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Part 2
I might have slept in that trunk, or they might have slipped me a drug. I don’t really remember. When I woke up, I was in a bed, one that was far more comfortable than the one I was accustomed to. Curiously, I poked at the mattress beneath me; it was wonderfully plush and comfortable, better than anything I’d ever even touched. I wondered at it snuggling in confort for the first time. I’d expected a cage or a board or something hard like the bed I’d grown up with. I didn’t know what to do with myself; I was comfortable. I heard the door open and quickly looked at my own feet, demure and obedient as I’d been trained. I screwed up before but I was determined not to do it again.
“LuDuis says yer a genius, and not quite as broken as ye seem.” he mentioned casually and I was so startled I looked up into his eyes. He knew, it was written in every line on his face. It wasn’t guesswork either, he knew, so there was no point in pretending.
“He’s right.” I said and he grinned.
“Good, up ye get now, yer to meet yer Master.” he called turning to leave.
“Not you?” I wondered, confused. He let out a booming laugh.
“Oh my wife would be after me with the frying pans if I brought home such as you, lass.” he laughed again and shook his head, “Nay, you’re for my nephew. Lad needs a lassie and isn’t inclined to get one for hisself so I asked a favor of my dear friend LuDuis. Said he was engineering humans so I was after mentioning that the lad needed a good lassie. He said he had an experiment that needed a good home, and here ye are lass. So up out of bed now and we’ll go downstairs and wait for him.” I followed him downstairs, curious that he didn’t feel the need to reprimand me for my gall in speaking and questioning out of turn.
“You didn’t beat me.” I mentioned, as I caught up with him going down the stairs.
“For what?” he wondered, bemused.
“For speaking out of turn, asking questions.” I offered meekly, not wanting to make it worse for myself if he was merely biding his time. He stopped and looked at me sadly and mildly puzzled.
“LuDuis mentioned ye didn’t have a good time of the treatment there, and I saw the scars but . . . what did they do?” he wondered.
“They beat us, usually every day, occasionally more for me. I was the only one who ever gave them a reason. All the others were drones. They had they’re purpose but there was nothing else going on in their minds. I can think and reason and with years of drones they forgot what it was to train real individuals. They used force assuming that was all it takes to break an individual and because that isn’t the case they used more force until I was maimed and they were punished.” I explained.
“They’re ugly scars and yer knee . . .” he trailed off.
“. . . will never regain full functionality.” I shrugged, finishing his sentence. He clapped me on the shoulder, a bit more forcefully then he probably intended but I kept my balance.
“It’s a sad thing and no mistake for one so young lassie, but I suppose it’s better they beat ye and couldn’t break ye. I imagine you would rather have a fully functional mind than a fully functional knee, aye?” he offered kindly.
“I think so. I just wish they had bothered to teach us better. Even a slave may need to read. I would like to read.” I admitted.
“I think we might be able to oblige, lass, I’ll have a word with the lad.” he smiled.
“So why did you buy me for him?” I wondered, but he seemed to know what I was really asking.
“Well . . . it’s not that he couldn’t find a lass of his own, he’s handsome and successful and what have ye, but, he had trouble a couple years back. He found his fiancée was flitting about, er . . . seeing other men in the biblical sense and she died. Died horribly, actually, the man she had been flitting with tossed her into a wood chipper. He didn’t recover so well from that. He played dominant to her slave as well and it came as an extra blow that she’d been unfaithful. So, he’s been wary about dating again and even more so about the lifestyle. So, I think to myself he needs a lass that will not be unfaithful and enjoys the lifestyle. I mentioned it to my good friend LuDuis and he tells me they’ve engineered lads and lassies for sexual slavery and I says that wouldn’t be any good as the lad needs intellectual stimulation as well and he mentions ye and how there will be trouble if he can’t find ye a home as yer so badly damaged. So as one thing leads to another, here ye are.” he explained. I nodded and frowned. She hadn’t understood everything he’d said but she got the gist of the story. He had a roundabout way of storytelling that left her a little dizzy, but his voice was smooth and nice to listen too. A consummate story teller.
