Page 47 of Cruel Beginnings

He grabs my wrists and holds me still. “No, you didn’t. You had absolutely nothing to do with her death.”

I’m shaking like I’m having a seizure. Red spots swim in front of my vision. I said the words out loud. I talked about the Bad Thing. Am I going to die now?

He strokes the back of my hand with his thumb. “Those were choices she made, Tamara. They were terrible choices. It was never your fault. Any of it. You were the child, and you had no power at all. It was her job to keep you safe, and she failed at her job and left you with this miserable burden that you never should have had to carry. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“No, no, no…” I gulp for air. I’m getting dizzy.

“You will. It will get better and better, until it hardly hurts at all, until you rarely think of it,” he says calmly, and somehow, the panic starts to recede, because I believe him. I’ve told myself this a million times, but hearing it from him is different. The way he says things, with such utter conviction. His words have the power to make things true.

Telling him my terrible secret is like lancing a festering wound. I feel a violent wave of nausea sweep over me, and I vomit onto the floor.

“Come.” His voice drifts on a cloud over my head. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He’s not angry with me for making a mess. He’s sweet, he’s kind, he’s understanding.

Master is comforting me. Master is gentle. All I have to do is obey him. I have to make sacrifices for him, give him pieces of myself. It’s worth it, isn’t it, to have him treat me so lovingly?

I’m crying wordlessly, sobs racking my body. He takes me to the sink and washes my face. Gently and lovingly. He has me rinse out my mouth with mouthwash. “You did so well tonight, baby. I love it when you let me in.”

So sweet. So kind.

He used the word “love”. I want him to love me. What would my life be like if he loved me?

“Now it’s time for your punishment,” he says, but I’m in a dream state as he leads me to the middle of the room.

I’m a million miles away. He’s smashed my mind like a mirror, and the shards are flying everywhere, flying and flying. I’ll never be whole again.

He scatters grains of rice on the floor and forces me to kneel on them. Then he pulls up a chair, and just sits there and watches me. It doesn’t hurt much at first, but over time, the pain grows until it feels like I’m kneeling on hundreds of tiny, sharp pieces of gravel.

From somewhere outside my body, I cry and cry. I don’t think it’s because of the pain. It’s because I’m saying goodbye to my mother, for real. The pain is welcome, it’s cathartic, it’s cleansing. It’s what I deserve. I rock into the rice, trying to drive it into my flesh.

When he’s done hurting me, he picks me up, brushes the rice from my knees, and cradles me tenderly in his arms as he carries me down to my cell. He kisses my head again and again and tells me how brave and good I am.

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

JOSHUA

I’m in my office, watching my new favorite TV series,The Tamara Bennett Show, played out on the bank of monitors on the wall to the right of my desk. Right now, she’s sitting in the library, a western novel resting on her lap, staring into space.

It’s fascinating watching her evolve along the path I’ve chosen for her. She’s almost where I need her to be. I’ve punched another hole in the wall she built to keep me out of her most secret places. Soon the wall will be rubble, and she will be all mine. I’ll mind-fuck her until I’ve penetrated every part of her.

She seems stunned, dazed after I dragged her secrets into the light. I let her be for a few days. Let her slowly put herself back together. I don’t ask to kiss her pussy. I don’t make her suck me off. I let her wear the thin collar and the longer chains. I make light conversation with her at meals, talking about the dishes that Elizabeth prepares for her. Where the name “pasta puttanesca” comes from. That one drew a faint smile from her.

And something else: Tamara doesn’t have bad dreams anymore. She’s not crying out in her sleep, torturing herself with nightmares too terrible to remember.

She used to wake up in the morning gulping in panic. She doesn’t do that anymore.

I’ve made life better for her. I note with interest that I feel a strange glow of pride at that. That’s something new. I’ve never cared in the slightest about anyone else’s needs; if anyone benefitted from my actions, it was pure accident.

I notice on some dim level that Elizabeth isn’t communicating as much with me. She never wanted to learn sign language, but after serving me for so many years, we have developed our own communication system.

She’s sulking, withdrawn, because of Tamara. That’s not my problem. I didn’t ask her to live her life for me.

When we were in our teens, I tried to send her away. She refused to go. I tried everything I could think of. I told her the truth—that I didn’t love her, that I would never love her. When she still could speak, she told me that it didn’t matter, that she loved me and didn’t care if I loved her back; all she wanted to do was stay with me and exist only for me.

So I lied and told her that she couldn’t stay with me because I was afraid that she would tell all my secrets. That was when she cut her own tongue out. She nearly died from blood loss; she was in the hospital, as a Jane Doe, for weeks.

So I went back and fetched her from there and let her stay with me.

The reason I’ve been able to tolerate Elizabeth’s presence for so long is because she’s barely there. She’s like a ghost, hovering in the background. She serves me and then vanishes. She never tries to communicate with me beyond what’s necessary to serve my needs.

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