then brought the cup to my mouth.
I struggled to move my face away, but he pressed the cup so hard against my lips I thought he'd break it. Some of the water went into my mouth and some up my nose. Before I could spit it out, he clamped his hand over my mouth, and I had to swallow it.
Afterward he made me brush my teeth twenty times--he counted out loud--then forced my mouth open wide so he could inspect my teeth. Next I had to rinse my mouth out with salt and warm water ten times. For the finale, he took some soap and water and scrubbed around my lips until I thought at least two layers of skin had been rubbed off. I never tried that again.
Feels like I'm never going to break free of all his screwy rules, Doc. And man, were they ever screwy. It doesn't matter that I know they're total bullshit. They're locked in and I'm locked down. On top of his rules, my psyche has added a few of its own--any little personality quirk I had before has been blown up twenty times and now I'm some weird hybrid of freakdom.
I take the same route to get here and stop at the same coffee shop. I hang my coat on the same hook in your office every session and sit in the same spot. You should see my routine before I go to bed--doors locked, all the blinds down, every window locked. Then I have a bath and shave my legs--left leg first, then the right, armpits last.
Once I'm done with the bath I apply lotion all over, and before finally going to bed I check the doors and windows again, put cans in front of the door, and double-check that the alarm is set--the cans are in case the alarm fails--then finally I make sure the knife is under the bed and the pepper spray on the night table.
A lot of nights when I try to sleep in my bed, all I do is lie there listening to every little sound, so I get up and crawl into the closet, dragging a blanket--I crawl in case anyone's peeking through the windows. Then I tuck myself in and arrange the shoes so they're in front of me.
Last time, you said my routines were probably providing me with a sense of security--and yes, I've noticed the casual something-to-think-about's and have-you-considered's you've started sliding in there once in a while. As long as you don't start asking a bunch of questions, we'll be okay. But I swear to God, if you ever ask how I'm feeling, you'll be talking to my back as I cruise right out of here for good.
So, this routines thing? At first I thought you were totally off base, but I've been giving it some brain time, and I guess my bedtime ritual does make me feel safe--which is ironic, to say the least. I mean, the whole time I was up there I was never safe. It was like riding a roller coaster through hell with the devil at the control switch, but the routine was the one damn thing I could count on to stay the same.
Each day I push myself a little further, and some shit has been easier to shake than other shit, but certain things? No way. Last night I drank a gallon of tea and spent almost an hour on the toilet, at least it felt like an hour, trying to force myself to pee at an unscheduled time. Almost got a dribble--had this oh-my-God-I'm-going-to-pee moment--but then my bladder seized up again. All that experiment produced was another sleepless night.
On that note, I've had enough for today. I have to go home and pee, and no, I don't want to use your bathroom. I'd just be sitting in there, thinking about you in here, wondering if you're wondering whether I was able to pee or not. No, thanks.
SESSION FIVE
On the way over here today I stopped at the coffee shop on the corner of your street. Looks dingy on the outside but has killer java, just about makes the drive into the city worth it. I'm not sure what you have in that mug of yours--for all I know it's scotch--but I took a chance and got you a tea. There should be some perks to having to end your day with me.
By the way, I like the chunky silver jewelry you're always wearing. Matches your hair and kind of gives you a chic grandma feel. The kind who might still have sex and like it. Don't worry, I'm not hinting for details--I know shrinks don't like to talk about their lives and I'm way too self-absorbed these days to listen, anyway.
Maybe I like your jewelry because it reminds me of my real dad, which fits with that whole self-absorbed thing. Not that he wore a bunch of the stuff, but he did have this one claddagh ring of his father's. My dad's parents were straight from Ireland, came over and opened a jewelry store. The ring was the only thing he got when they were killed in a fire soon after my parents were married--bank took everything else. I asked Mom for the ring after the accident, she said it was lost.
I like to think if my dad were alive he'd have tried everything in his power to rescue me, but I don't really know how he'd have handled it. He was a pretty laid-back guy, and in my mind he'll always be forty years old, wearing his nice fuzzy sweaters and khakis. Only times I remember him getting excited were when he told me about a new shipment of books at the library where he worked.
I thought about him sometimes on the mountain, even wondered if he was watching over me. Then I'd get pissed off. If he was my guardian angel, like I told myself growing up, why the hell didn't he make it stop?
On my second night, The Freak tenderly washed my back in the bath. 'Let me know if you want more hot water.' He squeezed the cloth and let the rose-scented water trickle over my shoulders and back.
'You're quiet tonight.' He nuzzled the wet hair at the nape of my neck. Then he took a strand into his mouth and sucked on it. I ached to thrust my shoulder up into his face and break his nose. Instead, I stared at the bathtub wall and counted how many seconds it took for a bead of water to fall. 'Did you know every woman has a unique flavor to her hair? Yours tastes like nutmeg and cloves.'
I shuddered.
'I knew the water wasn't warm enough.' He ran the hot water for a minute. 'I can tell just by looking at a woman how she'll taste. Some men are fooled by the color. It would be easy to think your mother with her young face and blond hair would taste clean and fresh, but I've learned to look deeper for the truth.' He moved in front of me and began to gently wash my leg. I continued to focus on the wall. He was just trying to mess with me--I couldn't let him see it was working.
'She is a beautiful woman, though. Makes me wonder how many of your boyfriends wanted to have sex with her. If, when they were making love to you, they thought about her.'
My stomach flipped. Over the years I got used to my boyfriends ogling my mom. When they weren't busy shoving in one of her dinners they were staring at her full mouth. One guy actually told me my mom looked like a hotter, grown-up version of Tinker Bell. Even Luke stumbled over his words sometimes when she was around.
Seventeen seconds, eighteen...that bead was
'I doubt any of them could see, as I could, that she'd taste like a green apple, the kind you think is ripe until you take a bite. And your friend Christina, with her long blond hair always pinned up, always businesslike. There's more to her than meets the eye.' I lost track of the bead of water.
'Yes, I know about Christina. She's a Realtor too, isn't she? Quite a successful one, I understand. I wonder why you surround yourself with people you envy.'
I wanted to tell him I wasn't jealous, I was proud of Christina--we'd been best friends since high school. She taught me everything I know about real estate. Hell, she taught me everything I know about a lot of things, but I kept my mouth shut. This guy would use anything I said to screw with me.
'Does she remind you of Daisy? Daisy was cotton candy, but Christina, mmmm...Christina. Bet you she tastes like imported pears.' My eyes met his. He began soaping my feet. I was sick of being played with.
'How did your mother taste?' I said.
The hand on my foot stilled and tightened. 'My mother? Is that what you think this is all about?' He laughed as he plunged my foot underwater, then he got the razor from the cupboard.
This time when his hand gripped my leg I began to count the lines in the tiled wall. When the cold blade of the razor slid down my calf, I lost count and started again. When he made me stand up, so he could shave everything, I divided the tiles by the number of cracks in the grout. When his hands spread lotion on me, he hummed a song and I counted drips of wax down the sides of the candles.
I took inventory of whatever I looked at. I'd multiply and divide the numbers. If another thought or a feeling crept into my mind, I kicked it out and started again from the top.
While he tried to rape me for the second time, I didn't move, didn't cry, just stared at the bedroom wall. If I didn't react, he couldn't get it up. Help had to be on the way, I just had to tough it out until it showed up. So no matter what he did to me, I counted or thought about planes while I lay there like a rag doll. He gripped my face and looked right in my eyes and kept trying to force his limp penis into me. I counted the blood vessels in his eyes.