I didn’t know how much was the programming and how much was the training or if anything of me could have come from other than those two but I am a sexual slave. It was the only way I’d ever found satisfaction sexually. Not that my trainers were particularly interested in my satisfaction, but on the rare occasion they would attempt to stimulate me normally it would be ineffective in all but the basest biological sense, which would usually earn me another beating. No, it wasn’t the sexual servitude that bothered me at all, it was that most considered physical violence part of that and I’d never enjoyed a beating in my life.
Thoughts chased themselves around my head endlessly and the man seemed more than happy to let me alone to digest, it was vaguely surprising to me, I would have thought him one to never stop talking. He just sat on the couch closest to the door and patted the seat next to him. I sat, for the first time, on a couch and waited to discover my fate.
When the handle turned, I lowered myself, quickly despite my knee, to kneel on the floor facing the door.
“Hello Master.” I called, staring at the floor intently, holding the position we were taught. Knees open, hands on thighs, back straight, eyes down.
“Umm, hello?” he returned, bemused. He looked back and forth from me to his uncle and back again.
“Hello, uncle Mort, what is this?” he wondered, moving to his uncle and grasping his hand.
“This is a gift, m’lad.”
“You got me an underage BDSM prostitute?” he raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
“Have a little tact lad, the lassie’s no prostitute!” his uncle argued.
“She’s underage?” he groaned.
“Of course not, have some faith in yer old uncle.” he scolded and the man sighed.
“I’ve been in surgery for very nearly forty hours straight, uncle, if you could cut to the quick and explain why I have a kneeling, young woman on my floor calling me Master I would appreciate it.” he sighed, already done with the guessing game.
“You remember my friend, LuDuis right?” he asked slyly.
“The geneticist with the unfortunate name, yes?” he quipped. I snorted with laughter and Mort frowned at me.
“Don’t ye encourage him, lassie.” he said jestingly. I regained my composure quickly, cursing myself for my behavior. The man raised his eyebrows at his uncle in anger and alarm. Quickly, Mort filled in the rest of the story and although the anger and alarm became more pronounced it was no longer directed at his uncle.
“She’s been abused.” he mentioned quietly, although not so quietly as I couldn’t hear.
“They didn’t know how to train there, just break, you’ll have to do that one yourself.” he replied.
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.” he admitted.
“If I hadn’t taken her, God only knows what would have happened to her. No one was interested because of the damage and if she hadn’t been bought . . . I shudder to imagine.” he trailed off, letting his nephew’s imagination run.
“Very well, uncle. I will see to this, although I will reserve thanks until I figure out if it is a gift or curse.” he said in a clipped tired fashion but Mort knew his nephew well, he was saying thanks and he smiled.
“You’re welcome.” he clapped the boy on the shoulder nearly knocking him down and turned back to me. He tilted my chin up to look at him, “I’m sure I’ll see you again, lassie, until then.” He kissed me gently on the forehead and left. I stayed in that position as the man collapsed tiredly on the couch and looked at me, seemingly deciding what to do.
“Do you have a name, lass?” he asked quietly.
“No, we weren’t given names.” I answered looking at him. A flash of fury crossed behind his eyes and I looked down and tensed, expecting a blow but none came.
“Right then, stand up and come here, I want to see this damage.” he ordered gently, his voice calm and kind. I stood and removed my clothes, I later learned they were scrubs, and stood before him naked, waiting. I saw his eyes bulge slightly and rake over me with desire and possessive affection. He took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh.
“The damage,” he reminded, twirling his finger, indicating that I should turn. I did so, trying not to hobble as I leaned on my bad knee. He sucked in his breath and muttered a few foul phrases concerning the sexual habits of the parents of those involved and their questionable parentage. I braced for a blow, even knowing as I did that this time I’d done naught to deserve it and he cursed again as he noticed. He leaned forward and I tried not to tense as his forefinger the oldest white scar I knew well. He followed it from the top of my right shoulder around the third rib on the right and up to the very bottom curve of my breast.
