Wing is a measured task. It is done slowly, day after day. I don't want to arouse Javi's suspicions, and there is only a limited window of time that I feel confident in my routine.
He continues to avoid me, for reasons I don’t know. But if the past is any indication that could turn on a dime.
I question if he’s even capable of feeling guilt for the things he's done. And then I wonder if he has tired of me. It shouldn't matter to me. I should be relieved. But instead, I am lonely. More isolated with every passing day. And I am hesitant to acknowledge that I miss his company. His warmth... and on the rare occasion he offers it, his affection.
Today, I pass by the remaining bedrooms in the West Wing. They are empty. Nothing to see. But I do find the surgery room again. And the tapes again. There are piles beside the projector.
I don't think I can stomach to watch any more of them. So I dig through the cupboards instead. Checking the labels and seeking out anything else that I might have missed before.
There are too many bottles to count. More surgical tools than most operating theaters probably have. Additional journals with irrational entries.
And one odd looking key.
At first, I dismiss it. Until I realize that it could be important. The lock on the door to this room is broken, and the key doesn’t fit. There is no window, so I go to another room and try the door and window there.
