by Lorelei
I smile in the dark. Believe it or not, there are locks that even I can't
pick.
This isn't one of them.
I like to think of it as a sign. With his background, surely he could find a
way to keep me out, if he really tried.
If he really wanted to.
A wiggle, a turn and a click.
I'm in.
I am immediately seized and thrown against the door so hard the walls rattle. I
wince as the back of my skull makes sharp contact with the hard surface behind
me.
He's had his workout and shower. I can smell the faintly musky odor of sweat in
the air, the aroma of soap on his clean, bare skin. He's barefoot, wearing only
jeans, his belt unbuckled.
He is close. So very close. His face is inches from mine, so near that I can't
focus on anything but his eyes.
Dark, intense, pissed off.
I feel myself trembling a little. His hands are curled around my biceps,
holding me fast against the door, slowly beginning to cut off my circulation
even through my leather jacket.
I try to move a little. I have to at least make the attempt. I'm not a total
bitch.
He growls and slams me back again. Fuck, it hurts. His scent surrounds me, so
close, so...him. I sip it greedily, savoring it, the tension crackling between
us making every hair on my body stand on end.
I get still.
I wait.
"Give it to me," he growls.
I stare at him defiantly.
My head bounces off the hard wood again.
"Now."
His eyes darken in a way I can't describe and I feel a wild little frisson of
fear in my stomach. The way the long drop on the rollercoaster at King's
Dominion used to make me feel when I was a little kid. I haven't felt that way
in so long. Didn't think I could feel that way anymore.
Until he slugged me in the gut and chained me to his balcony one cold November
night.
Until he slid the glass door open in the wee hours of the morning, dragged me
inside and tied me to his bed, rode me, broke me, fucked me raw.
Ever since, I am drawn to him, again and again, in a way even I don't truly
understand.
Another tooth-rattling shake. He growls again. His patience is wearing thin.
"Do it, boy."
That last, bitten-off word shoots straight to my cock, makes my knees buckle.
His hands squeeze harder and I know I am going to be wearing a perfect set of
fingerprints for the next week.
Small trophies to admire when I am alone again.
The look on his face convinces me. Slowly, I reach behind my back and slide my
Glock from its holster. I hand it to him, butt first. Just the way he likes
it.
He takes the weapon and, keeping me pinned with one hand, places it on the small
table beside the door. His face comes close again, so close, it blocks out
everything else.
There is nothing else.
"The rest," he says, his voice low and dangerous.
I give up my holdout, the snubnose .38 I keep in my boot. My knife.
I shrug a little, as much as his grip allows me.
"That's all," I whisper. I know what will happen if he finds anything else on
me.
Satisfied, he steps even closer, forcing me to shrink back a little.
"Where were you?" he demands.
Fuck. I'm later than usual. He's been waiting.
He shakes me again, anger radiating off him in waves.
I open my mouth to lie but fuck me if the truth doesn't come out instead.
"Mulder's," I say, my mouth suddenly desert dry.
He studies me for a moment, his jaw doing that thing it does when he's angry.
Definite storm warning.
"I told you never to go there again, Alexei," he snaps, using what I think of as
my bitch name. He knows I fucking hate it. Nobody calls me that. Nobody who
wants to live.
Nobody but him.
"Nothing happened," I say quickly, feeling ridiculous, like a kid caught coming
in after curfew. "We just talked, I swear."
He laughs, a short humorless bark.
"You swear?" he marvels. "What makes you think I'll believe you? You're a liar
and a slut," he pauses, then adds with unmistakable malice, "Alexei."
"It's the truth," I say desperately.
Goddammit, it is the truth. I'm honest for once in my life and what the fuck
does it get me?
"You wouldn't know the truth if it banged you all night," he snarls. He pauses
again and smiles. Cold smile. Cold hand pulling my jacket, my T-shirt aside,
looking for marks on my neck. Looking for marks that aren't there. "But you'd
know Mulder, wouldn't you? I told you to stay the hell away from him."
"Nothing happened," I say again, pleading with my eyes. "He didn't touch me. I
didn't touch him."
The look on his face is thunderous. I feel the familiar corkscrew sensation
running wildly up my spine, the fear-high beginning to make me soar, my pounding
heart and my rock-hard cock competing for my single, inadequate blood supply.
