Mabel Shot Part 5
"Alekessandra taught me." I lower the cloth after cleaning his hand, leaving it on my thigh. My face turns toward the table as I search for the alcohol bottle. "My adoptive mother missed having someone to talk to in her mother tongue, so she taught me, sir."
"She taught you very well." He keeps his gaze on me, remaining silent. "Did she also teach you to sit like that?"
"As far as I remember, no; maybe it was at the orphanage..." I vaguely recall the caregiver, when I was six or seven, gathering the girls at the orphanage and teaching us to sit in a circle, all kneeling in that same position. "We used to sit like that on the carpet in the playroom, waiting in silence for the toys to arrive."
I shake my head from side to side as if I could dissipate those memories.
"It's going to sting a little on your wounds, because of the alcohol." I lift my eyes to his and feel sucked into him, as if he were hunting for something inside me.
"I deal well with pain, Mabel." His voice is serious as he responds. "What else did Alekessandra teach you, little bird?"
I lower my face and get lost, looking at the alcohol bottle and giving him a sad smile. Alekessandra had taught me everything, from manners to how to conduct myself, to converse with her in Russian, to dress and remain obedient. At first, I didn’t mind; I didn’t mind learning from her, who always said that homeschooling would be better than going to school. I tried to be everything she wanted, so she would love me. But Alekessandra never truly loved anything but herself. Sometimes, I think she doesn’t even love her husband.
"Everything I know, sir," I say to him and slowly pour the alcohol over his hand, feeling a pain within me at the thought of inflicting pain on him. "Could you pass me the gauze, please?" I ask him and set the bottle beside me, hearing only a low grunt from his lips.
"So you think my playroom is a sadistic dungeon?" He changes the subject, handing me the gauze. "And I should presume I'm the executioner."
I suppress a giggle and shrug, drying his fingers with the gauze to clean his wounds.
"No, sir." I bite my lip and shake my head. "Aiii!"
My body recoils when his other hand reaches out and pinches my breast.
"Oh my God, could you stop that?!" I scrunch my nose, feeling a sting on my skin where he pinched.
"Remember about the lie; I don't tolerate it!" He leans back in the chair and exhales through his mouth. I quickly lift my eyes to him and see him smirking cynically at me. "Am I your executioner, Mabel?"
"I still don't know exactly what you are," I respond honestly to him. I still have no idea who this man really is. "I don’t know much about you, to be realistic. It’s confusing to know that the man who knows every perversion of mine is a stranger."
He nods, looking at me with interest, and for a brief second, I see a spark of amusement flicker in his brown eyes.
"Let's make a deal, then; I’ll answer one of your questions, and in return, you answer one of mine." He is terribly dangerous, with his cunning demeanor, remaining silent, watching me sitting before him. "Ask."
He pretends to be complacent, but deep down, I know exactly where this back-and-forth game will lead us.
"How old are you, sir?" I start the inquiry with mundane questions, not yet knowing if I should get straight to the point or not and asking him about the things Macro said.
"Thirty-seven, and yes, it's been quite a while since I've been in Sodom," he answers two instead of one, as if he already knows what my next question would be, anticipating my thoughts.
"From which place in Russia did your adoptive mother come?" he asks seriously.
"I don’t know." I shrug, almost feeling relieved by the question he asked, as I was afraid it would be something else. "To be honest, Alekessandra never talked about her past. How long has that been, your long time in Sodom, sir?"
I lower my face and return to cleaning his wounds with the gauze, holding his fingers with mine.
"Thirteen years as a counselor. I was twenty-four when my father appointed me as a counselor in his place." I raise my face and look at him anxiously, trying to understand what he said. "And sixteen years as a regular."
"Was your father from Sodom too?"
"Negative, baby. One question, one answer." He raises his index finger and shakes it in the air. "What was your relationship with your father like?"
"Actually, we didn't have much contact; he was always traveling a lot. We didn't have much time together; my mother was the one who stayed with me," I reply softly, recalling the few times my adoptive father spoke to me. They were short, quick phrases, and then he would leave, leaving me alone in the house with Alekessandra. "Have you played this game many times with other women?" I keep my gaze low, still feeling anxious recalling the conversation with Macro.
"I was the first counselor to play Sodom when it was created. With you, it’s the second time." He exhales heavily. "Who introduced you to that man who gave you the mark on your abdomen?"
My face turns cold, blood freezing in my veins, and my breath quickens. He avoids the crucial question, but I know it will soon come.
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