Page 33 of Saving Little Clark

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do, kids!" he called over his shoulder, his hand on the doorknob. "And remember, safety first. Wrap it before you tap it, and all that jazz."

"Alex!" I yelped, my voice strangled with horrified laughter. "I swear to god, I'm going to tell Brody about the time you got drunk and made out with a potted plant at that frat party."

Alex gasped, clutching at his chest in exaggerated outrage. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me," I said, narrowing my eyes at him in a playful challenge. "I have photographic evidence, and I'm not afraid to use it."

With a heavy sigh and a melodramatic eye roll, he threw up his hands in defeat. "Fine," he grumbled. "But don't think for a second that I won't be expecting a full report later, mister. With all the juicy, sordid details!"

"Goodbye, Alex," I said pointedly, giving him a look that clearly saidget the hell out before I throw something at you.

He grinned, blowing me a kiss before finally, mercifully, slipping out the door and closing it behind him with a decisive click. And then, it was just me and Brody.

As I sat on the couch, eagerly awaiting Brody's return from the kitchen with our drinks, the doorbell rang. Puzzled, I got up to answer it. When I opened the door, there was no one there. Just a small, neatly wrapped package sitting on the welcome mat.

Another surprise gift from Brody? What other sweet gestures did he have up his sleeve?

But as I tore off the wrapping paper and opened the box, my excitement quickly turned to sinking dread. Inside was a bottle of cologne. It was Sterling's signature scent, the one he always wore when we were together. The one that still haunted my nightmares, that made my stomach churn with fear and revulsion.

"Hey, what's that?" Brody asked, coming up behind me with our drinks in hand. "A present from a secret admirer?”

He was grinning, his tone light and teasing. But when he saw the stricken look on my face, his smile faded, replaced by a frown of concern.

"Clark? What's wrong?”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight and dry. Brody deserved to know the truth about my past, about the demons that still haunted me. But I was terrified of seeing the pity or disgust in Brody's eyes when he realized just how broken and damaged I really was.

I set the box down on the coffee table and sat with Brody. Then, haltingly at first but with growing urgency, I began to tell him everything. I told him about how I had met Sterling at a bar when I was young, naive and desperate for love. How he had swept me off my feet with his charm and his confidence, how he had made me feel special and desired in a way I never had before.

But as our relationship progressed, things started to change. Sterling became possessive, controlling, his sweet words turning sharp and cutting whenever I didn't live up to his impossible standards. He was nearly twenty years older thanme, and he used that power imbalance to keep me in line, to make me feel small, helpless and dependent on him.

The worst was when Sterling drank. He would fly into rages at the slightest provocation, screaming and throwing things, his face twisted with a hatred that terrified me.

Over time, I learned to recognize the signs that a storm was brewing. He had a particular phrase he would use when he was on the verge of a drunken meltdown - "I need a fucking drink" - and as soon as I heard those words, I knew to brace myself for the worst.

One night, after a particularly bad bender, Sterling stumbled into our apartment at three in the morning and demanded that I make him dinner, even though I had to be up for work in a few hours. When I protested meekly that I was exhausted and had nothing ready to cook, he slapped me across the face so hard my ears rang.

"Useless piece of shit," he slurred, grabbing me by the hair and shaking me like a rag doll. "I keep your pathetic ass around for one reason only, to serve me, and you can't even do that right?"

He threw me to the floor then walked out again, leaving me curled up in a ball on the cold linoleum, sobbing and shaking with fear and humiliation.

But the next morning when he returned, hungover but sober once again, he was all sweetness and light again, as if the previous night's horrors had never happened. Bringing me breakfast in bed, covering my bruises with gentle kisses, whispering apologies and promises into my skin.

And fool that I was, I believed him. I let him convince me it was my fault, for provoking his anger, for not being good enough. I was so twisted up with fear and shame that I couldn'tsee a way out, couldn't imagine a life without him, no matter how miserable and scared he made me.

But the final straw came a few months later. Sterling came home from the bar one night even drunker than usual, reeking of whiskey and cigarettes, barely able to stand. But instead of lashing out at me, he collapsed on the couch and started mumbling incoherently, his face buried in his hands.

"It's my fault," he kept saying over and over again. "He's dead because of me. Oh God, what did I do?"

As I sat beside him, trying to soothe his agitation, the whole sickening story came pouring out of him in fits and starts. Ten years ago on Christmas Eve, a married Sterling had picked up a man at a bar and brought him home. Sterling’s neighbor caught him cheating. Things had gotten rough, out of hand, and in a drunken rage, Sterling had strangled the neighbor to death with his bare hands. He had never told a soul.

I was stunned, sickened, my mind reeling with shock and disbelief. A part of me didn't want to believe it, couldn't imagine the man I loved, or thought I loved, was capable of such monstrous violence. But deep down, after everything I had seen and endured at his hands, I knew it was true.

The next morning, after a sleepless night of wrestling with my conscience, I had called the police. I was terrified, half-convinced Sterling would kill me before they arrived. But I knew I couldn't live with the knowledge that I had let a murderer walk free.

When the cops showed up at our door, Sterling was furious. He screamed and cursed at me, his eyes black with rage and betrayal. But even as they dragged him away for questioning, he turned to me with a smile that chilled me to the bone.

"You'll regret this, you little bitch," he hissed, his voice low and venomous. "I'll make you pay for what you've done. I'll haunt your dreams and stalk your steps until the day you die."

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