He stares at me coldly, unswayed by my conviction.
I know what he's going to do before he does it.
"Awfuckdon't—" I manage to gasp as he lifts me almost off of my feet and hauls
me into the living room, dumping me headfirst over the arm of the couch.
The couch has high arms and it's a fucking humiliating position to be in, my ass
in the air and my face in the cushions, and fear-high or no fear-high, I'm
fighting him with everything I've got, not that it does me a damn bit of good.
He just places one big hand on the back of my neck to keep me still and busies
the other hand with unbuttoning my jeans. I turn my head to keep from
suffocating and curse the fucking useless prosthetic arm lying beside me like a
dead thing.
"God damn it, Skinner, I told you—"
"Shut up," he snaps. He takes his hand off the back of my neck and tugs my
jeans down without finesse, the rough denim burning my thighs.
So much for going commando. If this isn't a good argument for wearing
underwear, I don't know what is.
Cool air wafts across my bare ass and I stop fighting. This is a position I
have had a lifetime of experience with and I know struggling further will only
make it worse. I feel the heat creeping up from my neck and I squeeze my eyes
shut. Fuck fuck fuck.
He spreads my cheeks and I feel his blunt finger probing, pushing deep inside
me. I am dry and tight and it fucking hurts.
I make a noise deep in my throat, protesting as he examines me with a distinct
lack of consideration. His fingernail scratches me deep inside and I bite back
a yelp. Bastard.
Finally he withdraws.
"I told you, you son of a bitch," I pant, my one good hand clutching the sofa
cushion, the leather cool against my cheek. "I fucking told you."
Silence.
Then the sound of his belt sliding through his beltloops.
Aw, fuck.
The first stripe hits me low, right across the undercurve of my ass, and I rear
up and scream. He means business. God, he has an arm on him.
The room is filled with his occasional grunts as he swings the belt again, the
sound of leather on bare skin, and my own breathless screams.
He speaks, just once.
"I told you never to go there again."
I don't know how many times he hits me or how long I lie there, my face pressed
against the leather, hearing myself sob, my voice tinged with hysteria, my ass
bruised and sizzling.
The sound of his zipper being lowered, barely audible over my cries.
I hear the tiny cap from the tube of KY hit the floor and a moment later, he
thrusts into me. I groan and buck as he pulls out and slams back into me,
burying himself to the hilt. He fucks me hard, each stroke long and deep, his
hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave another set of his fingerprints.
His motions quicken, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the room
and I screech and scream and lose my English, lose my mind for a little while.
I rave and curse in Russian, mad with the pleasure/pain, my hand scrabbling and
clawing, in danger of doing real damage to his expensive leather upholstery.
Suddenly one large hand reaches around, traps my wrist and brings it up, pinning
it against the small of my back.
My hips jerk and I scream again as he slams into me three, four, five times in
rapid succession and I come all over that buttery leather. He follows me
seconds later, his husky shout echoing off the walls as he spurts deep inside
me.
He releases me and I slide to the floor.
I kneel there, looking up at him with wet eyes, my jeans around my ankles, my
thighs smeared with his come.
I know what I look like.
"Let me stay tonight?" I whisper. Sometimes he lets me. My heart hammers in my
chest as he stands mute, staring at me, still breathing heavily, the sweat
drying on his bare skin.
I think about the cold outside and the rain.
I think about the abandoned car I slept in last night. Yeah, I'm living in
reduced circumstances, as my former employer would say in his dry, elegant way.
Sometimes I think my future went up in smoke along with him when that car
exploded. He could be cruel sometimes, but only when I tested him. Not like
Spender's scattershot, petty punishments. The Brit was grooming me for
something better, something more.
But that's over now. The bomb took care of that. Spender kept me around for a
few more years, using my singular talents, you might say. But he's dead now.
The Consortium is a memory.
And I'm still here, kneeling, come-sticky and snot-nosed on Walter Skinner's
living room floor, his come wet on my skin, the marks from his belt on my ass.
Skinner stares at me for a moment longer, then turns his back on me as he walks
into the hallway. I hear him in the bathroom. He comes back and throws two
clean towels at me.
