Beauty in the Broken

“Undress.”

I pull off my shoes and dress and kick them away. The door is open. It’s the only thing that gives me hope. If he was going to torture me, he would’ve closed it. He’s going to punish me, but he won’t cut off my finger. I haven’t stolen anything. Yet. Surely, he won’t treat actions and intentions the same?

He takes a coil of rope from the bedside table drawer. “Everything.”

Having me naked is his way of making me vulnerable. I won’t give him that. It’s just a body. He’s seen it enough times. This is what I repeat in my head as I take off my bra and panties.

He walks back to the foot-end of the bed and points at the space in front of him. “Come over here.”

When I’m positioned, he ties my wrists together and strings me up by the top bar of the four-poster bed, facing the headboard, until my toes barely touch the floor. My arms are already aching and my leg muscles taking strain, especially after this morning’s brutal workout.

“Last chance,” he says behind me. “Why do you need the evidence?”

Biting my lip, I shake my head.

“Very well.” He drags a finger down my spine. “I gave you a choice. Remember that.”

His touch disappears. His footsteps are muffled on the carpet, only audible on the slab of marble on the step.

He gave me a choice, but there isn’t one. He offered me a gilded cage and dangled all its pretty glory under my nose with a request to try and be happy. He gave me a choice to answer, but the truth is mine to hold, mine and mine alone. Damn him to hell if he’s going to punish me for that.

A sound at the door alarms me of his return. I strain to look over my shoulder and freeze. Damian closes the door. Firmly and irrevocably. He doesn’t turn the key, but the click is in place. In his hand, he carries a whip. It has several straps knotted at the ends. I start to tremble when he approaches, not only from the sight of the whip but also from the fear of the closed door tearing through me. The way the manly veins bulge in his forearms and the dark hair that coats his skin, these are the details that imprint on my mind. His maleness. His superior strength. But only in the physical sense. I’m stronger in spirit. I will not break.

He massages my shoulders gently, working his way down my spine to my lower back. He kneads and prepares me while I battle to breathe through my fear.

I’m stronger. I’m stronger.

The heat of his body is replaced with a rush of cool air. His touch disappears.

I’m stronger. I’m stronger.

A whoosh races through the air before a firework of pain explodes on my back. The agony hits me in too many places at once for my brain to process. I’m a shambled mess of cross-wired messages. My neurons go haywire. My skin is on fire, and my flesh aches, but I’m not sure which one of the many intricate pains I feel is worse.

“Why do you need the evidence, Lina?”

I’m stronger. “I can’t tell.”

I hear it. I feel the air move, but I’m not ready for that pain when it crashes down on me again. It’s everywhere—my shoulders, back, buttocks. A flash of fire curls around my side. Another hits the curve of my breast. My thighs. It’s happening too fast and too slow. My legs give out and my arms stretch painfully above me.

“Why, Lina?”

With the next lash, I give up on keeping the sounds in. A wail leaves my chest and bubbles in an ugly sound over my lips.

“I told you not to try and escape.”

The swing of his arm is rhythmic now, but the many straps fall too haphazardly. I can’t predict the paths of the pain. The sting penetrates my butt and thighs, and the burn lingers deep under my skin. It stays like a resonating sound, its music continuing as Damian makes new notes and different scores on my back and my legs.

“Why?”

I nearly faint with the next blow. I’ve forgotten my mantra. All my energy, all of my being is focused on surviving the pain, on dealing with the sensory onslaught.

“Why?”

The same question, over and over. I don’t know which blows are new and which are old. New and old blurs, until there’s only lasting pain. Horrible pain.

“Damn you, Lina! Why?”

“I-I can’t.”

I sob. I scream. I cry. I shake. I just want to die, but I’m stronger.

“Why?”

I can’t tell. I don’t want to tell. It’s too hurtful. Too shameful. Too private. Too devastating. Who the hell is he to demand these corners of my soul? It took me a year to breathe without breaking down, a year to sleep without waking from the pain of the part that’s been ripped out of me. This is a missing part of my body, my heart, my mind. It’s not his to share.