I sat on the couch of my apartment when a knock on the door startled me out of my reverie. I'd been daydreaming of Quigley. We were getting married in six months. I smiled as I walked to the door. I loved him so much! I couldn't believe I was getting married. I'd cried when Quig asked me because I knew my parents wouldn't be able to see the day any of their children got married. I loved him so much.

Quigley was standing on my doorstep. "Wow," I said flirtatiously. "I guess it pays to daydream, huh?"

Quigley looked behind him. "What?"

"Nothing. I've been thinking of you all morning, that's all." He looked over his other shoulder and I went on with worry in my voice. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

He glanced my way briefly before turning half-way around. "I think someone's following me." He looked in my eyes for the first time and said, "Can I come in, Violet?"

"Of course, of course." I shut the door behind and turned to see him looking out my window. "You're being followed?"

"I don't know for sure. But I keep getting that back-of-the-neck feeling, you know? Like someone was staring at me." He looked out the window nervously. I walked over to him, putting my arms around his ribs.

I stood on tiptoe and kissed his neck gently. "Nobody's following you. Why would they? Or have you given someone a reason to follow you? You haven't pissed anyone off, have you?" He shook his head. He looked up and down the street one more time, sighing. He took my hand and started towards the back of my apartment. Only two rooms lay in the tiny hallway: the bathroom and my bedroom. I felt apprehensive about both options, for the obvious reasons.

I stopped and gently let go of his hand. "Where are we going?"

"Your bedroom." Seeing the distrusting look on my face, he hastened to explain. "I need to talk to you."

"Quigley, no. Whatever you have to say—"

"I'm serious, Violet. We need privacy for this."

"Unless I'm seeing things, there's no one in here but us! We have all the privacy we need. All the privacy I can take, anyway."

"Violet," he said in quiet protest. "I really, really need to talk to you. Please?" He slid his hands down from my shoulder to my wrists quickly, threading his fingers through mine. He gave me The Look. He gazed in my eyes, silently pleading. I broke eye contact with my fiancé, giving in just as silently as he had pleaded. I felt bad about letting him in my room. We'd made several promises to each other about virginity until marriage. I wanted Quig to stay with me and love me forever, but I had no problem with ending it if he broke a promise to me, especially this promise.

But the closer we got to my room, the more uncomfortable I felt. As much as I trusted him, I'd made that promise more to myself than to him. As he reached for the doorknob, I stopped him. "No, Quigley. We can talk here."

Either he didn't hear me or he ignored me. I pretended it was the former and repeated my statement as firmly as I could. "I don't feel right about this, honey. Please, don't—"

He turned around sharply, almost running into me. "Violet Emily Baudelaire, why don't you trust me? I mean, I know what you're thinking. I know what goes on in that beautiful head of yours. Inventing machines and inventing worries. I won't push anything." He kissed me softly. I repressed a flinch. He went on, "I love you. Why would I hurt you? We're getting married in six months, if the fact has slipped your mind. I'm gonna get sex soon enough." His voice dropped down to a whisper. "I've waited twenty-five years for you. Six months won't matter to me."

I closed my tear-filled eyes and leaned against him. I hated when I made him feel like that. I trusted him with my life, but sometimes…I just felt like he was hiding something from me.

I felt him pick me up and hold me. I wrapped my arms tight around his neck and cried softly. He walked into my room and sat down at my computer desk, rubbing my back and telling me it was okay.

"No," I whimpered. "It's not okay. I shouldn't feel this about you. But I do. I don't know why, but I do. I can't h-help it." He got up to lay me on the bed. My mind objected, but my mouth didn't convey the message. He laid next to me and held me until the tears finally stopped. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, Violet. You were right." He looked in my eyes. Something had changed in him. There was something behind his eyes and I didn't like. My heart started pounding like mad. He went on, scaring me even more. "I am hiding something from you. Would you like to see it?"

