Page 75 of Fallen Petal

Epilogue 2

Petal

I turn the ring around my finger, watching as the sun clashes with the flawless round diamond, sending tiny colorful sparks as it dances in the bright light. A warm breeze kisses the salty skin on my cheeks, carrying the taste of the ocean all the way up here to the balcony of our suite.

I’m wearing nothing but a soft bathrobe, deceiving with its impeccably white color. It speaks of innocence while it covers the fresh bruises that are growing on the throbbing skin of my behind. I’m still trembling, walking on weak legs, my hands shaking as I bring the glass of water up to my lips. I still feel him inside of me, stretching my core while the vibrating plug in my ass tormented me, on the brink of coming for so long that the need for release became agonizing.

Fiery streaks are blazing along my ass cheeks and my upper thighs, where the cane bit my skin. I deserved and welcomed every single one of them, thanking him for each blow that made me cry out in tears. They were always a blend of opposing emotions. Anguish, desperation, gratitude, appreciation. They came hand in hand, dancing in a circle, with each having its moment of fame as it passed the front of the stage.

I still question myself in these moments. I still wonder who this person is. The girl who lets him do these things to her, who wants him to do these things to her.

The girl who loves him for it.

The tears that are streaming down my face right now are not born out of pain or desolation. It’s unbridled bliss that waters my face and paints my expression. A smile, so genuine and honest, that I’m sure it must look silly to the ignorant eye.

My father would never approve of this. Any of this.

He will never approve of him.

And I have to be okay with that.

When the dust had settled after my alleged rescue and the detention of Christopher, whose trial is still ongoing to this day, the first person who was called to be informed of my return was my father. I had no image of him in my mind when I was told that he’d be coming to pick me up, realizing that he had been erased, just like everything and everyone else.

I sat at the station, wrapped in a redundant blanket, confused and scared as I waited for my father. They were still interrogating both Christopher and Jayson in different rooms, while I was placed in the waiting room, replaying the last few hours, days, and weeks before my eyes. I lived through every moment, every breath I took since I woke up in that dark basement room, connecting images and hints, producing memories and matching them to the things I’d learned about myself and my past ever since.

When I saw the man walking down the hallway, approaching me with wide and hurried steps, a strained expression masking his middle-aged face when he saw me, I realized two things at once.

I knew that man was my father. And I knew that he was the tall one among the three men I saw in my vision, the one who towered above all others and who made me slouch with unease as I felt his stern gaze on me. That intimidating effect is still there, even as I don’t recall the incidents that have formed my attitude toward him over the years.

It was stiff and awkward between us, and even now—almost a year later—it still is. I don’t know if much would change if I choose to gain access to more of the memories that have made me the person who decided to turn her mind into a blank canvas. I was careful to decide which parts of myself I wanted to remember.

The video Malia had shown me was only a small sequence of a longer monologue that we recorded before I underwent the procedure that would turn me into his Petal. I don’t remember anything about the procedure itself, but I remember the days leading up to it. I remember the conversations we had, Jayson and I, Malia and I, and the three of us together. I can’t recall the details of it, the specific concerns each of us addressed respectively, but I see us sitting together, I see the worry on Malia’s face and I hear her pleading as she begged me to reconsider.

But I didn’t.

Yet she was the first memory I asked to regain. Her pain was too much to bear and I hated the thought of her being bereft of her best friend. Jayson proved to be a master at his art. He held my hand, keeping my sorrows at bay as we slowly uncovered the friendship that Malia and I share piece by piece. She was there with me, smiling in a way I’d never seen her smile inside the mansion.

And she’s here with us now, too. She was the only I told about our little plan, and the only one who came here with us, because I wanted her to be our witness. I haven’t seen her since the ceremony last night, and when I called her room this morning, it seemed that she was still sleeping, most likely still knocked out from the champagne we shared last night. She’s a lightweight and probably suffering from a hangover much stronger than mine. I hope it isn’t too bad. I plan to call her again in a few minutes. Just to make sure.

My smile widens when Jayson joins me on the balcony, wearing a robe just like mine, and wraps his arms around me as he plants a loving kiss on my cheek.

“Good morning, wife.”

“Good morning, husband.”

He steps next to me, keeping his arm around my shoulders as he squeezes me, pulling me closer.

“We did it,” I say in a low voice, still in disbelief. “We got married. We eloped!”

He chuckles. “Eloping in Atlantic City. Crazy enough for you?”

“Just right,” I reply, full of confidence that this was the perfect choice. For myself, for us.

All I ever wanted was to break out from the things that were expected from me, especially from my father. He holds a claim over me that is beyond any healthy father-daughter relationship, and the only man he ever wanted to share me with turned out to be a killer. Possibly. The jury is still out on that verdict. I don’t know what to believe, but the simple truth is, that there has been no new victim associated with the Bridgewater murderer for a year now, ever since Christopher was locked away and tied to the latest victim. Jayson had a legal contract that—supported by my statement—got him out of a tight spot when my father accused him of kidnapping me.

“You don’t regret not telling him?” Jayson asks, still holding me in a warm and secure embrace.

I shake my head. “I will tell him eventually, but I didn’t want him to be a part of this. He still feels like a stranger to me, and not the good kind.”

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