“How old?” he wondered.
“Six, they weren’t allowed to use whips until we were six.” I answered. His hand trembled in anger and I tensed again, waiting to be struck. Instead, he moved his hand down to my knee and examined the old injury.
“They didn’t treat it at all, it reformed wrong. This must have been agony, when was this?” he asked.
“When we were seven we learned the proper kneeling position; I didn’t learn fast enough. I was lucky it wasn’t both knees.” I whispered, remembering that scene. He cursed again in a language I didn’t know and again I tensed waiting for a blow.
“Alright, put your clothes back on.” he sighed. I went back and slipped back into my clothes and waited anxiously. He watched me and seemed to be organizing his thoughts then he leaned forward.
“I’m going to give you my own ground rules. I’ve seen your flinching and I know it will take time for you to learn this but I will never strike you in anger. I have enough self-control and coherent thought in my brain to know that striking anyone, especially a submissive, in anger is abuse. If ever I strike you, it will not come as a surprise and you may enjoy it. Second and perhaps more important, I will not touch you sexually unless you expressly wish it. Nor will I act as your Master until you do not fear me. I am not one who rules through fear, and I refuse to be. Mort said you were genetically engineered to be sexually submissive and that’s very well and good but you’ll have to convince me of that, if you want, if not I will not force myself on you, I am no rapist. Finally, you will not believe me when I say you are free to come and go as you please, but you are. As far as I am concerned, you are not bound here and I will not keep you chained like an animal, if you wish to go you may. However, if Mort tells it true, you have no identity, and really do not exist, nor do you have money and cannot read so I would both ask you to and suggest strongly that you stay here, knowing this is a safe place for you, at least until you can stand on your own two feet elsewhere. Do you understand all this?” he asked. I looked at him curiously and bemused.
“Not at all.” and he waved a hand for me to explain, “You are a dominant and I am submissive if it is something you desire why shouldn’t you master me? I am your property and still you maintain I am free to go, surely you don’t allow property to come and go of it’s own accord. And rape . . .?” I trailed off because I couldn’t place the word, I’d never heard it before. He leaned forward to cup my cheek, eyes full of sorrow.
“You don’t know this, but life isn’t supposed to be as you know it. People in your situation are supposed to enter it of their own free will, are supposed to pick their partners, to be able to choose. What they did, engineering humans and selling them for profit is so illegal and amoral . . .” he trailed off at my blank look, “It shouldn’t be like this.” He stood up and gestured me to follow. He took me into a room full to the brim of books, walls covered in shelves, piles on the floor.
“Mort said you wanted to learn how to read. I don’t have the time I’d like to teach you now but if you are as smart as I guess, you might be able to teach yourself.” He set me up with an audiobook and the book Lord of the Rings and expressly told me it was fiction. He showed me where the words started and how the intro wasn’t written in the books and dug up a dictionary for me to look up words I didn’t know. By that time, he was tottering on his feet.
“I need to get some sleep, gods above I’ve been up for two days. Are you okay here?” he asked, pausing the audio book.
“Yes, thank you Master.” I replied absently.
“I’m not your Master lass, not yet at least, you shouldn’t call me such.” he put a comforting hand on my shoulder to show he meant no offence.
“What should I call you then?” I wondered.
“David is good,” he smiled tiredly and went up to bed.
“Thank you, David.” I whispered at his retreating back.
