the motions of washing and conditioning my hair before bathing, shaving, and soaking. I’m also uncertain how long Roman continued to bang against the bathroom door before the wood splinters and he storms into the bathroom.
“ GET THE FUCK OUT! NOW, HEATHER!”
I can’t even care enough to move my gaze from watching as my toe slides in and out of one of the four faucet holes.
“You called the front desk for first aid supplies, and now you’re sitting in a tub full of bloody water, Heather, fucking get the fuck out of it right fucking now or I’ll—“
A dark chuckle from somewhere very deep within me ceases his words before my cynical and sarcastic drenched words are slowly and methodically spoken, “You’ll what, Roman? Tear more skin from my body? Or better yet, chastise me as though I’m a child for doing nothing more than calling you a term of endearment? You want to know what I really wish you would do ‘Romie’?” I slowly stand and step from the bath water and notice the pool of water I was contently soaking in, is indeed dark red. My wet feet pad across the tile floor, trailing a bloody mess of footprints behind me.
I slide my arms through the obvious ‘His’ robe, after I tighten the robe’s sash I turn walking from the room and blandly tell him over my shoulder, “Finish this ridiculous, childish game. Quit dawdling around hoping and waiting for my amusement to wear off and allow me my number. Point blank, I’m tired of your games… all I want is to become number thirteen.”
I peel the robe that’s fibers have already dried, embedding themselves into my open wounds and pick up the large box of medical supplies. And without concern, much less giving a shit as to what hydrogen peroxide will do to the Berber carpet in the master bedroom, I open the large brown bottle and pour it down my backside until it’s emptied of its contents. Then I pick up all three tubes of Neosporin + pain relief and squeeze the contents into my palm cackling at the ‘+ pain relief ’ before smearing it in copious amounts across my lower back, my bottom, and the tops of the back of my thighs. After I’ve accomplished my first two steps of ‘Triage 101: Repairing an ass whose skin has been removed’, I lay gauze over where I’ve rubbed the Neosporin and slip a silk nighty over my head. I peel every blanket from the bed leaving only the silk fitted sheet and lay across it diagonally facing away from anything and everything that is Roman Payne, all while my bloody bath water soaked hair stains the expensive white silk sheets beneath me.
And right as my consciousness slips away I hear the sounds of Roman Payne, raining down his merciless havoc as he shatters and slams every piece of glass and wood within the master suite against any and every hard surface except the bed until I slip into oblivion with a nothing more than a sigh.
Chapter 15
I’ve lost her. I had her; I’ve had her for over a year. She and I have been on the same page; eye to eye on how this, how WE work for a very long time now. I say when. I say how. I say when and how, dammit. That is how WE work.
Fine, she wants to be number thirteen, then number thirteen she will become.
I chase tumbler after tumbler of an expensive bottle of scotch between sips of my club soda. Every minute within this hell I reside in, my mind alternates from loving her, holding her, cherishing her, to choking her, maiming her, and skinning her. From keeping her…to killing her.
Sixteen hours have passed since Heather stumbled from the tub. Sixteen hours since I watched her pour the bottle of hydrogen peroxide down her back and then doctor her well earned stripes. Sixteen hours since I broke free of the last restraint holding my control and decimated every object within my reach.
Now, I sit staring at the clock over the rim of the glass against my lips and down the last drops of scotch. I realize we are two hours late for brunch with my parents.
The empty
“ GET THE FUCK OUT! NOW, HEATHER!”
I can’t even care enough to move my gaze from watching as my toe slides in and out of one of the four faucet holes.
“You called the front desk for first aid supplies, and now you’re sitting in a tub full of bloody water, Heather, fucking get the fuck out of it right fucking now or I’ll—“
A dark chuckle from somewhere very deep within me ceases his words before my cynical and sarcastic drenched words are slowly and methodically spoken, “You’ll what, Roman? Tear more skin from my body? Or better yet, chastise me as though I’m a child for doing nothing more than calling you a term of endearment? You want to know what I really wish you would do ‘Romie’?” I slowly stand and step from the bath water and notice the pool of water I was contently soaking in, is indeed dark red. My wet feet pad across the tile floor, trailing a bloody mess of footprints behind me.
I slide my arms through the obvious ‘His’ robe, after I tighten the robe’s sash I turn walking from the room and blandly tell him over my shoulder, “Finish this ridiculous, childish game. Quit dawdling around hoping and waiting for my amusement to wear off and allow me my number. Point blank, I’m tired of your games… all I want is to become number thirteen.”
I peel the robe that’s fibers have already dried, embedding themselves into my open wounds and pick up the large box of medical supplies. And without concern, much less giving a shit as to what hydrogen peroxide will do to the Berber carpet in the master bedroom, I open the large brown bottle and pour it down my backside until it’s emptied of its contents. Then I pick up all three tubes of Neosporin + pain relief and squeeze the contents into my palm cackling at the ‘+ pain relief ’ before smearing it in copious amounts across my lower back, my bottom, and the tops of the back of my thighs. After I’ve accomplished my first two steps of ‘Triage 101: Repairing an ass whose skin has been removed’, I lay gauze over where I’ve rubbed the Neosporin and slip a silk nighty over my head. I peel every blanket from the bed leaving only the silk fitted sheet and lay across it diagonally facing away from anything and everything that is Roman Payne, all while my bloody bath water soaked hair stains the expensive white silk sheets beneath me.
And right as my consciousness slips away I hear the sounds of Roman Payne, raining down his merciless havoc as he shatters and slams every piece of glass and wood within the master suite against any and every hard surface except the bed until I slip into oblivion with a nothing more than a sigh.
Chapter 15
I’ve lost her. I had her; I’ve had her for over a year. She and I have been on the same page; eye to eye on how this, how WE work for a very long time now. I say when. I say how. I say when and how, dammit. That is how WE work.
Fine, she wants to be number thirteen, then number thirteen she will become.
I chase tumbler after tumbler of an expensive bottle of scotch between sips of my club soda. Every minute within this hell I reside in, my mind alternates from loving her, holding her, cherishing her, to choking her, maiming her, and skinning her. From keeping her…to killing her.
Sixteen hours have passed since Heather stumbled from the tub. Sixteen hours since I watched her pour the bottle of hydrogen peroxide down her back and then doctor her well earned stripes. Sixteen hours since I broke free of the last restraint holding my control and decimated every object within my reach.
Now, I sit staring at the clock over the rim of the glass against my lips and down the last drops of scotch. I realize we are two hours late for brunch with my parents.
The empty
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