Page 110 of Body and Soul

The evenings were a little better, when Shepherd would return home and we'd fall into our familiar patterns, the structure and routine of our dynamic providing a small measure of comfort. We took things slowly, easing back into our roles with a gentleness that spoke of his understanding, his patience.

He gave me simple tasks at first, like preparing dinner, tidying the house, laying out his clothes for the next day. I threw myself into these chores with a single-minded focus, desperate for thedistraction, for the sense of purpose they provided. There was a certain peace to be found in the mundane, in the repetitive motions of chopping vegetables or folding laundry. The work quieted the noise inside my head, if only temporarily.

But even as my hands moved through the familiar tasks, my mind remained distant, disconnected. I felt like a ghost in my own skin, going through the motions but never fully present. The guilt was a constant companion, a heavy weight that settled in my chest and made it hard to breathe.

Every time Shepherd praised me for a job well done, every time his hand lingered on my shoulder or his lips brushed against my temple, I felt the shame coiling tighter in my gut. I didn't deserve his kindness, his affection, or his protection. Not after what I'd done. Not after the worry and fear I'd put him through.

Gavin's presence was a constant in those early days, his comings and goings as reliable as the tides. He arrived at seven every morning and swung by most afternoons around five or six o’clock when he wasn’t working at the hospital.

Gavin tried, in his own reserved way, to bridge the growing distance between us. He would sit with me in the living room, the silence stretching taut and heavy as he worked on his laptop or read through dense medical journals. Occasionally, he would glance up from his work, his dark eyes searching my face for something I couldn't name.

Sometimes, he would try to engage me in conversation, his tone carefully neutral as he asked about my day or my latest tattoo project. I answered him in monosyllables, my voice flat and lifeless even to my own ears. The words felt clumsy on my tongue, as if I'd forgotten how to string together a sentence.

The guilt gnawed at me like a living thing, a parasitic creature that had burrowed deep into my marrow and refused to let go. It colored every interaction, every moment of stillness, with asickening shade of self-loathing. I couldn't escape it, couldn't outrun the pervasive sense that I was tainted, broken beyond repair, even though I couldn’t explain why I felt that way.

Shepherd watched me with growing concern, his keen eyes tracking my every move, every flicker of emotion that managed to break through my carefully constructed mask. He didn't push, didn't demand answers I wasn't ready to give, but I could feel the weight of his worry, the silent questions that hung in the air between us.

I tried to lose myself in the familiar patterns of our dynamic, in the rituals and routines that had once brought me such comfort, such peace. I knelt at his feet, bowed my head in submission, and waited for the quiet to settle over me like a balm. But even as my body went through the motions, my mind remained distant, disconnected.

The rules and structures that had once been my anchor, my safe harbor in the chaos of the world, now felt like chains, like shackles that bound me to a reality I couldn't bear to face. Every command, every gentle correction, every praise felt undeserved.

I found myself growing restless, agitated, wanting to claw off my own skin if only to feel something, anything, other than the emptiness that’d taken over my life. I needed to punch a hole in myself and let the rest of the world bleed back into me, fill me with color again.

One evening, in late September, I knelt at Shepherd’s feet and something felt different. The evening sun slanted through the windows, painting the room in shades of amber and gold. Shepherd's gaze was heavy on me, as if he could see straight through the cracks in my facade to the fractured mess beneath.

“Eli,” he said, his voice low and measured, a hint of steel beneath the calm. “We need to talk about what’s been going on.”

I didn't look up, didn't lift my head from its submissive posture. I knew what was coming, knew that Shepherd had seenthrough my flimsy attempts at normalcy, at pretending that everything was fine when it so clearly wasn't.

“Yes, Sir,” I murmured.

Shepherd sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep within him. He reached out, his fingers curling under my chin, tilting my head up until I had no choice but to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually so warm and affectionate, were now filled with a quiet intensity, a seriousness that made my stomach clench.

“This dynamic, this relationship between us, it only works if we're honest with each other,” he said, his thumb brushing over the ring in my lower lip.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly tight with emotion. I knew he was right, knew that the foundation of our relationship was built on trust, on communication, but the words lodged in my throat, sharp and painful. How could I explain the depth of my guilt, the suffocating weight of my shame? How could I make him understand the twisted, tangled mess that my mind had become?

“I don't know how to do this,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don't know how to be okay again.”

Shepherd's expression softened, his hand moving to cup my cheek, his touch gentle and grounding. “You don't have to be okay right now, Eli. You've been through something traumatic, something that no one should ever have to experience. It's going to take time to heal, to process everything that's happened.”

I leaned into his touch, my eyes falling closed as I tried to steady myself, to find the courage to speak the words that had been haunting me for weeks. “I can't stop thinking about that night,” I said, my voice trembling. “I keep replaying it in my head, over and over again, trying to figure out what I could have done differently, how I could have prevented it.”

Shepherd's thumb brushed over my cheekbone, a soothing caress that made me ache with the need to be closer, to be held. “What happened to you wasn't your fault. You didn't ask to be kidnapped and held prisoner.”

“But I knew it could happen when I walked out that door,” I said, eyes watering. “I knew the cult was waiting, watching me. They’d approached me at the mall. I helped them bury bodies, Shepherd. I knew they were dangerous. I knew what they could do to me, and that I shouldn’t be out past curfew. I keep wondering if I wanted them to take me. Maybe I wanted to go back.”

Shepherd's brow furrowed, his eyes searching mine with a quiet intensity that made my skin prickle. “Eli, listen to me,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “You are not responsible for the actions of others. The cult members who took you, they're the ones who chose to do harm. They're the ones who violated your trust and your autonomy. You didn't ask for that. You didn't deserve it.”

I shook my head, fighting tears. “I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve been more prepared. Been smarter. And then…even before. The first time? I should’ve seen what they were. Why didn’t I try to leave sooner? Why did I let them…” My hand closed around my throat. “I ate their food, Shepherd, and I don’t even know what it was. It might’ve been… a…a…”A person. I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

Shepherd's grip on my chin tightened, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You did what you had to do to survive, Eli. That doesn't make you complicit in their crimes.”

“I buried bodies for them. Iamcomplicit, Sir. And I deserve to be punished for it.”

Shepherd was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that made me want to look away. “Eli,” he said at last, his voice low and measured. “Punishment is not theanswer here. It won't erase what happened or absolve you of the guilt you're feeling.”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight with emotion. “I know that, Sir. But I need... something. I need a way to release this weight, this burden that's been suffocating me. Every day, every moment, I'm punishing myself inside. I can't escape it, can't outrun the memories or the shame. And I'm afraid... afraid that if I don't find a way to let it go, it'll consume me entirely.”

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