Page 67 of Interview with a Sadist
“Okay,” she replies, pulling her hands away as I stand up. I take a step back and start to turn away, before saying one last thing.
“Oh, and about your story,” I start. “Tell it all. Tell the world how you met me, and how you met E and J, and how spending time with someone you had much different expectations for changed who you are internally. But, also tell them about the dark side of it all. Tell them about what happened last week, and tell them how you need time to deal with and heal from it. Just let it all out. Spill your blood on the page, and hopefully when you let it out, you’ll feel better. At the end of the day, that’s all I want for you, Bree. I just want you to be happy.”
She doesn't say anything in response. Her eyes stay focused on me, and I know there are a million different things running through her head as she continues to wipe away streaking tears. There certainly are a million thoughts in my head, and none of them make me feel any better. None of them makes this any easier, but I don't expect it to be easy now. I’ve earned the difficulty, and I accept it. I’ll take it all if it makes life for Bree even a little better.
The wind brushes across my face, Mother Nature herself kissing me on the cheek in an attempt to comfort me. I wish I could appreciate it, but I’m hurting too much as Bree’s eyes go back to the splinter on the table, and I turn to walk away.
“Bye, Bree,” I whisper, but the breeze takes my words and carries them off in the distance. She never hears them, and I leave without knowing if she would've responded at all.
ChapterForty-Two
When I walk into The Philadelphia Inquirer for the first time since the incident, all eyes turn to watch me. Even though I lived through the ordeal, everyone at my job acts like they weren’t sure if I was dead or alive, and they gawk at me like I'm an actual zombie strutting into the place with a desire to eat brains. My only actual desire is to make it from the elevator to my desk without feeling like the entire world is watching me.
Nonetheless, the eyes stay on me as I walk past the multitudes of people huddled up and whispering. I know they’re just curious and want to ask questions but can’t bring themselves to do it because they're either scared or not close enough to me to inquire. Instead, I only get their eyes fixating on me until I reach my desk and sit down, finally protected by the walls of the cubicle.
I almost didn't come in today. As the hours ticked down last night, I sat in my apartment wondering what it would be like to come back here after a couple of weeks off. I figured everyone would do what they’re doing now, but it wasn’t the stares that made me want to take an extra day, it was the fact that I would have to come in here and work on my story about Nolan. I’ve been trying to do anything but think about what happened, and that meant that I needed to dodge thoughts about Nolan, too.
After our brief meeting at the park, I told myself that I probably wouldn't be able to be with him after all of this, but my heart wouldn't let that thought hang around long. As much as I wanted to move on from the entire situation, memories of what Nolan and I had stuck to me like tar, and I couldn't shake him off no matter how hard I tried. Wherever I went, thoughts of Nolan followed like a poltergeist, whispering reminders of what we’d done together. Seeing him in my thoughts always started off fine, but eventually shifted into the vivid memory of what happened in my apartment.
Every time I thought of Nolan, I thought of Maddy, and it didn't matter that she was now spending her days confined to a jail. What she did latched onto my brain and hijacked my thoughts of Nolan until there was no him without her, and the last thing I wanted to do was walk into the Inquirer and be forced to think about Nolan and The Black Collar, because thoughts of Maddy would be an inevitability. The only reason I didn’t go through with adding another day to my time off was because I reached my limit. I grew tired of having my joy stolen by what I went through, and the only way to reclaim my happiness would be to take Nolan’s advice that day in the park. I needed to get my ass to this office, and bleed onto the page.
“You made it,” Octavia says from behind me. I spin around and find her beautiful face lost somewhere between wanting to smile and looking worried. “Welcome back. How does it feel? You gonna make it through the day?”
Since she’s obviously torn between smiling and frowning, I let her know it’s okay by smiling big. Once she sees me, she drops the anxious look completely.
“I’m okay,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I don't know if I’m going to make it through everybody fucking staring at me, but as far as my work is concerned, I’m going to make it just fine.”
“That’s great to hear. Have you talked to Chase about a new deadline yet?”
I shake my head. “No, and I don't really plan on it. I’m sure he’ll come to me when he feels comfortable, but by the time he does, I intend to already be working on it.”
“Oh, you figured out your angle on it?”
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“Awesome. So, how are you gonna do it?”
I look down at the floor in front of me as I remember what Nolan told me. “I think I’m just going to let it all out. I’m going to tell everything. If Chase ends up thinking it’s too long, that’s fine. I have to get it all out, so I’m not going to think much. I’m just going to type until I’ve got nothing left.”
Octavia frowns. “And, Nolan’s cool with that?”
“It’s his idea,” I say, a proud smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“Oh, well all right then,” Octavia says. She steps forward and leans in to give me a quick hug before backing out into the hall. “Well, I’ve got some work of my own to do, so I”m gonna let you get to it. Good luck, Bree.”
“Thanks, Octavia.” She walks away, making her way down to her own office, and once she’s gone, I spin around to start up my computer.
I remove my digital recorder from the drawer, which contains all of the Q&A material I did with Nolan, and I set it on the desk next to my keyboard. If my memory slips and I can’t think of specifics, I’ll rely on the recordings from when we first met, but something tells me I’ll never have to press play. I open a Google Doc on my Drive, and center the cursor with a twelve point bold font in Times New Roman. Without a moment’s hesitance, the title of the article comes to me, and I type it out.
Interview with a Sadist
As soon as I see it, I know what I’m about to do, and I know it’s going to be out of this world. I place my fingers on the keyboard, and lower the filter in my brain that makes me think before I speak. I drop that filter all the way down to zero and begin typing without worrying about what I’m going to say.
I start from the very beginning, telling the story of the moment I received the assignment from Chase to interview the owner of The Black Collar, and I don't hold back when I describe how it felt when I first saw him. I tell the world how my mind slowly opened up to the idea that maybe the world of kink was where I belonged, and I type with no shame when describing the moment I told Nolan to flog me on his couch. I speak about a woman who worked at the club—a woman in considerable pain who I do not name—and how she was the personification of what my ex friends warned me about when I began this journey of self discovery and sexual freedom. I write about the laughter Nolan and I shared, and the feeling of falling down a rabbit hole of adventure and infatuation that left me feeling weightless. I put it all on the page, and do not hide the details of the morning the unnamed woman came into my apartment and attempted to kill me, only for me to be saved by the man I was falling for. I bleed it all out, and I cry when talking about my meeting in the park with Nolan.
By the time I’m finished, hours have passed, I’m exhausted, and my makeup is ruined from the streaking tears that have carved out narrow passageways in my foundation. I’m a complete mess, but I feel a million times lighter than when I first began.
I don't even take time to proofread it before I give Chase the permissions to read it and make edits, then I’m out of the cubicle and headed out. I wave to Octavia on my way, who smiles and waves back as I step onto the elevator and make my way toward the parking lot. Once I’m in my car, I sit inside of it for a moment, thinking about everything I just wrote for this story. I spilled my guts, and writing it all down seems to have been the cathartic experience I needed it to be.
