by Sienna Parks
I thoroughly enjoyed using my Boy Scout innovation skills to transform our hotel room into a temporary playroom, using the desk as a flogging table, the wrought iron artwork on the walls providing anchors for me to tether Vittoria with ties, creating a rudimentary form of a cross to restrain her in an upright position. In the end, I had to put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door to stop housekeeping from walking in on the furniture moved, and makeshift restraints hanging from the walls! It was fantastic.
We ate in some of the most amazing restaurants, off the beaten track, not the usual tourist areas which are always bustling. We shared breakfast in bed, Vittoria providing a beautifully naked platter for me to eat from.
By the time I had to go back to reality, back to work, and out of Vittoria’s orbit, I felt sick to my stomach. I didn’t want her coming to the airport with me, leaving her to make her way back into Paris on her own. I made her promise to let me leave from the hotel, where we could say a proper goodbye. I got up early, ordered her favorite breakfast of blueberry pancakes, and wrote her a letter to open after I left, leaving it taped to the bathroom mirror so she would find it.
I gave her an intense pleasure spanking before breakfast, forcing her to stay completely naked, for my perusal, to see the blush of my handprint on her pretty little ass. She sat in my lap, feeding me as I reciprocated, making sure she ate every last bite, her satisfied moans making my cock twitch. Then, I took her back to bed and made love to her, until she was screaming my name, begging her Master for more, for harder, forever. She drifted off into a sated and peaceful sleep, nestled in my arms, before I slipped out of bed, dressed, and kissed her softly, drinking in her scent, memorizing it to tide me over until the next time she’s in my arms.
I left her there three months ago, my sleeping beauty, and that’s the image I hold in my thoughts, every night when I go to bed, alone, my heart heavy with the burden of distance between us.
The tour has been a major success, the guys have won over every city they’ve played in; the crowds growing as word spreads about the amazingly talented, Flaming Embers. We’re about to start the final leg of the tour, hitting twenty-five major cities throughout America, and with the momentum behind them right now, we have offers coming in from radio stations and talk shows from all over the country, asking to interview the boys. It’s going to be a grueling month, but at the end of it, I get to see Vittoria. I’m going to take a few months off and fly with her wherever she’s travelling. I don’t care if I have to live out of a suitcase again, I just want to be with her. It’s been too long since we were last together.
I’ve been trying to make our schedules work, giving her numerous dates that I could have flown out for the weekend to be with her, but she always has something going on: promo, extra shows, or plans that she can’t get out of. At first I just put it down to bad luck and sucky timing, but as the weeks have gone by, she’s becoming more withdrawn, her excuses seeming more and more implausible. I thought things were good with us when I left Paris, but now I’m beginning to wonder. She called me the second I landed to thank me for the letter I left her. We were on FaceTime with each other every day for those first few weeks, talking and laughing as if we were in the same room together, but then it stopped – like a switch being turned off. I couldn’t get ahold of her on the phone for days. She would send me short text messages to say that she was fine, and sorry that she missed my calls. I took solace in the fact that I knew she was safe, and that nothing had happened to her. If I hadn’t heard from her, I would have been on the first plane out, to make sure she was okay.
It’s been like that for a while now. She goes through phases of calling me, hyper and excited about the next time we’ll be together, laughing and joking, and then, when I suggest some dates that I could make it happen, she shuts down. I’ve asked her on a few occasions if she’s met someone, or if she’s changed her mind about us and our long-distance relationship. I know how hard it is, and I wouldn’t blame her if she wanted to find a Master who could be with her more often. What kind of Master can I really be to her when I’m thousands of miles away, for months at a time? I love her with everything that I am, but is it enough?
This past week she hasn’t called me back, my only communication with her has been via text message, until tonight. It had been eight days since I’d last heard her voice, and I was really starting to worry about her. Speaking to her didn’t allay those fears in any way, so I’ve decided that I’m going to fly out to Italy. I have a few days off coming up, and I still have her schedule, which says she’ll be there until next week. It should be easy enough to find her, all I need to do is go to the theater where she’s performing. I’ll worry about how pissed she’s going to be, later. I’m past the point of giving her the benefit of the doubt. She’s shutting me out again, and I don’t know why.
Something’s going on, and I intend to find out what.
It needs to stop.
The pain, the nightmares, I need the agony to stop.
I need to make it all… just… stop.
I can’t keep lying to everyone; to my family; to my friends; to Logan. He deserves so much better. I can’t even look at him right now, and I know he’s starting to get suspicious. It’s been two months since I spoke to him on FaceTime. It’s easy enough to do when he’s on tour with the band, and I’m supposedly on tour with the ballet, but I’m running out of excuses.
It’s getting hard to even hear his voice. The past two weeks, I’ve faked missing his calls, watching his handsome face flash on my screen until it goes to voicemail. I’ve become a master of deceit. I wait until it’s late wherever he is, and then I text him to apologize for missing his call. Then, I promise that I’ll speak to him the next day. Once or twice he’s still been out partying with the guys, and I’ve been forced to speak to him, but I keep it brief. I feign rehearsals, or tiredness, or being out with Luca. None of that is true.
