Page 16 of Possession

Fuck, I hate thinking about the past. I’ve worked so hard to bury it, but for some reason, it’s trying to come back.

To distract myself, I focus on Lucas. His body is stiff against mine, but I don’t know if he’s angry or scared. Whatever the case, I don’t like how rigid he feels. It’s not comfortable. I can’t relax with him like that. I growl against the back of his head.

“I cannot possibly lie more still than this.” He says it quietly, but he sounds upset.

I grunt, annoyed that he doesn’t understand that I want him to relax. I sit up in frustration, pulling the blanket off us both.

When I initially stopped talking, it was out of defiance. Words didn’t help me anyway. There was no argument, threat, or protest I could make to change my situation. My silence robbed my captors and handlers of half their satisfaction in abusing me. More than that, it helped me distance myself from what was happening, like they couldn’t really touch me if I buried my thoughts and emotions deep enough.

But the habit is so strong now, my silence so ingrained that I’m stuck in it. I’ve never felt trapped by it before, but I do now.

At the same time, I don’t really want to speak. I’m more comfortable like this. I’ve learned how to exist like this. But I’m frustrated when Lucas doesn’t understand me. I haven’t needed nuance for a long time.

I scrub at my face, unsure what to do. I feel Lucas shift as he rolls onto his back. The mattress is narrow, so I’m pressed against the wall while Lucas is nearly at the edge.

I need something to focus on and his shoes are bothering me, so I edge down to the end of the bed. He jumps when I grab his foot. At my grunt, he stills and lets me take off his shoe. The sole is worn almost smooth, and the rubber is cracking behind the toe cap. I drop the shoe to the floor then remove his other one.

There’s a hole in his faded black sock. When I stick my finger in it, Lucas yanks his foot away and lets out a high-pitched “eee!”that startles the shit out of me. I whip around, instinctively pulling myself into a crouched position. Lucas has a hand over his mouth.

“Sorry,” he mumbles through his fingers. “That tickled.”

I feel my face do something weird and I let out a huffing sound that I don’t recognize. When Lucas lowers his hand, revealing a nervous smile, I huff again, and this time I realize it’s a laugh. Lucas’s smile deepens. I like that, so I reach down and tickle his foot again. He shrieks and jerks his foot away. His knee hits my thigh near the stitches.

It hurts but not enough for me to care about. Lucas, however, sits up looking horrified. He lays his hand on my thigh where his knee hit me.

“I’m sorry,” he says, then his hand pops away from my leg and darts toward my abdomen where blood has soaked through the bandage. He doesn’t touch the wound but mutters, “Shit. You’re bleeding.”

As he scrambles out of the bed, I grab at him, catching his hand. His head whips my way. I don’t know what he sees on my face because it’s another expression I don’t recognize the feel of. I don’t know how Lucas interprets it, but he smiles a little. It reassures me, so I ease up enough to let him stretch away from me. He grabs the first aid kit and drags it close to the bed.

He tries to draw free. When I don’t release him, he squeezes my hand. I’m reassured again, so I let go.

“Lie down,” he tells me.

My refusal is automatic. I don’t follow those kinds of orders. Because men who do? They don’t live long in places like this. Submission is weakness, and weakness is death.

Lucas frowns like he doesn’t understand this. His head tilts to one side as he studies me. Then he says, “Please.”

I’m so taken aback that I probably look like an idiot as I stare at him. Did I even hear him right?

“Please,” he says again.

For some reason, the word puts a tight, awful feeling in my chest. I look away, upset. My jaw clenches. He better not say it again. If he does, I might do something bad.

But he doesn’t. He just waits, like he’s letting me decide.

It takes me a minute to calm down. Then I do what he asked. I can’t look at him while I do it, but once I’m on my back, my eyes are drawn to him again.

Lucas gives me that little smile of his. It reassures me that this isn’t submission, that it’s okay.

“I’ll try to be careful,” he tells me as he peels up the bloody bandage. His frown almost has me lifting my head to see the wound, but I don’t want to take my eyes from his face. I’m hungry for his expressions. I don’t want to miss anything.

“There’s a broken stitch,” he says.

If that’s all it is, there’s no need for his frown. It’s not a big deal. I was pretty sure one had torn when I carried him.

He cleans the wound like I showed him last time. As he hunts around in the bag I wonder what he’s looking for. He pulls out almost everything, littering the floor.

“No scissors,” he says. “I can’t cut the broken stitch.”

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