This Cruel Love

He was delusional.

Don’t worry, I’m sure your soulmate is out there somewhere, pushing a pull door. Happy times all round when you meet her.

I did enjoy winding him up. It was a shame I couldn’t see his face as he read my messages. Twisting the knife at just the right time was my forte, after all.

Jackson - Well just so you know, the trash gets picked up tomorrow. Be careful they don’t take you too.

Did he just call me trash? Hell no, I wasn’t letting that one go.

Trash? Really? What language are you speaking exactly, because it sounds like

bullshit! Don’t you have anything better to do than phone stalk me?

I sat down on the ridiculously comfy couch to wait for his reply. I couldn’t keep the smile from spreading over my face as the dots continued to dance around. This was actually fun, in a weird, sadistic way. Well, it was a welcome distraction from the pain of missing my boyfriend, and having to do the devil’s bidding for the next three months.

Jackson - You’re such a treasure, aren’t you? I’d happily bury you...alive.

Treasure, bury, ha! He thought he was so funny.

And there it goes again, that feeling of Deja Poo. You know, when I think I’ve heard all of this crap before. Go and make someone else’s day hell, Lucifer.

My sensible side was urging me to turn off my phone and end this now, but where was the fun in that? My sassy side always won out.

Jackson - You have a pet name for me already, that’s sweet. You do know, Lucifer means light bearer. I’m glad you hold me in such high esteem.

Trust him to put a positive spin on it.

Hmm, light like the sun... painful to look at or be around for too long. Or maybe a star? Because let’s face it, one of these days you’re gonna crash and burn.

Point to Ryley, take that asshole.

Jackson - We can’t all be perfect like you, can we? It must be so exhausting, putting make-up on both of your faces in the morning.

Whatever, asshat. Bring it on.

As fun as this is, I have better things to do...like check out my prison for the next three months.

I was expecting a message back about prisons and dungeons, or something slave related. What I got totally threw me.

Jackson - I’ll be home around seven with some Chinese. What do you like?

Jesus, did this guy actually think I’d eat food with him and play house like some kind of fool?

I’d like to not see your smug-ass face unless I really have to, so stuff your Chinese.

I was actually salivating at the thought of a Chinese, but I wasn’t about to let him know that.

Six hours later, the aromas of sweet and sour and other Chinese delights wafted their way down to my new bedroom/cell, but I tried really hard not to let them affect me. The cheese sandwich I’d made in haste before he came home looked so unappealing. I still stuffed it in my mouth in an attempt to appease my hunger. I didn’t want to go out there. I didn’t want to see him yet; I didn’t feel ready. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like we hadn’t spoken, or argued before, but this time, being on his territory with no way out, it all felt different. It was more personal, and I wasn’t one step ahead this time. He held all the power and I didn’t like it.

He hadn’t come knocking on my door last night. I spent most of the evening dreading the impending visit, but it never came. I heard him out in the living room watching T.V., then having a shower in another bathroom down the hall. But I had no desire to come out of my assigned room to see him. I felt much safer locked up in my plush ‘cell’, trying to ring and message my boyfriend. I got no response. I should’ve realised he’d have his phone confiscated as soon as he checked into rehab. But I’d still hoped for some contact before he turned it in for ninety days.

My stomach rumbled as I rolled over in bed and smelt the freshly brewed coffee permeating through the apartment. Damn, I was going to have to bite the bullet and go out there, wasn’t I? Either that, or starve to death in here. The lure of decent coffee and maybe a pastry or two was too tempting though. Even I would run the gauntlet of the devil for that kind of start to my day.

I threw on my skinny jeans and a vest top, and cautiously ventured out of the room. I fluffed my wayward curls into some semblance of a style as I crept down the corridor and into the living room. I could hear movement in the kitchen, the usual clinking of cutlery and clattering of cups and plates.

“Hello, love. You must be Ryley.”

I jumped out of my skin at the sound of an older lady’s voice behind me. I turned to see a woman in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, smiling at me. She had her dark brown hair tied up into a bun, and the polish and duster in her hand gave her identity away. So that’s who puts the feminine touch to his lair. His housekeeper.