Without Logan, the nightmares are back, worse than ever. Since my injury in Prague, they’ve been happening more often, but now, after the shibari demonstration in Paris, it’s every night, without fail. I wake up screaming, clawing at the man I believe is on top of me. The nightmares are becoming more intense, and it’s not just reliving that awful memory. Now, I’m an adult in the dream, and I’m in a BDSM club, or I’m at rehearsals, or I’m alone in my apartment back in New York. He’s everywhere, and I can never fight him off, no matter how hard I struggle. No one can hear me, because when I scream for help, scream for Logan, no sound comes out. Since the morning he left Paris, I’ve been plagued by what can only be described as night terrors.
It’s terrifying, and horrific, and I can’t escape it.
I don’t eat, I don’t sleep. I left my friends behind months ago. It’s just me, in this hotel room, alone in my despair. I don’t answer calls from Carter or my parents. I send them emails of my fake travels, saying I’ll be in touch when my schedule calms down. I know if Carter heard my voice, he would know, he would come and get me, but I can’t put him through that. I won’t. He’s done enough for me, given up so much for so long. His life is finally working out the way it should. He has the perfect family, and I won’t be responsible for him having to choose between them and me. He’s hardwired to protect me, and it almost broke him. It’s for the best that he doesn’t know.
I feel terrible for all the lies that I’ve told Logan over the last two months. It kills me every time the words slip past my lips, but I can’t see any other way to deal with it. The sexy, raspy tone of his voice, cuts deep into my soul, making me ache for him. I know that if I told him what happened, he’d be on the first flight out here, leaving behind everything he’s worked so hard for, to be with me. I can’t do that to him. I can’t do that to me. I don’t want to see the pity in his eyes. I thought I would get better, that I would get my shit together, and I would go home to him, to our life together, but that won’t happen now. I can’t see a way out anymore – at least, not one that will bring us back to each ot
her. There’s only one way out of this misery. For all intents and purposes, my life ended two months ago, and all that’s left for me, is to complete the task.
Two Months Ago
“I’m so sorry, Miss de Rossi. There’s nothing more we can do.”
Luca is by my side, squeezing my hand as the doctor delivers the news.
“I’ve repaired your ankle as best I could, enough to allow you to walk without a limp, but I’m afraid the injury was extensive. You won’t be able to continue with ballet professionally. Dancing through the pain for so long has caused irreparable damage.”
“Maybe if I take six months off? Then I could dance again?”
“You don’t understand. If you continue to dance, you’ll be in a wheelchair within a year. It’s remarkable that you aren’t already. You were very lucky.”
I struggle out of Luca’s embrace, the sight of his tears, a knife ripping through my insides.
“Lucky… you think I’m lucky?!! Ballet is all I care about. It’s who I am. Without it, I’m nothing. Worthless.”
“I know it feels like that now, but you’re a young woman, with a lot to live for. When you come to terms with this, you’ll realize that you are so much more than a dancer. I’m sure you have many people in your life that love you no matter what you do, including the man standing next to you. I’ll leave you to digest all of this. A nurse will be in later to go over your rehabilitation program with you.”
As the doctor closes the door behind him, my world falls apart. Everything I knew, gone. Just… gone. Luca tries to console me, but I can’t bear to see him cry.
“Please go. I need some time.”
“I’m not leaving you. Ballerina or not, you will always be my Vittoria bella. I love you, and I’m here for you.” He moves to give me a hug, but the pity in his eyes is my undoing.
“Get the hell out. I don’t want you here. You’re everything that I can’t have anymore. You’re a bad reminder, and I can’t even look at you. Get out… get out… get out!!”
“Vittoria…”
“Please, if you care about me at all, just go.”
He wipes the tears from his eyes, kisses me on the forehead, and makes his way to the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow and see if you’re up to having a visitor. I love you, bella. Always remember that.” As the door closes, and I’m left alone in the silence and misery of my own mind, I give into the realization that my life as I know it, is over.
I thought it couldn’t get any darker than that day, but here I am two months later, and it’s infinitely worse. I never did let Luca come back to see me. I went through physio by myself. Days and weeks of agonizing pain to get back on my feet. Nothing but darkness, loneliness, pain, and lies. So much time to sit and contemplate all of the bad in my life, and I’ve come to the only possible conclusion – I’m bad, I’m the poison in my own life. Without ballet to center me, to focus my energy, I’ve realized that it was all my fault; Marcus, my injury, Logan. It’s all on me, and there’s only one way to fix it.
I never open the curtains in my hotel room anymore, and I usually tell housekeeping to leave me alone. Today is no exception. The room is dark and quiet, only the sounds of my breathing to let me know that I can still hear, the feel of my heartbeat letting me know that I’m still alive.
I am numb.
I feel… nothing.
It’s the only way to cope with the pain; both mental and physical.
