Page 22 of Release Me

Just thinking his name sends a sharp, urgent rush of fear sweeping down my spine. Suddenly, it feels like there are eyes on me, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise as I try to will myself to move, to seek shelter, to find somewhere safe to go even though if he’s found me nowhere is safe. None of that matters though, because I can’t move. So I just stand. I just wait. I just look at the flowers blowing in the gentle, humid heat of a July wind and surrender to the memory their appearance has pulled to the surface.

The tears have gone, so there’s nothing to accompany the sobs wracking my body. My despair is the only sound in the room until the door creaks open, followed by his heavy footfalls as he walks over to the nightstand. He shoves my diploma to the side to make room for the glass vase full of freshly bloomed white lilies. His hands are pale and smooth, indicative of the soft life he’s led courtesy of the money my parents left for me that, only days ago, I learned he and his father blew through the last of a few months ago.

Up until yesterday, those hands had never posed a threat to me. They’d only ever been kind, maybe sometimes a little too familiar, but they’d never been violent. He’d never been violent. Not until I threatened to go to the police and report him and his father for drugging me at the dinner they insisted on having to celebrate my college graduation and selling me to a stranger who raped and abused me for days on end. When I made that threat, I’d unleashed a monster, and now that he’s been set free, Beau refuses to pull back his fangs.

The mattress sags under his weight as he settles on the bed beside me. His hand is on my thigh. The metal on the gold signet ring he always wears is cold against my skin, but I don’t flinch. I’m too weak to move or fight, too scared to push him away, so I just stare at the flowers and cry without shedding a tear.

“You like the flowers?” he asks, fingertips tracing over the bruise he left when he kicked me in the back. “They were my mom’s favorite.”

“I know that, Beau.”

They’re the ones he lays on her grave every year on the anniversary of her death. I always take tulips for my mom and carnations for my dad. Beau and I would take turns driving down to the cemetery on the anniversary of their deaths, reminiscing about the last holiday we spent together as a unit before they boarded the flight that claimed all of their lives.

I don’t know how to reconcile that person with the man sitting in front of me, with the man who would do the things he’s done to me, so I don’t try. I just stare at the lilies and wait for it to be over.

“Did you know she wasn’t supposed to be on that plane with your parents? They insisted she come with them.”

“That’s not true.”

His hand goes still over a particularly sore spot, and as a reward for my disagreement, he pushes down on it, causing it to throb. “Yes, it is. My dad told me that your mom insisted…”

“Your mom insisted,” I spit the words out, forcing them past the scream lodged in my throat. “She wanted to ask my dad for a loan because your father’s gambling habit had eaten through their savings and was about to cost them the house.”

I’ve always known that Belinda’s last minute addition to the trip was because of the financial stress Roland’s gambling was causing, but Beau and I never talked about it. When he flips me over onto my back and climbs on top of me, wrapping his fingers around my throat, I wonder if now was the best time to bring it up.

“Take it back!” He screams, his face turning red, veins popping out of his forehead as he begins to squeeze. “Take it back you worthless, fucking whore!”

Black spots begin to cloud my vision, and I panic, calling up the only bit of strength left in my body to try to fight. I claw at his fingers, his wrists and his arms, using my body to try to buck him off of me, but he doesn’t budge. He doesn’t stop. He just keeps squeezing and screaming.

“Don’t fight. You can’t win.”

He’s right. I can’t win on my own. In a desperate, hail Mary attempt, I try to wheeze out his father’s name. Roland didn’t stop him from beating me yesterday, but maybe today he’s in a different place. Maybe today, he’ll draw the line at murder.

“He’s not here,” Beau laughs, squeezing so hard his finger nails dig into my skin. “No one is coming to help you. Do you hear me, you stupid bitch? Help isn’t coming.”

A blaring horn behind me is the only thing loud and strong enough to pull me back into the present, back to a reality where the threat Beau poses to my life and safety hasn’t been made real yet. It’s enough to get me moving.

“Sorry,” I call out to the impatient driver behind me. They flip me off and speed out of the parking lot mere seconds after me and my bag of clothes are out of the way. I don’t even have the energy to be offended by their rudeness because all of my attention is on the bouquet. Pressing my lips together, I move forward, using the kind of slow, cautious steps most people reserve for approaching rabid animals or bombs. When I get right up on it, I notice there’s a card nestled in the center of the arrangement. I stop, unsure of whether the card will make me feel worse or better. Just as I decide to reach for it, my phone rings, causing me to jump out of my skin.

“Jesus, Nadia, get it together,” I mutter to myself, pulling the phone out of my back pocket and flipping it open. When I see that the call is coming from a number I don’t have saved, my mind starts to race with all kinds of possibilities, trying to determine the likelihood that Beau has not only found me here in New Haven, but also somehow come across a phone number I’ve only given to a handful of people.

Beau is a lot of things—violent, hateful, sleazy—but he’s not smart. He’s never been smart. If he had found me, he would be waiting on my doorstep, not a bouquet of flowers. He’d be laying hands on me right now, not calling to torment me. Satisfied with my reasoning, I answer the phone and hope I was right.

“Hello?”

“Did you get the flowers?” Sebastian asks, a smile folded into the layers of his otherwise serious sounding baritone. All of my muscles relax, and I sag against the door, my body heavy with relief.

“I did. Thank you.”

“Are you okay? You sound…winded.”

I place a hand over my pounding heart, trying to calm it. “I’m fine. You just caught me in the middle of…something.”

Great, Nadia, that doesn’t sound suspicious at all.

“Okayyy,” Sebastian says slowly, and I know if I could see his face right now, his eyes would be laughing at me. “Well, I won’t hold you. I just wanted to make sure the flowers got to you okay.”

I glance down at the bouquet at my feet. Now that I know they’re from him, they don’t feel like a threat. “They did, and they’re beautiful.”

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