He was right, it didn’t take me long to teach myself to read. By the end of the second chapter and before they’d even left Hobbiton I’d matched the sounds I knew to the written representation and was soon getting desperately confused by reading ahead of the narrating voice. I turned off the disk and read on. Occasionally, I looked up words I didn’t know and my vocabulary grew, as did my skill. I’d finished the book in eight hours, which David later assured me was likely a world record. I wandered into the kitchen, suddenly ravenous and the thought occurred that David would be waking up soon and might like to eat something. I found a book called Cooking Basics for Dummies and laughed at the title. I made scrambled eggs with some microwave bacon I found in the refrigerator and toast. They’d tried to give us a little cooking training, but most of us didn’t have the mental capacity for cooking and so they gave it up and decided not to mention it to the customers.
David stumbled down the stairs as I was finishing and ignored me completely as he measured off fragrant grounds into a machine. Finally, when the machine finished gurgling and a liquid the color of mud filled his glass he came to investigate breakfast. It was by no means gourmet, but it tasted good and he ate with gusto, still silent.
“I’m not a morning person.” he said by way of apology and trudged back upstairs for a shower and to dress for work. When he came back down he was a little more lively and awake and managed a smile as he sat down at the kitchen table and tie his shoes. His gaze raked over me as I studied the dishwasher and the manual I’d found in a drawer. I finished with the dishes and came over to sit opposite him nervously as he studied me silently.
“I have a thirty hour shift next but after that I have a day off. We’ll have to go and get you some clothes, and I’ll ask Mort about some identification.” he nodded, almost to himself. Then he pounded the table with his open hands and pushed himself out of the seat with a bounce. I flinched and the tightening of his face indicated he had noticed but he made no mention of it. I followed him into the hall as he gathered his bag and coat and keys.
“How did you do with Lord of the Rings? I have other audiobooks if that’s not doing the trick.” he offered.
“Oh, I finished it.” I shook my head. He blinked and shook his head in bewilderment.
“You finished Lord of the Rings?” he choked.
“Yes, the tape was going too slow so I turned it off and finished it myself.” he continued to look at me as if I’d grown another head but then shook himself and grinned.
“So Uncle Mort was right, you’re bloody brilliant,” he laughed, “If you look on the top shelf of the bookshelf next to the desk there are all my high-school and undergrad text books going from basic to advanced, left to right. If you get through all of them it aught to fill in your education, if you have trouble with anything mark it and I’ll try to explain it later.” he smiled and looked as if he wanted to say something else. He took a hesitant step toward me then seemed to think better of it, “Goodbye.” he muttered and swept out. I looked after him for a moment, truly confused. He wanted me, that was as plain as the bulge in his pants nearly every time one of those awkward silences came up. He owned me, whether he would admit that or not, I was born and bred human property and he was my owner, no two ways about it. Illegal? Amoral? I went into the library and looked in the dictionary.
il⋅le⋅gal [i-lee-guhl] –adjective
1.forbidden by law or statute.
2. contrary to or forbidden by official rules, regulations, etc.
a⋅mor⋅al [ey-mawr-uhl] –adjective
1. not involving questions of right or wrong; without moral quality;
neither moral nor immoral.
2. having no moral standards, restraints, or principles;
unaware of or indifferent to questions of right or wrong:
a completely amoral person.
I frowned, the prefix ‘a’ is not, great. She flipped to moral.
mor⋅al [mawr-uhl] –adjective
1. of, pertaining to, or concerned with the principles or rules
of right conduct or the distinction between right and wrong;
ethical: moral attitudes.
2. expressing or conveying truths or counsel as to right conduct,
as a speaker or a literary work; moralizing: a moral novel.
3. founded on the fundamental principles of right conduct
rather than on legalities, enactment, or custom: moral obligations.
4. capable of conforming to the rules of right conduct: a moral being.
5. conforming to the rules of right conduct (opposed to immoral ):
a moral man.
6. virtuous in sexual matters; chaste.
7. of, pertaining to, or acting on the mind, feelings, will, or
character: moral support.
8. resting upon convincing grounds of probability; virtual: a moral certainty.
