At His Will

     One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe. 

     My chest tightens as it fills with air, breathing in the nauseating combination of odors filling the room. The unmistakable smell of blood. Whose blood was it? The smell of alcohol, burning in my nostrils. The dank smell of some kind of chalky smoke. That smell makes me sick, and my stomach turns. 

     I need a window. Fresh air. But of course this room has no opening to the outside.

      I look around. It’s all too familiar. And I shudder. 

     One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe. 

     I can hear him walking around. The muted sound of his shoes shuffling from room to room. I can’t see him right now. I know he’s outside this room, somewhere. I know he’s coming for me. He’s done it before. 

     I wonder what he’s doing now to the others. Every so often, I hear a strangled throaty moan. I change my mind, I don’t want to know. I can only imagine. Selfishly, I’m glad it’s them and not me right now. 

     I try not to think of the last time. My eyes press closed reflexively. Chills run up and down my arms, and I wrap them around my body. 

     It doesn’t take away the vision of him standing over me, his hands lingering over my face. I can almost feel his fingers pressing into my cheek again, hard. Too hard. 

     “Does it hurt?” he had asked. 

     I wanted to scream, “Yes! It hurts! Please, please stop!”

     But I didn’t. I couldn’t. It would not have made any difference. He was in charge. With his dark eyes, his brown wavy hair, his thin smile. He’s always the one in charge. 

      I remember when I first saw him. I thought he was so handsome, in a rugged kind of way. His personality was charming like no man I’d met before. He had this way of tilting his head every time he spoke, and leaning forward as if he didn’t want to miss anything I’d said. Nobody had ever really made me feel so important like that before when we talked. I blushed when he spoke to me, when he asked me questions about myself. I tried to answer nonchalantly, as if I didn’t care how he was taking in my replies. But I did care. And weighed every word I spoke. Did he think I was pretty? Or funny? Was he flirting with me, or was this just how he always acted? I was never good at flirting with men. I always came across as awkward, needy, and did I mention awkward? There was a time I looked forward to seeing him. Schoolgirl butterflies would flit through my belly at the thought of him. I would get lost in daydreams thinking of him. 

     But not anymore. Not now. And soon, he would be in this room again. Standing over me. Pressing his hands into my face, as I lay helpless beneath him. Looking up into his dark eyes. 

     I grip the leather arms of the chair I’m sitting in, unable to escape. Or, am I? Could I run? Could I break away, no consequences? But there would be consequences. Painful consequences. I abandoned the thought, and focused once more on my breathing, on calming my beating heart and unquiet mind.

      One. Two. Three…

      I hear his voice getting closer. Louder. He’s coming for me. My hands grip the arms of the chair I’m sitting in. My nails dig into the worn, brown leather. The sweat on my palms makes my hands slip as I try to move. It’s too late now. 

     He’s saying my name. 

     He’s standing over me. 

     He’s reaching for my face, straightening my chin upwards to look at him. 

     “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he sweetly says, as if I ever wanted him to come in. His voice is deep, gravely, and as unpleasant now as his touch. He smells of aftershave, but it’s too strong. It mixes with all the other nauseating smells in the room. I can’t ignore what he’s done to me before. The pain. 

     I tense, and close my eyes. He has complete control. I have no choice but to do as he says, follow his orders, submit to his will. No matter how painful. I tell myself to be strong. 

     All of a sudden, the room spins. A jolt of pain shoots through me, as I grab his arm to make him stop. 

     “Easy…” he whispers, close to my ear. 

     He doesn’t stop. Another lightning bolt travels through my body, and I draw my knees to my chest. Make it stop, make it stop! But I can’t speak. His hands are in my open mouth. A groan escapes as I feel a drop of blood drip from the roof of my mouth and slide down my throat. Its metallic taste makes me nauseous. I feel a single, hot, salty tear creep down my face. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to show my weakness in front of him. 

     I go numb. Just as he wanted. 

    “You’re very brave…” he says, watching my face closely. 

     I look away. I don’t want to see his face. And I certainly don’t want his hands on me again. But I can’t move. I can’t get out of this. Again, I can’t get out of this. 

     But, I came here willingly. I agreed to all of this. Why did I come here? I begin to regret my decision. Regrets don’t get you far in life though. I can do this, I tell myself. Even though I know it will only get worse before it gets better. So much worse. 

     His voice brings me back. He’s leaning in close now. 

     “Once the novacaine kicks in, I’ll take care of that tooth. A root canal is your only option, like last time. Good thing you came in. Untreated, this would have some painful consequences,” he said, getting up to go and check on another patient. 

     I lay my head back, and submit to my fate.