Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian (Fifty Shades 6)

“It is?”

“You know it is.”

“Why am I being forthcoming? I can’t say. Seeing you practically dead on the cold concrete, maybe.” I flinch, remembering Ana on the ground outside that derelict warehouse where Hyde was holding my sister. It’s traumatic so I turn my thoughts in a happier direction, to Junior. “The fact I’m going to be a father. I don’t know. You said you wanted to know, and I don’t want Elena to come between us. She can’t. She’s the past, and I’ve said that to you so many times.”

“If she hadn’t made a pass at you, would you still be friends?” Ana asks.

“That’s more than one question.”

“Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.” She blushes, and it’s good to see some color in her cheeks. “You’ve already volunteered more than I ever thought you would.”

“No, I don’t think so, but she’s felt like unfinished business since my birthday. She stepped over the line, and I’m done. Please, believe me. I’m not going to see her again. You said she’s a hard limit for you. That’s a term I understand.”

Ana smiles. “Good night, Christian. Thank you for the enlightening bedtime story.” She leans over and touches her lips to mine, her tongue teasing me. My body ignites, and I pull away.

“Don’t. I am desperate to make love to you,” I whisper through my desire.

“Then do.”

“No, you need to rest, and it’s late. Go to sleep.” I switch off the bedside light and we’re surrounded by the darkness.

“I love you unconditionally, Christian,” Ana whispers, as she snuggles up to me.

“I know,” I whisper, bathing in her light.

You…and my parents.

Unconditionally.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

It’s almost midnight. Apart from some exercise, I’ve enjoyed a quiet day with my wife; our only excursion has been to see Ray, who is definitely on the mend. Other than that, I’ve insisted that Ana stay in bed and rest. She’s acquiesced but has been reading a couple of manuscripts, and no amount of cajoling on my part could persuade her otherwise.

Mrs. Jones has returned from her sister’s, and this evening she prepared a hearty three-course meal for the two of us. She seems as anxious for Ana’s well-being as I am.

Ana fell asleep just after ten.

I’ve caught up on work, and now I’m poring over the notes that Mrs. Collier wrote to my mother and father while I was in her care. She has a neat and tidy hand, and her words spark small reminiscences that cast light into the dark corners of my memory.

Kristian won’t let me wash him, but he does know how to wash himself. It has taken two baths to get him clean and I’ve had to teach him how to wash his hair. He will not tolerate us touching him at all.

Kristian had a better day today. He still refuses to talk. We don’t know if he can or if he’s unable. He has a temper, though. The other kids are quite scared of him.

Kristian still doesn’t let any of us touch him. He has a meltdown if we do.

Kristian is hungry. He has a huge appetite for such a skinny little kid. His favorites are pasta and ice cream.

Our daughter, Phoebe, has taken a shine to Kristian. She dotes on him, and he’s tolerating her attention. She sits and draws with him. I don’t think he’s had a great deal of experience drawing.

Where Phoebe goes, Kristian will follow.

Today Kristian had a meltdown. He does not like to be parted from his blanket. But it’s filthy. I let him sit and watch it in the washing machine. This seemed to be the only thing that calmed him down.

The memories flare and flicker to the surface in fits and starts, but it’s the feeling of being overwhelmed that resonates most with me. I was in a strange place, with a strange family—it must have been horribly bewildering. No wonder I chose to forget that time. But, having read through the notes, I know I didn’t come to any harm there and I do remember Phoebe. She would sing to me. Silly songs. She was kind and especially sweet to me.

I’m grateful that my parents kept these letters. They remind me just how far removed I am from that frightened little boy. I am not him anymore. He no longer exists.

I contemplate sharing these with Ana, then remember her reaction to the photographs. Her sorrow as she gazed at that starved, neglected child. And they’d remind of her that asshole Hyde…and how much he and I have in common.

To hell with that.

She’s had enough to contend with over the last few days.

I tuck the letters, drawings, and the photographs into a manilla folder marked KRISTIAN and file them safely away in my filing cabinet for another day. Maybe when she’s fully recovered. Besides, I need to talk this through with Flynn, and I should do that before I share them with Ana. She’s my wife, not my therapist.