In that moment, I saw through this pretense of politeness and gentleness and love. For eleven years, he'd been with me. All the time saying how mush he loved me and how he never wanted to be without me. He'd asked me to marry him even! But no, it was all just a lie, a front he'd constructed to fool me. And I'd bought every word, every hug, and every sweet, gentle kiss of it.

How could I have been so stupid?

I sat up quickly and tried to run out of the room. I shouldn't have let him in here. My parents had always told me to trust my gut feeling. I had ignored it and look what it got me: a fiancé wanting to do God knows what to me.

I tripped on something and fell on my face, which was probably not the best position to be in. Quigley tried to grab my feet, but luckily I slipped away from him. I reached for the door handle and—

Click! I felt cold metal at the base of my neck. I froze, my hand mere inches away from the doorknob. He had a gun. Oh my God, he'd brought a gun into my apartment! He leaned in and whispered, "If you even think about opening that door, I will pull this trigger."

"Wouldn't that defeat the purpose?" I asked sarcastically. Bad move.

He slid the gun down my back, which gave me goose bumps. It came to rest at the base of my spine. "No," he said calmly. "If you were dead, you wouldn't struggle so much. It would make my job a lot easier." He turned me around. The gun stayed at my waist. "If you try to run away again, you'll get one bullet to the head. (I warn you, you might not die from it.) You'll also be on the receiving end of a bullet in your waist."

"My waist?"

"Just in case." He pushed the gun into my flesh. "I take it back, you'll be getting this one regardless. Just in case," he repeated softly.

"In case…what happens?"

"Violet, are you too stupid to realize what I have planned for you?" He looked in my eyes, serious as the death he could inflict on me at any moment. He went on, "I plan on having my way with you. You could get pregnant by me. If I shot your w—"

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Try me." I swallowed nervously. "I didn't think so."

"Wait. You said if I were…dead…" I hoped to Heaven I wasn't right.

He smiled. "As long as you're not cold, I don't care."

I gagged. Quigley laughed. "Filthy, is it?" he went on. "I thought you might be disgusted."

"Have you always been like this?" I asked, knowing I would break down if he said—

"I'm a good actor, aren't I?"

He pushed me down onto the floor as tears filled my eyes. I tried to get up, but he sat on my stomach, pinning me to the floor. He grabbed my wrists and twisted my arms until I thought they would break. I screamed through the tears and felt him harden in response to my pain. He kept hitting me until I thought I would pass out from how much it hurt. It was then that I wished he would have shot me like he'd threatened.

He hurriedly grabbed the gun from his back pocket and pointed it at my chest. He whispered something menacingly. "Go ahead and shoot me. I'd rather be dead!" I screamed. More tears fell down my face as he smacked the side of my head with his gun.

"Now, now, Violet," he said, all sugar. "You know you don't always get what you want. Remember that, Violet. And what of what I want? What I need? Should your wishes always come before mine?" He leaned in to whisper something in my ear. If my mouth hadn't have been so dry, I would have spit at him. "I love you, Violet."

I started to struggle, fighting not only for my innocence but maybe for my life. He slapped me once more and pinned my arms to the floor. He growled something about bruises if I lived. He made the mistake of letting go of my arms. I pushed him and almost got away. He then slammed my head against the floor as punishment and while the room went in circles, he snapped my collarbone. The simple statement of "I screamed in pain" doesn't even begin to come close to describing the sound I made. When I look back on it, the sound reminds me of a screamy rock song.

He made a move to take off my shirt. When I tried to stop him, I felt another round of horrific pain shoot down me. The good-for-nothing wretch had broken the bone in just the right place! I started to cry, not tears gently overflowing in my eyes but screaming, shuddering, and sobbing all at once. The pain in my chest was the least of my troubles at that moment.

He took his time raping me, torturing me beyond anything I could have imagined. He kissed me anywhere he could reach, and his hands did the same. I cried and screamed and fought, which only seemed to encourage him. He told me he'd been waiting to do this to me ever since he first met me. I eventually stopped screaming and struggling. He laughed and told me I was a good girl. He told me he loved me again.