"Clean up the mess and then shower," he says abruptly. He disappears upstairs.
Moving slowly, painfully, I stand. Pulling my jeans up over my abused ass isn't
an option, so I toe off my boots and kick off the jeans. I clean his come and
mine off the couch as best I can, then walk into the bathroom. I drop the used
towel in the hamper, take off my jacket and shirt and pile everything as neatly
as possible in the corner. I turn on the shower and wash myself, keeping my ass
well away from the spray until the last possible second. I've kept the
temperature low and the water pressure light but I still hiss and grit my teeth
when it touches me.
Still, I'm really clean for the first time in two days.
I towel off and wonder what to do with my dirty clothes, finally deciding to
leave them on the lid of the hamper. I walk upstairs naked, exhausted, ignoring
my growling stomach. He's letting me sleep here tonight. I don't want to push
my luck by asking for something to eat too.
The door to the master bedroom is slightly ajar and I push it open carefully.
He's standing by the edge of the bed, clad in a pair of white boxers. My eyes
run hungrily over his muscular thighs, his flat stomach. He eyes me levelly,
silently.
Then I see the glint of the handcuffs.
I immediately take a step back.
"No," I say sharply. I mean it. Somewhere out there, there's a rusted-out 1976
Pinto with my name on it. Big back seat in a Pinto.
He takes a step toward me, holding up the handcuffs, the light playing over the
steel.
I fucking hate being restrained. The fucker knows this.
Which is exactly why he's moving closer to me, one bracelet open and waiting, an
eager mouth waiting to close around my one good arm.
Bastard.
He backs me up against the wall and I reflexively shove my pelvis forward to
keep my scorched ass from pressing against it. Skinner feels me buck against
him and he smiles. He knows. He knows why I come here. Why I keep coming
here.
He locks eyes with me.
"It's cold out there, Alexei," he says, his voice syrupy and smooth. "Raining,
too. You sure you don't want to stay?"
I resist the urge to slug him, to forcibly remove the smirk from his face.
I bite my lip, trying to build a dam against the word I don't want to hear
myself say.
"Please," I grind out.
I hate him. I hate me.
He moves swiftly, grabbing my chin and jerking it upwards.
"What did I tell you when we first made this...arrangement?"
I swallow hard. I try to jerk my head away but his grip tightens. I feel the
bones in my jaw grinding against one another.
He leans close, his breath hot on my face.
"I told you," he says malevolently, "that it would be my way or no way. You
don't have your little toy anymore, Alexei. You can't push a button and make me
go away."
He leans closer still, biting off each word, his eyes flinty and hard.
"You. Control. Nothing. Understand?"
I manage to nod, wincing at the pressure from his thumb on my jaw.
He lets me go and then stands aside, gesturing toward the bed.
"My way or no way," he repeats flatly. "On your face or on the street, boy.
You decide."
I hesitate and then slowly walk toward the bed.
Slowly, reluctantly, I unbuckle the straps of my prosthetic and place it on the
nightstand. I lie down awkwardly on my stomach, my one wrist on the pillow next
to my head.
I close my eyes as the cold metal closes around my wrist. There is a clacking
sound as he fastens the other bracelet around the bedpost. It's connected to
the headboard in such a way that I can't slide the handcuff high enough to get
loose. I turn my head and watch him, hating him. Unable to bear the thought of
being away from him.
He glances down at my red ass and laughs.
"You should be thanking me, boy. I could have cuffed you on your back."
He gets into bed next to me and I bite back a scream as he nonchalantly flips
the covers up over us and the sheets scrape across my raw flesh.
He turns off the bedside lamp and we lie there in silence. Soon, his breathing
is deep and even.
I shift a little, stretching the handcuff chain to its limit, trying to get
closer to him. Trying to imagine, just for a while, that I'm truly his.
Not just a convenient hole. Not just a whipping boy.
The sheets and pillowcase smell like him. I burrow deeper into them, mindful of
my sore ass, and inhale his scent, savoring it.
A few hours later, my own soft moaning wakes me up. I've been squirming and
crying out in my sleep, unable to get comfortable due to my burning, throbbing
ass.
Skinner grumbles beside me and the room floods with light as he turns on the
lamp.