I flipped back to the definition of amoral and frowned. It was so vague. What did he believe was wrong? Certainly not sex and domination, he’d obviously done both of those before. Not sexual servitude, he’d had a sex slave before. I paused, what was that he had said yesterday? Consensual . . . she flipped to the C’s.
con·sen·su·al ††(kən-sěn'shōō-əl)
1. Of or expressing a consensus: a consensual decision.
2. Law Existing or entered into by mutual consent without formalization by document or ceremony: a consensual marriage; a consensual contract.
4. Of or relating to a reflexive response of one body structure following stimulation of another, such as the concurrent constriction of one pupil in response to light shined in the other.
5. Of or relating to involuntary movement of a body part accompanying voluntary movement of another.
I frowned in confusion and sighed. I turned to the textbooks he’d mentioned and hoped there would be answers in there. The information was riveting. Hour after hour, book after book, I learned and learned until my head was full then shook it forcefully and picked up another. 30 hours flew by without me so much as moving farther than from the shelf to the chair and back. I got near to the end of third year undergrad before I passed out in exhaustion and when David came back he found me in a humorous sprawl over the plush leather armchair with a dictionary open over my shoulder serving as a blanket and an advanced sociology book clutched with my finger still marking a page. Even as he made to shake me awake, I turned fitfully, dropping both books to the floor and whimpered.
“I’ll do it right . . . please . . . no . . . I’ll do it right . . .” I muttered turning again and tossing my hands over my head so as to ward myself from a blow that didn’t exist.
“Lass,” David said gently resting a hand on my arm. I jumped awake and was on the floor in the slave kneel before he knew it.
“I’m sorry, Master!” I gasped, heart hammering, as I wondered why I hadn’t been hit yet. As if on cue, my mind began to function once more and I realized I’d been reliving my childhood in my dreams. I relaxed a little, although I still knelt in the slave position, having sat like that most of my life it was as natural to me as any other position. I took several deep breaths before looking sheepishly at David, who had kindly waited for me to calm down, and had occupied the seat I had vacated in the mean time.
“I’m sorry, David,” I smiled wanly.
“Dreams of your past?” he wondered, I just nodded, “What happened?”
“It was the night they hurt my knee.” I answered vaguely.
“What happened?” he asked again.
“It was around our seventh year and we were to learn the slave position. No one else had trouble but I had so much trouble, over thinking I suppose, anyway, the main trainer decided I needed extra practice so, he dismissed the others to their beatings and he had me practice. I would kneel and he would haul me to my feet by my neck when I got it wrong and had me do it again, barking orders all the while. He wasn’t a patient man and soon he was pulling me up then forcing me back down quicker than I could stop. So, I had one foot braced on the floor trying to keep my balance and when he pushed down he did it too hard and the hard concrete wasn’t as yielding as my flesh and bone. But he didn’t hear the crack and wasn’t interested in my sobbing or screaming so he kept at it and then had me tied to the stretch rack so he could whip me for my tears and screams. The next day when I visited Dr. LuDuis he discovered the damage but it was too late to do anything for the mobility, it had been more than 18 hours.” I sighed and shook off the memory and smiled brightly at him. He leaned forward to stroke my face and even as I leaned into his touch, I flinched. He drew back his hand smoothly but I wanted to cry, I wanted him, wanted to convince him that it was in fact the case but my mind was unwilling to cooperate. Seemingly sensing my frustration, he patted my shoulder compassionately.
“Let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow we need to run errands, and lots of them by the looks of things.” he said. He showed be back into the room I’d woken in and wished me good dreams and I looked sadly at his retreating back, wishing I wouldn’t have to spend the night alone.
There had never been alone time when I was growing up. There had been time when I had been left alone for moments at a time but there were always people there. The sleeping conditions had been crowded really; we had been chained neck and ankle to each other and to the slightly raised area that served as our bed. If there had been nightmares, it would have been bad but the company kept the nightmares away. I didn’t mind being left alone with his library while he worked but I wanted to turn tail and run away from the big empty bed that loomed before me. With a great sigh I climbed in and was asleep in moments so tired was I. Unfortunately, I was also right, and the nightmares came almost instantly. I woke many times, drenched in cold sweat and crying but I managed to keep it to myself, I didn’t want him to feel guilty for doing what he thought was right.