I’ve been taking pain meds for so long now, they have no effect on me anymore. They don’t take away my pain, physical or emotional. I tried to stop taking them before the final injury that ended my career, but I couldn’t get through a performance without them. They became part of my day, something that I needed to get me through. I’ve scammed meds from doctors all over Europe, and now here I sit, with two bottles of pills, and a glass of wine from the mini-bar.
This is what my life has come to – alone, in a hotel room, on the other side of the world from everyone I love. It’s a sad way to end things, but it’s a fitting one for me.
My phone begins to vibrate on the table in front of me. It’s Logan. I debate whether or not to let it go to voicemail, but a part of me wants to talk to him one last time, to hear his commanding voice saying my name. To tell him I love him. I take a deep breath, before picking up the phone and pressing the answer button, ready to give the performance of my life.
“Hi, baby.”
“Hey, little one. How’s my girl? I feel like I never manage to catch you these days. I miss you so much. Only four weeks and we’ll be together again. I’m counting the days.”
I struggle to speak past the lump forming in my throat. “I miss you, too. More than I could ever explain.”
“Are you okay? You don’t sound too good, and it’s not the first time. I’m worried about you. You would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you? We might not be in the same country, but you are always on my mind. I’m here for anything that you need. That’s what being your Master is all about, no matter how far apart we are. I love you. You know that, don’t you?”
My heart is breaking, knowing what this will do to him, but I can’t go on, it’s too hard.
“I’m fine. Just tired. I love you so much, Logan. More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”
“I know this is hard, but we’ll get through it. We’ll be together again soon, I promise.”
I hold my hand over my mouth to hold in the cries that I know are fighting to break free.
“I need to go just now. Luca is hounding me to rehearse.”
“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you.”
“I… I love you… Master Fitzgerald.”
I end the call and throw my cell phone across the room, watching it smash against the wall and fall to the floor in pieces. This isn’t how my life was supposed to be. I wanted what every young girl dreams of.
I wanted to have a happy, innocent childhood.
I wanted to feel safe and secure.
I wanted to be a ballerina.
I wanted to meet a man, fall in love, and live happily ever after.
I wanted to have all of those things with Logan Fitzgerald. But life is cruel, and unfair, and I don’t deserve any of that happiness.
I can hardly see the bottle of pills through the tears that are coursing down my cheeks, but I manage to get them open. I take three tablets at a time, placing them on my tongue, washing them down with a mouthful of wine; the sound of Logan’s voice telling me we’ll be together soon, haunting me.
I take another three. Replaying over and over, the way he sounds when he tells me he loves me.
I keep taking the pills until the first bottle is empty, and then I pour myself another glass of wine, before starting in on the next bottle.
When I can’t take anymore, I grab one of Logan’s T-shirts that I brought on tour with me, and the letter he left for me in Paris. I’ve read it every day, multiple times, memorizing every last word, but I still want to read it one last time; to run my fingers over his penmanship and remember the last time he made love to me. I curl up on the bed, with his letter in one hand and his T-shirt clutched tightly to my chest. It still smells of him, and it gives me a twisted sort of comfort as I feel myself losing consciousness. I say goodbye to the pain, the hurt, and the guilt I’ve carried with me for so many years, ready to let it all go, to let it all… stop.
He is the love of my life, even in death.
If only things could have been different.
If only I could have been different.
We could have been so happy… together.
Today started like any other day; mundane and ordinary. It’s disturbing how quickly tragedy can throw your world into disarray. How a single moment can catapult you from monotonous to monstrous; temperate to terrified, in an instant.
When my alarm went off this morning, I hit the snooze button, like I do every morning. Then, after another nine minutes of pretending I could fall back to sleep, I grabbed my phone and
checked to see if Vittoria had messaged me. It becomes a habit when you’re constantly living in different time zones. A few months back, I would find a handful of messages in the morning. Sometimes funny, sometimes cute, and on a regular basis, downright filthy. Even now that the messages have become fewer and farther between, and the phone calls have all but stopped, I still find myself… hoping. There were no messages, and as I dragged my sorry ass out of bed, exhausted from a late night with the band, I felt disappointed.
I’m doing my best in a bad situation. It’s difficult to exercise control over your submissive when you’re on different continents, but she knows that I love her, and that I want to make it work. So why do I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach about her?
I’ve tried to ignore it, telling myself I’m just feeling a little overprotective of our relationship after speaking to her last night. She tried to sound upbeat, but something in her voice wasn’t right. It’s gnawing at me, and I just can’t shake the feeling, as I go through the motions of my day.
I’m sitting having lunch with Campbell and the boys when my phone rings. It’s not a number I recognize; it’s international.
“Logan Fitzgerald speaking.”
“Mr. Fitzgerald, do you know a Miss Vittoria de Rossi?”
My heart begins to race, and my stomach churns. “Yes. She’s my girlfriend. Can I ask who I’m speaking to?”
“I’m a nurse. I’m calling from Kelen Hospital in Budapest. Your girlfriend was admitted to our emergency room today. Yours is the last number she spoke with on her phone.”