I freeze, my heart thudding crazily against my ribcage, sure he's going to beat
my ass again and toss me out into the freezing drizzle.
I feel the mattress dip and rise as he gets up and stomps into the ensuite
bathroom.
I lie there like a statue, afraid even to breathe, as his footsteps on the
carpet signal his approach.
A cold breeze chills my bare skin as he flips the coverlet and sheets down. He
sits on the edge of the bed. I wrap my hand around the bedpost and wait for
what will happen next.
I jump and gasp as something cold touches me. The coldness spreads across my
hot, swollen flesh. In his brisk, almost curt way, Skinner is rubbing something
into my ass, something soothing.
I am too stunned to speak.
He stands and goes back into the bathroom, then returns a moment later, gets
into bed and cuts off the light again.
"I have an eight o'clock meeting," he says in the dark. "Wake me up again and
you really will sleep in the rain."
I lie there awake for a long time. Was it my imagination or had his hand
lingered on me just a fraction of a second longer than necessary?
I fall asleep thinking about this. I crave the pain and the fear but this...I
could learn to get used to this too.
If I had the chance.
He's been gone for two weeks.
I'm hungry, cold and exhausted.
His face was impassive when he told me about the trip.
"Don't come around here while I'm gone," he'd said. I'd nodded numbly, my
stomach lurching.
Two weeks.
I spent part of that two weeks in the vacant lot across the street from his
house. It was fucking cold, but although there was no longer a house there,
there was a rickety little shed still standing. I huddled in the open doorway,
shivering, just watching the house. He'd beat the shit out of me if he found
out, but I wasn't on his property. I was keeping to the letter of his order.
He'd left the lights on in the living room, and that seemed to comfort me, as if
he were there, waiting for me. I like to think he bought the house with me in
mind, the side door hidden by a high hedge, so easy to slip in unnoticed by the
neighbors.
After the first week, the twenty I'd found in my jacket pocket the night he left
(did he put it there? he must have, he must have...) was gone. I hadn't eaten
in a day and a half. It was fucking raining again.
I found myself down on the Block, a sinister little stretch of sidewalk between
Grace and Lombardy, well-known to older men looking for a date and young men
looking to survive another day on the streets.
He was a fat businessman in a grey sedan. His power window slid down smoothly
and his jowls moved against his collar as he looked me up and down.
I stood on the curb, clutching my jacket around me, knowing how the rain made my
hair hang into my eyes. Knowing how much younger it made me look.
"Get in," he said, jerking a fat thumb at the passenger door.
The motel was one of those economy places, no frills but clean. He stripped
down to his boxers and then lay on the bed.
"Strip."
I obeyed, slowly thawing in the overly warm room. I tried not to look at him.
He repulsed me but I couldn't take another night on the streets. I
couldn't...fucking...do it. All I wanted was a hot bath and to sleep in a real
bed.
Just one night out of the rain.
I lay next to him, turned my head when he tried to kiss me. He grunted and
motioned for me to roll over.
I closed my eyes, listening to him unwrap the condom, his huffing and puffing as
he tried to roll it on and get himself into position.
I felt his weight as he moved over top of me.
It was over quickly.
He went and showered immediately. He took his wallet into the bathroom with
him, the asshole, having the nerve to look almost apologetic as he tossed it
onto the back of the toilet and slammed the door.
I cursed him under my breath. I might be a whore but I'm not a thief. Not
anymore, anyway.
I sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the rain.
He came out of the bathroom and started throwing his clothes on, like he
couldn't get away fast enough.
"What was it, twenty?" he mumbled.
I'd said thirty. I snorted derisively and looked him in the eye.
"Twenty and the keycard to the room. I want it for the rest of the night."
He grunted again and flipped the small piece of plastic onto the foot of the
bed, followed by a neatly folded twenty.
I stared at both for a long time after he left.
I'm standing now outside Skinner's door. He's been back since this morning. I
pull out my lockpick and reach for the door.
It opens suddenly.
He stands there, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, the Washington Post folded in
his hand.
His eyes travel over me, a frown creasing his face.
Once again, I know how I look. Disheveled, gaunt and tired. I brush my hair
out of my face and hunch into the collar of my jacket.
He sighs and yanks me in by the collar, slamming the door shut behind me.
