Page 46 of In Love with the Devil

There’s no peace for me anywhere, not even in my mind. I fall asleep, running away from the pain of my reality, but end up relieving the nightmare that is my past because of the fevers. When I'm awake, there’s the realization that I’m in a pitch black cell, where I can’t even see my hand, with a metal collar choking my neck and a heavy chain attached to it. My body is too weak to lift the chain.

I can only move from the bed if he helps me, which is dehumanizing, especially when I have to go to the bathroom. Sometimes I wake up alone which allows the memories of what he did to me to push me farther into despair.

I hate myself so much. A part of me knew he was there but instead of listening to my gut, I locked the front door, sealing my fate. I should've punched him harder in the balls, should've run faster… I hate every breath and heartbeat this body takes,because there's nothing, literally, nothing left for me.I could have never imagined this misery. Where there was once hope of escaping him, now reigns defeat and horror.

The loud clanking of metal tools startles me awake. I can feel his presence, hear his movements and breathing. He sits, and his weight moves the thin mattress, but I don't dare turn to look at him. Because of the slashes on my back, I can only lie belly down.

"Do you want to go to the bathroom first?"

I don’t say a word. He sighs in frustration because I haven't spoken since he whipped me. Sometimes it's out of defiance and anger other times it's out of hurt and fear. My whole body goes rigid at the smell of alcohol. I've learned to fear the smell because of the pain it causes me every time he uses it to disinfect the lashes. Every dab with the gauze is like an acid dissolving my skin. I fist the mattress, and the pain shoots from the spot he's treating. I try to hold the scream inside. My tears leak out while my heart hammers too loudly and my breath dances. I lift my face but then bury it back in the pillow when my breath bursts. I’m trying not to give him the satisfaction of my pain, of seeing how much he's hurt me. The gauze is too coarse and the alcohol is pure torture. A shaking guttural scream rips out of me. I wish I could at least faint, but my body has never been this awake.

The fevers have me sweating and freezing, my teeth chattering, taking all my energy. It's gotten worse. Hopefully, I will die from whatever wound infection I’ve caught.What's that stinging tight sensation on the inside of my elbow? I inspect it and discover he has stuck a needle in my arm, attached to an IV. What the fuck is he feeding me? Even if it's something good, I don't want it. I yank it off and it hurts so bad that I can't help gasping. The bleeding is significant. With my arm hanging from the bed, I lose consciousness.

“God dammit, Astoria.”

My eyes flutter open at his anger. I don't dare move. My heart is too slow. Every breath I take is a heavy challenge. Even though the idea of dying is still scary to me, a part of me is relieved to know my condition has worsened. He can’t touch or hurt me if I’m dead. It shouldn't be long now.

“Don’t do this again!” he yells, and it echoes, making my brain pulse while I struggle to get oxygen in my lungs.

Despite the fever breaking and my strength returning, he hasn't given me any clothes. But I rather freeze to death than ask him for anything. There’s no way for me to know how many days or nights he’s had me here.

The only light I get is when he opens the slab to leave me the food tray or take it; it’s enough to blind me every time. This is why I’ve learned to close my eyes and look to the side when I count his four-hundredth step. He never opens the door or speaks now that I've healed. I only know the sounds of my breathing, my heart beating, the water pipes in the bathroom, the drip from the sink, the door to this place opening, his steps, and the tray he slams and takes.

I have to feel around with my hands and feet to figure out where everything is. At first, picking up the chain to my neck collar is difficult, but as my body gains strength, I get used to it. Five steps to the bathroom, two more to the toilet, one more to the shower. I feel around for a towel. It’s tiny but I manage to dry myself. Then I lie, naked, on the bed, waiting. There’s no way to know what he wants with me. I just hope he kills me, soon and swiftly.

Painful but manageable cramps wake me. I hiss and squeeze my belly, hoping they don't worsen. Usually, I can only survive my period after I've taken two aspirins and two acetaminophens. I wonder if this means he's had me here for a whole month. At least I can still walk to the bathroom and vomit.

