Page 68 of The Puppetmaster

You see, I have a little sister, too. My father left us before we were able to remember him, and my mother died of cancer when I was still in high school. I managed to keep us out of foster care and took care of my sister until she went off to college.

Because as soon as she left the hood, so could I.

I got the hell out of Brooklyn and fled to Boston, following a shitty job offer that never panned out. I soon found myself jobless and in danger of ending up on the street. I’m not telling you this to justify what I’m about to tell you. That is just the way it was back then.

I was desperate. I was scared.

I was so hopeful when I moved to Boston, but that night, when I walked home from a night of drinking with the only friend I’d made in the city, I was not in a good place.

That’s when they showed up. Two guys, both taller and stronger than me—and they asked for my money. They thought I was an easy target. They thought I’d be a scared little girl who would just hand them whatever they asked for, too frightened to even think of fighting back.

That’s not who I am.

But they didn’t know that.

I fought back. Fiercely.

It took them by surprise.

One of them ran away.

The other… almost died because of me.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I got out of it without a scratch. Two of us ended up on the ground that night, but only one of us was unconscious when help arrived—and it wasn’t him. I don’t remember much about that fight because his last action was to take me out with a strike against the head that made the world turn dark. You can still see the mark his fist left on my left temple.

Still, he’s the one who still has to live with the aftermath of that fight because of what I did to him. I hit him so severely that his heart gave out on the way to the hospital. My violent hits had put his body under so much stress that he ended up in a coma.

I opened my eyes a few hours after we were brought to the hospital, waking up to my sister telling me that they weren’t sure if the guy who assaulted me would make it.

He didn’t die, but he never recovered. I know that up to this day, he’s no longer living the life he used to live.

I know, he was the one attacking me. Yes, maybe he was a bad guy.

But maybe he wasn’t? I never contacted him or his family after that, but I looked him up to see whether he survived. You see, we actually have a lot in common, that guy and me. He didn’t have the easiest upbringing either, and he was just a few years younger than me. He had never been convicted before, so it could very well be that that night was just a stupid exception, a mistake he’ll regret for his entire life.

He’s sick now. He’ll never be able to live without his medication because the heart failure caused by that night took a toll on his body.

And no matter how you want to angle this story, I’m responsible.

I don’t say it was wrong to defend myself—but I didn’t have to do it like I did. I didn’t have to beat him up until his body gave in. I could have screamed, I could have run.

I could have done so many other things, but I didn’t.

And I’ll live with that guilt for the rest of my life.

It’s not the first or even the last time my aggressive temper has gotten the better of me, but it was definitely the worst. It was the very worst of me.

And now you know.

I know you told me to write down a fantasy, maybe some dirty kink that I’m too ashamed to admit in person. But if you’re looking for vulnerability and the will to be honest with you, this is the most harrowing thing I can share with you.

And it’s also the reason why I want to dance for you.

I want you to break me. I want you to show me what it feels like to lose myself, to stop thinking and to serve at the will of another. I need a strong hand to guide me, a very strong hand.

And I’m sure there’s no one who would be better at this than you, Puppetmaster.

Chapter 42

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