I am in my accustomed place against the wall. I'm so fucking tired and cold, I
have my gun out, butt first, handing it to him before he even asks. I thrust my
.38, my knife and the scuffed pair of brass knuckles I took off a punk on 39th
Street a few nights ago at him.
He stands back and stares at me.
I stare at the floor, swaying slightly. The hotel was three days ago. I look
so shitty nobody on the Block wanted me. I spent the last couple of nights in
the abandoned shed across the street, with the cold wind blowing in through the
cracks in the weathered wood.
His eyes narrow and he takes a step forward. The Post gets tossed onto a nearby
chair.
I shiver and hunch in further on myself. I don't meet his eyes. Can't.
"Alexei," he rumbles.
He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to.
"Were you a bad boy while I was gone?"
Oh, shit.
My bowels turn to water at the precise moment my dick decides to sit up and beg.
My erection presses uncomfortably against my tight jeans as I try to become one
with the wallpaper.
I stare straight ahead as he moves in closer, his white T-shirt becoming my
focal point. I stare at it, snowblind and trembling.
Almost gently, he tilts my chin up, and I swallow convulsively as he moves the
collar aside, exposing the bright purple bruise right above my collarbone. The
mark the fat man put on me. Too late, I'd realized what he was doing, but
couldn't get him off me in time. If I ever see him again I'm going to carve my
initials in his fat ass. And steal his fucking wallet.
But he's the least of my problems right now.
Skinner's hand leaves my chin and bunches in my hair, jerking my head back and
dragging me into the center of the room, closer to the light.
I stand, helpless, trapped by his hand in my hair, by his anger, his disgust.
There is no sound for several seconds.
In one motion, he lets go of my hair and shoves me to the floor.
I land hard on my hand and knees. Scared, I look up at him.
The look on his face is homicidal. Strangely, my worst fear is not that he will
kill me. It is that I will never see the inside of this house again. Never
sleep next to him again, even with my ass on fire and my wrist shackled to the
bedpost.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. My cheeks burn. I close my eyes and know in that
moment that I mean it, Jesus Christ, I mean it, I do. I am sorry.
He is too furious to speak, I imagine. I cower there and wait. I swallow
again, my dry throat clicking.
I open my eyes and see his feet, clad in thick white socks, stepping closer to
me. He stands over me. I look up at him, into his angry gaze.
"Mulder?" he asks, his voice flat.
I shake my head. I see him process this, see his expression change into
something even more cold and hard.
"Why?" he snaps.
I huddle into a miserable ball and lower my head onto my arm.
"For a place to sleep," I mumble quietly.
I feel him staring at me for a long time.
He reaches down, grabs me by the collar again and hauls me to my feet. His face
is close to mine, his eyes snapping fire. He is the God of my world and is he
pissed.
"Get your clothes off," he orders. "Do it now or get out and don't come back.
Ever."
The venom in his voice startles even me and I instinctively take a step back.
But there is no question of disobeying. There is nothing else but this. Being
with him. Waiting to be with him. Nowhere else on earth for me to go.
Shaking, I quickly strip, piling my clothes on the floor next to me. The
hardwood floor is cold under my bare feet. He watches wordlessly.
When I am naked, he points to the sofa. No explanation required. Too tired to
plead my case, I assume the position.
A minute or so later, I hear the jingling of the belt buckle as he retrieves it
from the other room.
The usual. He wears my ass out until he can't lift his arm anymore. Until I
can't cry anymore.
I am expecting that.
When it's over, I brace myself for the long hard fucking to follow. I expect
that, too.
But it doesn't come.
That's definitely unexpected.
So is Skinner opening the narrow door under the stairs. The door that leads to
the basement.
I think I stop breathing.
He stands beside the door and points inside.
"Move. Now."
I bite my lip and step backwards. I don't want to go, oh God, I don't want to
go but I don't think I can do this, don't think I can-
"NOW!" he roars.
I jump but I am rooted to the spot. He pins me with a cold glare.
"Either do it or get out, Alexei. Last chance."
Slowly, jerkily, I manage to move my feet. They make soft slapping sounds on
the wooden stairs as I walk quickly down them, his hand on the middle of my
back, propelling me forward. My chest tightens with every step, panic already
threatening to engulf me.