His movements became rougher. I realized he wanted to hurt me. Try as he might, he couldn't. I wouldn't let him. In spite of myself, I began to enjoy the way he moved over me, the way his hands wouldn't keep still, or the way his lips settled over mine.

He's raping you, Violet, I told myself. Are you sick enough to enjoy this?

So it seems.

You mean you like the pain? You liked him snapping your collarbone? You like him holding you down like this?

Other than the collarbone, yes.

I felt disgusted and pleased at the same time. He repositioned his hands near my elbows, testing me. I lifted my hands and started stroking his forearm, urging him on. He didn't understand. He looked at me, distrusting my motives. I tried to sit up and kiss him, but the collarbone objected. He let me pull my arms out from under his hands. I lifted them up to put them around his neck. I attempted to pull his face down to mine, but he wouldn't budge. One hand was suddenly at my waist. He slowed his movements, and kissed my breasts. I nervously placed a kiss on the top of his head. He looked up, his lips still on my chest.

Whatever he saw in my eyes scared him.

"You want this?" His face twisted into a grimace. "You like it?" I nodded. I wasn't going to lie to my lover. He silently stopped what he was doing and left the room.

It was then I remembered I didn't love him.

"You don't have to do this," my husband reminded me for the fourth time in an hour. It was starting to annoy me.

"I don't have to, no," I replied quietly. "I want to. I need to do this." He leaned down and kissed me gently. I knew he was worried but he always worries. Ever since I told him what Quig did to me (leaving out certain things that had gone on in my head) he'd made sure nothing bad ever happened to me.

"At least don't take Matthew."

"I have to take him, you know that."

"But why?" he asked, picking up my son protectively. "What's he got to do with that bas—?"

I slapped him. "Don't swear around him. And you know very well what he's got to do with Quigley," I said forcefully. "He's the father of my child; I think he has the right to know!"

"Quigley raped you, Violet! He doesn't care about you! Why in the world would you assume he wants to get to know his illegitimate son?"

I turned around slowly to face him and glared. "You make it seem like the illegitimacy is mine or Matt's fault. It's not."

"I didn't mean to, Violet. Please don't take him. Please?"

"Mommy, wassa bass?" my son asked sleepily. He'd just woken up from a long nap.

"It's a type of fish, baby," I said, taking him from his stepfather.

Every time I looked into his small blue eyes, guilt stabbed at my heart. My son knew my husband wasn't his father. I'm not sure he knew what that meant besides never calling him "Daddy" or vice versa. Matt was only four years old and he knew his father wasn't around. I woke up in the middle of the night once to hear him crying and screaming for his daddy. It absolutely broke my heart to hear him say he wanted his real daddy.

"Come on," I said quietly.

"Where we goin', Mommy?" Matt asked.

"We're going to visit Daddy."

He looked up at me, hope and happiness shining through his eyes. "Daddy!? My real daddy?"

"Yes. But," I added quickly, "he might...he's not...I don't think he'll be very nice to you. You probably won't like him."

Matt furrowed his eyebrows and muttered something about Mommy liking Daddy. I rolled my eyes. I turned to my husband before Matt could ask anymore questions. I kissed him goodbye (Matt told us we were yucky) and left. No sooner had we driven one block than he called to tell me I still had time to change my mind. I hung up on him.

"Who dat, Mommy?" asked a small, sleepy voice from the backseat.

"Your stepfather. He wanted me to leave you at home."

"Why?" When all else fails, ask why.

I hesitated for a moment. "Because..." I said slowly, "I don't know, sweetie."

I expected another question from my son, but he was silent for a little while. Half an hour later, he asked if we were there yet.

"Not yet, Matt. It'll be another ten minutes before we get there." I pointed to the clock. "When this number is four, we'll be there."