After showering, I find a box of pads and three panties underneath the sink. Thank God. The pain returns with avengeance once I finish putting on the panties. I lie on the bed while holding my belly. “Fuck.”

I am pi because I’ve never added up to anything whole. I’m irrational because in this pitch darkness, in this silence, I’m losing my mind. No. I can’t let him win. I can’t. “Three point fourteen fifteen ninety-two…” (3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197) I can’t remember the next digit after eight.Come on. Remember!I yell at myself in my mind.

“Fuck, what was it? No. I don’t want to lose numbers. He can’t take that too.” I start counting whole numbers, one, two, three. The square root of four is two. The square root of nine is three. The square of sixteen is four…”

My favorite square is one-hundred-forty-four whose square root is twelve. By going through numbers and mathematical theories, things that have been proven time and time again, and will never change, I distract myself and prove to myself that my memory is still intact. If I can remember those, then maybe, just maybe, I haven’t lost my mind, yet.

Sometimes he breaks me all over again without touching or getting anywhere near me. I bite my lips, bang the chain that holds down my neck collar to silence the bad memories, butthere are times… when not even that works, and I can’t help but weep until my head throbs.

Between the darkness, silence, lack of movement, and not knowing anything, I’ve lost my appetite. Sometimes I hum the song that Romeo and I slow-danced to,Madrigal. It’s so soothing that it helps me sleep. I try not to think of Romeo although I know he’s interlaced in the comfort of the song. It hurts too much to have lost the first glimmer of happiness. While hoping that Mindy is not too worried about me and that she’s carried on with her happily ever after with Fernando, I singLas Mañanitas.

Then the memory of Dr. Michaelson hits me, those perfect blue eyes, the way he rescued me, kissed me but didn’t let it be more. He doesn’t have a song, because we never were two.We… never were two. We weren’t even. We could have been two, even three if only he would’ve given me a chance.It hurts so bad I break down. Why does it hurt so bad?

He obviously couldn’t help himself last time and felt so bad for it. He was my first. The first time I consented. If only he knew how good it felt to have come for the first time, because I actually wanted it. With such gentle fingers, such beautiful eyes making sure I was fine, his voice, asking me to confirm I wanted it, wanting my clear consent. My beautiful doctor, so serious, so righteous. Him, I can think about because there was no hopewith him and he wasn’t flawless. With Romeo, everything was still amazing but at least Dr. Michaelson had shown me some darkness.

I avoid thinking of Mom because it hurts too much to know that she’d only be calling for more money. She wouldn’t really be worried about me.

I miss so many things, the feel of the sunlight on my skin, clothes, the sound of birds chirping, eating delicious seasoned food, and music. What I would not give for some french fries. My stomach makes a sound and cramps letting me know I'm hungry, but that's not the worse thing I'm feeling. It's the loneliness. It's the lack of human touch. I'd ignore the fries if I could talk to someone, anyone.

My name is Astoria Torres. I am pi because I’ve never added up to anything whole… I was too broken… even for Julian… and now I’m here, forgotten. “Three point fourteen fifteen ninety-two….” (3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197) I can’t remember the next digit after ninety-seven.

I'm sitting on the floor right up against the door. I'm losing my mind. How long will he have me here like this? Why hasn't he killed me yet?

“Julian! Julia–n!" My screech echoes. I bang the chain against the iron door and cry myself into another headache. The slab opens, blinding me. He pushes the tray in.

"Julian? Wait–" The slab closes. "Wait don't go. Julian! No!"

The sound of his steps softens. I throw the tray across the room, and hear its contents crash, then lean my head against the wall with tears drowning me while I hum, "This little light of mine…"

I've given up. He won and I lost. He won't talk to me. He won't even open the door. Lately, the cup of water he always brings me has been lighter in weight. Each day it feels emptier.

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