The next day I was exhausted and it showed but I ignored it determinedly and we went shopping. It was a new experience for me, and honestly fascinating. We hadn’t worn clothes at all growing up and all the variety and color was amazing. We went first to the underwear section because I had none of that and he said it was polite to have underwear on when I tried on clothes. I left with several bra and panty sets, most of lace and very little of that and he laughed when I mentioned it. Next was to a ‘normal’ clothes store, or so he said and the clerk ushered me to racks of clothes and piled my arms high with jeans and t-shirts and blouses. Obediently, I tried everything on and David bought the ones he said looked best. The next store had ‘nice’ clothes and there were many short skirts and dresses along with a couple formal outfits. Finally, we were done, and while I acknowledge that idle shopping can be fun, this full wardrobe shopping was tough. We stopped at a drug store on the way back to his house and bought toiletries. When we got back, it was late so we had a quick bite standing over the sink and went to bed. The nightmares didn’t end.
After the shopping excursion, life took on a steady pattern. David would go into work for his thirty hour shift, which I found to be intolerable, I couldn’t even force myself to stay awake for thirty hours straight, let alone practice medicine, while I steadily read my way through his small library. Normally, I would forget to eat and sleep as I devoured all the new and exciting information but the dreams wouldn’t be kept at bay so easily. I often fell asleep and David would return to find me crying or tossing or muttering. When this happened he would wake me up gently and coerce me to talk about it. When I wasn’t sleeping fitfully, he would carry up to my bed and tuck me in. Nothing stopped the dreams and they were getting worse, not that I told him at all. He probably felt very proud that he was helping me through what he considered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but it wasn’t helping, or the effect wasn’t immediate. It’s not that he wasn’t doing the right thing; it was just that I didn’t have PTSD. It wasn’t a brief episode of horror it was my entire childhood. It wasn’t a traumatic stress; it was how life was until just recently. Really, the most traumatic stress was that it was over.
Two weeks from the shopping trip David came home in good spirits, he had one more shift then a few days off. My mind was in turmoil. I was getting better; I didn’t flinch at his sudden movements or when he drew near. I trusted him and if the conversations we shared over meals were any indication we were compatible, in so much that a test tube slave and an Irish doctor can be. And I was falling for him, it’s true I could have been confused with the whole, he pretty much saved my life thing, but even if he wasn’t just about the only man I ever saw, I wouldn’t look at anyone else the way I looked at him. I’d never see anyone else if he was around, even if I wanted to, but I was afraid, afraid of being a slave even though I wanted it, yearned for it. I was afraid of scaring him off, of flinching at the wrong moment and having him never be willing to touch me again. I was afraid he would beat me and I would hate him for it.
I meant to say something over dinner, something innocuous to test the waters but I lost my nerve and went to sleep in my lonely bed, cursing my cowardice. As I said, the nightmares had gotten worse and that night was no different in that respect. The difference was that I didn’t wake up at all, my dreams shifted from one horror to another without end.
Hours later when I woke I couldn’t remember even a snippet of the horror of the night but I remembered the cold sweat and the screaming if only because I was itchy in my own skin and my throat felt raw. I opened my eyes blearily and found myself staring at an absolutely ripped chest. Six clear abdominal muscles, eight if one was generous, and pectorals like slabs of stone, one that my head was resting on, warm and forgiving despite appearances. As my mind defogged, I felt the arm I hadn’t realized was under me play gently on my hip. I glanced up and smiled, he was fast asleep but he was holding me close. He must have heard my screams, the screams I had been stifling for weeks and come in to comfort me. But the dreams wouldn’t let me loose so he stayed to soothe me and help me sleep. It worked, for the first time in weeks I felt well rested. With a smile and a drowsy sigh, I fell back into a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep, curled against him perfectly as if the spot was made just for me.
