Hero

21 Cataline

“Behave today.”

Mist curls over the shower door as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. Pasty, flaking cum coats my chest, some of it crusting in the ends of my hair. I run my fingers over a deep, purple bruise on my neck. Do I look different now that I’ve lost my virginity?

I do. I’m calmer, my eyes less wide and twitchy. I don’t know if it’s good or bad. After having my virginity ripped from my clutches, I’d have thought I’d be on the floor in a puddle of tears; instead, I feel tranquil. There was no kissing, no whispered words of reassurance, no warm candlelight. No declaration of his love. My head tilts toward my shoulder, and I touch my reflection with my fingers. I’m not a person to Calvin. I’m an object, a possession, and it’s strangely liberating.

In the shower, I fantasize about Hero breaking in this morning and pulling Calvin off of me. They fight as I scream, stripped and shaking like a leaf. Their bodies are a blur of fists and muscle as they wrestle each other to the ground. I want Hero to pin Calvin to the floor and beat him within an inch of his life, but my mind won’t conjure it. Calvin is so powerful, so strong; I can feel it in his every sinewy movement. I’m not sure even Hero can defeat him.

I skip to the end, where Hero leaves Calvin bloody and mangled on the hardwood floor. He whisks me away into the sunshine, but even in make believe, I turn around and look back.

Frustration drives my fist against the tile. I practically begged for him last night, the bastard. After he left, I lay aching in the bed, wishing he would come back and follow through with his threat to fuck me.

Even now I burn with curiosity for his kiss. Would it be rough and fast like everything else he’s done to me so far? Or have I not seen that part of him because it’s sweet and gentle? Meant for someone who isn’t just an object?

I laugh aloud, a mirthless sound that echoes through the bathroom. Sweet and gentle were things I thought he might be before I learned the truth. Before I met the monster in the mansion.

I towel off and change for breakfast. Downstairs, Norman serves me quietly and with downcast eyes. I wonder how much he knows, how much he’s . . . seen. Disgust for Calvin and even for myself, for the way I acted, overcomes me when I think of the cameras in my room.

When I’ve eaten and Norman reaches to clear my plate, I put my hand on his wrist. He freezes, his eyes fixed on the tablecloth. “I’m okay, Norman,” I say.

He doesn’t return my gaze but nods once. I’m not okay, but for some reason, I need him to believe that I am. He starts when loud ringing fills the room. This happens randomly every day or so, and as always, he rushes to one of the locked rooms without a word.

Back on my cushioned sill, I’m staring out the locked window when Rosa knocks. I smile dully at her as she cleans. I sit motionless until she’s finished, calling her name before she leaves the room. “Can you wash the sheets?”

Her forehead creases, and she shrugs. I stand and walk to the bed where I pinch the sheets between my fingers. With too much irritation, I repeat, “Sheets? Can you wash them?”

Recognition lights up her face, and she beams while nodding. But as understanding hits, her dark brown eyes cloud. She glances at the bed and back at me, flattening her palm over her heart. I have to look away.

As she strips the bed, I race by her to find my escape, my solace, my outdoors. It’s the one place I can be anyone but myself. I choose a book in the library without even looking and fall into my chair.

“This isn’t fucking.”

“Make yourself come.”

“Dance.”

I hurl the book at the wall. Can’t he let me have this one sliver of peace? He’s infiltrating my moments of escape like a vengeful snake, slithering into my thoughts and claiming me from the inside out. I can’t stop him from taking my body, but my mind and my heart? How can I give those up? They’re the only things in my control, the only things I’m able to protect. Because if I let him in, let him steal my focus, then I have no chance of ever leaving this place. And that’s the only thing I want. It’s life or death that I fight with every ounce of myself not to let him take those things from me.

It’s the mention of Hero that draws me out of my trance. I gave up on reading hours earlier and moved from the library to the den to plant myself in front of the TV. I thought I was watching a sitcom, but now the news is on. The last moments of Hero’s latest feat, running into a burning home and rescuing an entire family, are captured in a dizzy blur of fiery footage. Hero carries a child over his shoulder as firemen unburden him of a woman who can barely stand. He’s collected and triumphant, even behind his armor, not at all winded by his deed.

As the video plays, I think about my parents. They died trapped in our apartment during an electrical fire, but I got out. I should’ve been with them. Where was Hero then? And why doesn’t he come for me now? I stare at him and wonder how he would even know I’m here or that I need him. Through the crystal of unshed tears, his stick-straight posture of confidence triggers a familiar feeling. Sturdy and strong but not bulky, even sheathed in grey rubber. I incline toward the TV and dash wetness from my eyes. Nothing can touch this man; nobody can scratch his hard-earned surface. Even his sculpted wave of brown hair is unaffected by smoke and heat. Almost like . . .

The video cuts out, and the newscaster reappears. I sigh, melting back into the couch. I’ll find no solace in distraction today. Through the domination of my body, Calvin has also stolen my thoughts. He is everywhere in this mansion, even in my books, in my television set.

Everyday life kept me from thinking of my parents too often, but here, there is no life. There is only time and solitude and, when I’m lucky, mental escape. I settle further into the couch and let myself remember my only family, wondering just how long until I’m with them again.