145
“I really need to teach you the basics of Italian. I said: You’ve no idea how much I love you, baby.” He kisses me on the nose. “You tamed il Casanova, Mio Amore; that in itself should be proof of what you are to me.” He smiles lovingly.
I close my eyes tightly and take a huge deep breath.
He’s right; he’s told me a million times. Maybe it’s time I told him why I’m so sure I’m not worthy of anyone’s love, the way he says he loves me.
I trust him. He shares so much with me, yet I hold back. There’s a part of me that’s always afraid that if I tell him about my past properly, he’ll turn from me, disgusted at what I am. But if I don’t, he’ll never really understand me. I owe it to him to open up, to at least try. He opens himself to me in every way possible, yet he no longer pushes me to do the same. I love him enough to let him in fully. It’s time.
“Ray Vanquis wasn’t the only man to ever hurt me in that way,” I say quietly, with such fear that I can’t even open my eyes and see how he’s looking at me. He stiffens, unsure if he should say anything or move, still holding my hand in his. He can sense that my statement is something more than a random sentence. He knows I’ve decided to start talking about my past; he knows me well enough.
I reach over and cover his hand with mine; I gulp and take another steadying breath. Knowing it’s now or never, I decide I should get it all out before losing my courage.
“More than a dozen men in my mother’s life tried to abuse me, some a little more successfully than others.” My voice breaks, but I swallow down the urge to cry. This is so much harder than I ever imagined. Telling Jake, of all people, is the most devastating thing I’ve ever done. I don’t want to open my eyes; I don’t want to do this, but I know I must. If I’m ever to feel worthy of his love, then he must know all of what he’s trying to love. He needs the full picture so he can run if he wants to. He needs to see the dark side of me, the part I keep hidden away, and only then if he still loves me, will I genuinely believe that he can love me as much as I love him.
He doesn’t speak or move. I think he’s holding his breath in case any interruption stops me from going on, closing that door in his face again, like so many times in the past. My hands begin to shake with the effort of doing this, but he stays unmoving. My breathing gets shallower, and nausea swirls crazily up from my stomach.
“Some just managed to kiss me and touch me in places they shouldn’t have,” I say softly. “I was very young the first time, so young I didn’t understand; I just knew it felt horrible and wrong.” Tears begin trickling down my face, more from the shame of having to tell Jake than from the actual memories. I stopped crying over those men long ago. Breathing heavily and finding it painful to go on, I feel his forehead come to mine, grounding me a little, his own breathing shallow too. His thumb strokes my cheek, urging me to tell him finally; I swallow hard, my body trembling with the effort.
“Some hit me … kicked me; it wasn’t sexual with those, just violent. I saw them do things to my mother that I’ll never forget. Things no one should see, especially not a child.” I swallow bitterly as a lump rises in my throat, threatening to choke my voice. Images flicker through my brain, memories I had long ago ground down and put into a tight little box away from the light of day.
“Some tried to have sex with me, but I learned quickly to fight back. They didn’t like that and would leave me alone, but they tried. I still remember the feel of their hands on me.” I shudder heavily, and his grip tightens on mine, giving me the strength to continue. “By the time I was seven, I’d been groped and mauled so often that I felt sick when boys came near me in the street or at school. I became very introverted and extremely aggressive. I got kicked out of school many times for my behavior, lashing out, hitting boys … smashing things up. I had so much rage,” I sob as he pulls his hands away, wrapping them around me instead and tugging me against his chest to support me.
If I stop now, I’ll never have the courage again. If I let myself stop and think about what I’m telling him, I’ll never find this voice again … ever. These memories will only be driven down deeper inside of me, never to see the light again.
“Even when I was too young to know what sex was, I started sleeping with a baseball bat I bought with money from my paper route. I bought it because I knew the men wouldn’t stop coming, and I hated what they tried to do to me,” I continue slowly. “I ended up in protective services by the time I was eleven; a neighbor reported my mother’s boyfriend for beating her up, hearing the screams almost daily. You would think that losing me for a year to a horrendous life in a children’s home would change her, but I came back to exactly what I’d left behind.”
His thumb moves across my cheek, wiping away fresh tears, and I tilt my face into his touch. Still, he stays quiet and listens intently, barely making a sound.
“Somehow,” I continue, “being home was better than what I’d dealt with in that home; kids can be cruel, and the carers were just as abusive. So I learned to lie and hide what was going on at home as much as she did because I didn’t want to go back into protective services; it was awful. But the older I got, the more sexual the advances became. She has a knack, you see, for finding men who are all the same, perverted assholes with serious dominance issues and no qualms about using women as punchbags. I would fight back as hard as possible, but the first time I got properly beaten up, my mother wouldn’t take me to the ER because she knew I would be taken away again. I had to strap up broken ribs for weeks and pretend I was fine.”
I gulp down more sobs. My face is soaked, the sheet covering my breasts getting cold with dampness. Jake is still silent, breathing hard, gripping me so tightly it’s beginning to hurt, but I don’t care. I need him to hold onto me so I can find the strength to get it all out and done with, so we can move on from this. I can’t bear to look at him or see the rage in his eyes or the despair I can feel coming off him in droves. I need to keep talking and get it all out there.
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