When I woke again, I was alone, and wondered for a moment if the whole thing had been my imagination but I could still smell him and I was well rested and at peace, he had been there, he’d just gone to work. I dressed lazily in scrubs, I don’t know why but they were what I felt most comfortable with and since he noticed me wearing them so much he’d acquired a few pairs from work and brought them home for me. For the first few days I was there, despite the new wardrobe he’d bought, I walked around naked. I was so used to being naked it didn’t even occur to me to put clothes on. David put his foot down on that one; he said I could catch a chill. I’m fairly convinced it had more to do with his reaction than my health.
I went down and grabbed a bite to eat before returning to my now favorite chair in the library and a book called Dante’s Inferno. I had finished all the textbooks days before and had started in on what he considered literature and fiction. I had no sooner settled down and found my page than there was a knock at the door. I frowned; there had been no visitors in the time I’d been there. I went cautiously to the door and looked out, it was Mort, I smiled and opened the door.
“Hello there lassie.” he smiled and stepped in. He had a folder under his arm and a bag in his hand.
“Hello Mort.” I smiled and hugged him a bit. He seemed surprised but hugged me back, albeit a little gingerly.
“Laddie called me this morning as he’s headed to work and says that ye had a bad night and could use a little company. Not to mention I’ve managed to procure some papers that say ye exist and instead of doing it the hard way I just made ye an Irish citizen with a four year visa and when the lad finally decides to marry ye, we’ll get yer citizenship finalized.” He handed me the folder and we went in the kitchen. He busied himself about the stove making tea and I perused the paperwork. I had a name now; I was Siobhan O’Donnchadha. I stumbled a bit over the translation before Mort took pity on me and sounded it out. It read like Sheevahn Donohugh, I made him repeat it a few times then I started from him to the words on the page as he laughed.
“This is the Gaelic spelling then?” I wondered remembering David showing me a book in Gaelic.
“Oh aye, they’re a big clan with plenty of Siobhan’s, this one happens to be one that died young. No one will look twice at the custom’s office.” he nodded, setting tea before me. I carefully gathered the papers and put them back in their folder before pushing it aside in favor of the tea. I sipped gleefully, Mort’s wife made delicious tea, and we were companionably silent for a while before he cleared his throat and frowned at me.
“David was worried this morning when he called, he says to me that he thought ye were getting better but last night yer screams could’ve shattered windows.” I looked down into the dark cup and took a long draught before I spoke.
“They were never getting better, they were getting worse and David . . . he’s a good man, through and through but he doesn’t understand. He wants it to be simple, wants it to be PTSD and that be it, but it’s not. It’s like . . . hell it is that I have lived my entire life in a box and now I am blinking in the sun. I’d be doing better if he were beating me and ridiculing me. When I was there, it wasn’t that they were torturing me it was just life, it was the way things are. But now . . . now my entire life was a horror story and I’m not there anymore. It’s hard to come to terms with everything I’ve ever known being someone’s horror story. It’s not PTSD, and I don’t know if it’s going to get better, it just is.” I took another long draught. “I think I love him, Mort and that oblivious bastard won’t let me. It was better when he was there. I woke up and I’d actually slept for the first time in two weeks . . .” she trailed off realizing who she was talking too, “Mort you can’t tell him any of this, please, he would be so upset.” I begged. He frowned at me.
“I won’t tell him, but ye should.” I scowled at the idea and he shrugged.
“Do as ye will, as for the other thing . . . yer going to have to go to him. He’s going to wait for ye to make the move, to let himself feel better about ye being who y’are. It sounds stupid I know but it’s who he is and ye wouldn’t love him if he weren’t hisself.” I acknowledged the truth in his statement.
“So how do I convince him?” I wondered hopelessly.
“That, m’lass, is so much easier than ye think.” he grinned.
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