Page 34 of Delivered to the Devil

The place is furnished and decorated, ready to live in. The cupboards are stocked with pans, plates, cutlery, and even food—everything a kitchen needs—and in the bathroom I find toiletries, soap, and a bottle of the rose-scented shampoo I use.

The king-size bed is made with the same pristine white sheets I’ve slept in for the past few weeks. Sliding my hand over them, I shudder at the silky feeling. It’s supposed to feel good, but like everything else here, they represent my bar-less captivity.

I curl up in my crimson chair and dig my nose into the wing, inhaling deeply. A hint of Janos’s scent lingers in the upholstery, and the roiling in my stomach simmers down to a rippling unease.

When I lift my gaze to take in the room, the queasy feeling returns. Pink and creamy colors dominate the space. It’s girly and saccharine—like the oversized bouquet and the postcards.

Pink curtains with frills frame the arched window, a pink bedspread covers the foot of the bed, and leopard print throwpillows sit against the headboard. Even the latter are pink. Hideous.

Darting up from the chair, I grab the ugly pillows and cram them into a closet. This ismyplace—I’ve just signed the damn papers to prove it—and I’m not going to have any goddamn pink leopard print in my apartment.

I go to the living room, which is not much better. There’s no leopard print, but the curtains have the same hideous frills, meaningless pictures on the walls, and too much pink. Even the couch is a dusty rose. It would have been pretty if it weren’t for the baby pink carpet covering half the floor, saturating the room with girly sweetness. Combined with the curtains, it’s outright vulgar. I shudder as I step onto the carpet and sink my feet into the fuzzy threads. In any other setting, I would have closed my eyes and reveled in the softness, but here, it’s only deceptive and false.

I start unpacking the few boxes I have brought. I find a bright place for my orchid on a side table in the living room, the teddy with the glittery green eyes gets a new place on the bedside table along with my night lamp, and my clothes go into one of the closets. To make room for my books, I remove the knick-knacks from the shelves in the living room, which get to join the leopard cushions in the closet. Then I sink onto the couch and let my gaze glide over what is supposed to be my new home.

Everything is new and modern. Big and flashy. Even the flat screen on the wall is double the size of the one I had before. Picking up the remote, I hover my thumb over the power button. I’ve never had such a large TV. It’s supposed to be a luxury, but there’s nothing luxurious about any of this, so I rip open the nearest drawer and throw the remote in.

The television and everything else here are the price for my freedom, and I can’t bring myself to enjoy it.

***

During the first week, I treat the place like it’s my own, taking what little control I can. The first thing I change is cutting off the frills on the curtains. Then I rearrange everything in the kitchen cupboards and I move the dresser in the bedroom to the opposite corner to make more room for my armchair.

The changes are small, barely perceptive, but they’re enough to make me accept the place—maybe even become comfortable here. It also helps that neither Janos nor Gabor show up. Their absence helps me take ownership of the place and fill it with something I like before they sully it.

Every morning when I open my eyes, I glance hopefully at the chair, and every time I find it empty, disappointment stirs in my gut. Then I hurry out of bed so I won’t dwell on the feeling, but when I see the butt plug on the bathroom counter, my stomach sinks anew.

Despite being alone, my mornings aren’t much different in the new apartment. They still start with the same humiliation; only now, I’m the one doing it. I don’t dare to test whether Janos is right about being able to detect it if I don’t obey.

Janos has been “nice” enough to leave me a bottle of lube, but even with a generous dollop, I can barely get the plug in the first few times. I try different positions—standing, lying, crouching—and get so frustrated I want to scream. The degradation is no less devastating without someone here to witness it, and it takes several painful mornings before I’m able to shut down my self-inflicted shame and get the plug in place within a few minutes.

With the metal thing lodged inside me, I trot around the apartment for an hour, not knowing what to do with myself. The toy is as invasive on my mind as my body. If I try to lie still, mymind goes into overdrive, and whenever I move, the plug moves within me, setting fire to nerves and reducing me to a hot and needy mess. The battle against my mocking brain turns into a battle against my own lust. A battle that I always lose. So I end up back in bed, my fingers working furiously between my legs until I scream through orgasm after orgasm. Thus, I manage to blot out all thoughts for a short while.

When the hour is up and I leave the bed to take out the plug, the self-deprecating thoughts rush back with a vengeance, and I have to spend another hour in the company of my taunting thoughts until I regain some control over myself.

Once I finally find some peace, I allow myself the comfort of the bathtub. I buy bath salts, oils, and bubbles and spend several hours a day soaking in the water. I might not be able to enjoy the TV, but I can’t deny myself this luxury. It’s easy to relax with the warm water lapping against my body. My fingers and toes look like raisins when I come out, and I have to laugh out loud when I look at my wrinkled skin. For once, the marks on my body are a result of something positive that I can control, as opposed to the heavy bags under my eyes, rope burns, and weight loss.

I still get food delivered to my door in the afternoons, and when I find the personal items from Janos, I have a hard time containing the smile pulling at my lips. But one look at the overly sweet card is all it takes to replace it with a more appropriate reaction.

As the days go by, I grow calmer in my new surroundings, yet more anxious. Calm because I falsely learn that it’s a safe place; anxious because I know it’s only a matter of time before the safety shatters. Gabor has probably left the country for some time and brought Janos with him—he is the Minister of Foreign Affairs, after all. Before long, he’ll be back to sate his sick needs.

CHAPTER 15

“Novocaine”

by Too Close to Much

& Bad Omens

Rebecca

When I come home on the eighth night, a foreboding feeling twists in my stomach as I push the key into the lock. Sliding the door open, I gulp as I face a fully lit hallway.I never leave the lights on.

I freeze, knowing what awaits me on the other side of the threshold. I can’t make myself take that step, but I can’t turn around either. Where would I go?

Footsteps approach from the living room, and Janos appears, clad in a black suit that announces the nightmare awaiting me.

Clasping the door handle, I shake my head as I stare at him with pleading eyes. But there’s no mercy. Janos grabs my arm and drags me to the living room, where another set of eyes greets me—cold ones set deep in a gaunt face.

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