We reach the bottom of the stairs and my breath freezes in my throat.
There, in the middle of the cinderblock room, surrounded by shelves crowded with
cans of paint, power tools and cardboard boxes, is a giant St. Andrew's cross.
It's the biggest fucking thing I've ever seen. I can smell fresh wood and
varnish and I wonder just when he found the time to build the thing.
He shoves me toward it, none too gently. I look at the wide leather cuffs with
dread. But there's something else, something nagging at me. Something Wrong.
I realize what it is and feel suddenly nauseous.
Did I mention the fucker is huge?
Too huge to be carried up the stairs, and definitely too huge to fit through the
narrow door at the top.
So huge it could only ever be used in this room.
"NO!" I barely recognize my own voice as it tears from my throat.
I launch myself at the stairs.
"Fuck this!" I scream, panicking as I feel his big arm encircling my waist,
dragging me backwards even as I clutch at the banister. "Fuck this and fuck
you! Let me go!"
He curses and drags me, kicking and screaming, toward the cross. In a matter of
minutes, I am securely cuffed in place. He grabs my left arm, the only limb
still free, as I try to belt him with my plastic hand. Not a terribly smart move, I know,
but I'm desperate. He efficiently removes the prosthetic
and places it on a shelf close by, then cuffs my stump, binding it securely to
the crossbar. He's obviously retrofitted the cross, making it more accomodating
for a one-armed captive. I spit in his general direction and utter vile
threats, struggling frantically, but to no avail.
He leans against the banister at the bottom of the stairs, his arms folded,
calmly watching me. It doesn't take long for me to exhaust my scant reserves of
energy and I hang there, helpless and terrified.
"You done?" he asks amiably and in that moment, I hate him more than I've ever
hated any human being in my life. I know I owe him for the nanocytes. He's
taken his pound of flesh and more. He's whipped me, fucked me, wrung me dry.
But this...
He knows what this will do to me.
He turns and begins to climb the stairs.
"Don't!" I shriek, my voice cracking. "Don't you fucking leave me here!
Skinner!"
He turns and walks back down the stairs, crosses the room to me. I pant, my
eyes never leaving him, my heartbeat high and frantic.
He grabs my hair again and yanks it viciously. My yelp is swallowed as his
mouth covers mine. He devours me and then steps back, watching me closely.
I am too fucking scared to be turned on right now.
"Please," I whine, hating the sound of it. "Jesus, not this, not—"
"What was the other thing I told you when we made this arrangement?" he
interrupts, his voice deadly serious. "I reminded you of the first not too long
ago. Now it looks like you need reminding of something else."
If my mouth was dry before, it's downright arid now. My tongue seems cemented
to the roof of my mouth.
He watches me, his jaw set.
"I was planning on giving you two hours to think things over," he said, and my
stomach did an agonizing flip-flop. Two hours? Two fucking hours down here?
No way, no way, no fucking way-
"But I can make it three," he continued breezily. "Or even four, if you think
you need that much time."
"No," I blurt hastily. "I...I remember."
He arches an eyebrow.
"The evidence would seem to contradict that," he says drily. "But indulge me.
What did I tell you?"
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the cross.
"No one touches me but you," I whisper. "I'm sorry."
I hear him turn and begin to ascend the stairs again.
"You will be," he says as he reaches the top. "See you in four hours."
Fuck!
"No!" I call uselessly after him.
The door at the top of the stairs closes.
Looking around the room at the four thick walls, the panic begins to swell
inside me.
I force myself to take several deep breaths. Trying to keep it together. He
could have kicked you out, he could have told you never to come back, but he
didn't, so maybe he won't. You can do this. You can do it.
Not the silo not the silo not the silo.
I tug uselessly at the cuffs, but they are securely fastened to the cross. The
cross itself is far too heavy and solid for me to budge.
I finally begin to accept the fact that I'm not going anywhere until he comes to
get me.
The single light bulb hanging over my head provides enough light for me to see
into the far reaches of the basement. I make myself catalogue every box, every
can, every pile of old rags. That's not like the silo. Neither is that. No
light in the silo. No tools either. This is a basement. You're in Walter
Skinner's basement. He's not going to leave you down here forever. He's going
to make you stay down here for a few hours and then he's going to come and let
you out. Maybe he'll understand, if you try to explain. Or maybe he won't
bring it up again. Maybe once you do your penance it'll be over.
Maybe.
I don't know how much time passes before it happens. How many times my eyes
pass over the shelves, the cans, the tools. How many times I lift them to the
circle of light over my head, reminding myself of where I am. Keeping myself in
the here and now.
Then I hear the soft pop as the single light bulb burns out, leaving me in total
darkness.
I am stunned for a moment. Then I hear my own breath whistling as I inhale,
filling my lungs to bursting.
I begin to scream.
And scream.
I am still screaming when the door at the top of the stairs flies open, a shaft
of light streaming down, splitting the darkness in two.
Dimly, I hear Skinner's footsteps on the stairs. He's moving fast.
I can't stop screaming, even as he curses and rushes to one of the shelves. I
hear him rummaging around, hear things hitting the cement floor.
Another light appears. I am still screaming. I am beyond stopping.
He drops a battery-operated lantern at the foot of the cross and fumbles with
the cuffs, freeing first my arms and then my legs. I try to run but fall over
my own feet in my panic. He curses again and scoops me up, throwing me over his
shoulder. I bounce up and down as he carries me up the stairs, knowing on some
level that he is taking me to the light, but seeing the darkness below me,
unable to free myself from the hysteria.
I am still screaming when he carries me into the living room. I begin to flail
at his back with my fist, causing him to grunt and hold me more tightly.
I am still screaming as he carries me upstairs to the bedroom. He dumps me on
the bed and I roll away, my screams growing hoarse in my ravaged throat.
He stands there for a moment, then drops on top of me, pressing me into the
mattress with his full weight.
He grabs my face between his two hands and shouts back at me.
"Alexei! Alexei! ALEX!"
His use of my proper name stuns me, breaks the panic's grip on me, and I stop
screaming and burst into tears.
He lifts off of me a little, disgusted with my weakness, I imagine, and I roll
onto my side, curling into a fetal position, and bawl.
He sits there on the bed beside me for a long time.
I cry myself out and lie there exhausted and embarrassed, too tired even to
wonder what will happen to me next. Either he'll let me come back or he won't.
Maybe the next time I let myself in I'll find myself looking down the barrel of
his gun.
At this moment I think I would welcome it.
I fall asleep.
I wake up in the night and realize I am still in his bed and he is beside me. I
am curled up close to him and for a moment I am confused, wondering why my one
hand is free to rub my face. Then I understand. I am not shackled to anything.
No handcuffs. No restraints.
Puzzled, I tumble back into unconsciousness, but not before it registers in my
muddled mind that, sometime during the night, he has covered me with a heavy
blanket.
When I wake up, I am lying on my back, the blanket tucked around my shoulders.
I open my eyes to the soft, muted light streaming in through the thin curtains.
I stretch a little and freeze in place.
There is something around my neck.
I raise my hand and explore it tentatively. My fingers tug at it cautiously,
skate over the smooth surface. It feels like metal, warmed by my skin.
I sit up, pushing back the covers. My sore ass reminds me of last night, not
that I need a reminder. It's all too vivid in my mind.
I stumble into the bathroom, still unsure whether I'm awake or dreaming, and
flip on the light. Blinking, I look in the mirror over the sink.
My eyes fly open in disbelief. My gasp echoes off the tile walls.
It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
I touch it lightly, reverently, my mouth open in shock.
It's a collar.
Mycollar?
Smooth, flawless gold, growing even warmer under my touch. It seems to flow
over my skin like liquid sunlight.
Suddenly, Skinner is standing behind me. His eyes meet mine in the mirror.
I turn and gape at him in uncomprehending amazement.
He steps toward me.
I hesitate, but only for a moment.
I go to him, awkward and unsure, ready for whatever he wants to give me.
He stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable and somehow odd.
Then he takes me in his arms, crushing me against him. Everything seems strange
to me, surreal, yet strangely right.
We stand there motionless.
Finally, he leans down, says one word into my ear.
"Mine."
End
Happy Birthday Jose!
e's changed the locks again.
This one's for you, Maman.