My son informed me he was hungry. I pulled a snack out of my purse. One of the many things I'd learned from being a mother was to always have some type of food on hand.

He fell asleep soon afterwards. I pushed my favorite CD in and turned the volume down.

The closer we got to the prison, the harder it became not to cry. I managed to hold back most of the tears until I parked. Then the floodgates opened up. I leaned back in the seat and tried to calm down, to be strong for my son.

"Wat's wrong, Mommy?" I heard him ask from the backseat. He unbuckled himself from the car seat and crawled into my lap. I felt him hug me as best he could through the seatbelt. He told me we didn't have to see Daddy today if I was sad. I rubbed his back for a long moment. I told him I was okay.

As we waited for Quigley in the small grey room, Matt told me he was scared. So was I, but for different reasons.

He came in and I was taken aback by his appearance. He had bruises all over his arms and a cut on his cheek. Had he been beaten up? I spied new scars on his wrist and wondered if it was really all that bad. I noticed he looked tired. Exhausted. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

He slumped down in his chair, in handcuffs. He stared at me. "Izzat him?" my son asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Why's he hurt like that?"

"I don't know, sweetie. You should—"

Quigley broke in. "Some other guys picked on me. They beat me up." He rolled his eyes. Addressing me, he went on. "Who'd you screw to get that?"

I ignored his question and asked my own. "Why did they beat you?"

He sighed. "They hit me 'cause some of them don't exactly see eye to eye with me on the subject of, uh…" he glanced at my half-sleeping son, "um, alternate lifestyles."

"Oh." In other words, he'd told off a homosexual and had gotten the crap knocked out of him.

"Speaking of fags," he said before I could comment further, "how are they?"

"They're fine. They're still together, still in love." Although he didn't approve of homosexuality, Quigley had never said anything to Duncan and his bi boyfriend. He was, after all, Duncan's brother.

"Is Klaus still with Isadora?"

"Yeah."

"Klaus is the last person I would've suspected to go with both my siblings."

"Well, she's mad at Klaus right now. Their relationship is ready to fall apart; I really don't know what keeping them together." Awkward silence fell over us. It seemed like an eternity before either of us moved. I looked at my son, who was sleeping soundly. This most definitely did not bode well for tonight. Finally, I worked up enough courage to break the silence. "So, umm…Quigley?"

"Hmm?" he replied, picking at his fingernails.

I hesitated. "Um, are you okay?"

He looked me straight in the eye. "Does it look like I'm okay?" My eyes fell and he went on. "You have no idea what it's like here. People think we just sit around, work out, and eat. That's not how it is. Most of us hate each other and if you do have someone you can call a friend, you have twenty more who hate your guts. Some of the guys who've been here for a while start to ask you what you did. I know one guy who'll gladly tell you in sickening detail about how he cut this girl to ribbons or how he tortured this Muslim guy.

"There are nights, Violet, when I don't sleep because I'm afraid of my cellmate. I'm scared to death of what he'll do to my sleeping form. And those guys that beat me…that wasn't the first time it happened and I'm sure it won't be the last. Don't even get me started on the 'guards.' They don't do anything to keep the peace. They don't care! We could all kill each other and their only regret would be that they're out of a job.

"You have freedom, Violet. So does your son. Be happy for that. You get go outside and walk without seeing barbed-wire all around you. You get to go to work and bring home food your family likes." Lowering his head, his voice became very quiet. "You…get to make love to your husband. You get to talk to him without chains and handcuffs, you get to…just be with him whenever you want." He looked up at me, tears forming in his eyes. "You have freedom."

I felt sorry for him. I'd seen the TV shows dealing with mistreatment of prisoners, but I'd never known of it happening to someone I knew. I never thought anyone I knew would take the chance. I almost cried with him.

Almost. "So, who told you everything is perfect in the outside world?" I asked, anger in my voice. "You raped me, left me with a broken collarbone, and lied to the police about it all! Worst of all, you won't even take credit for knocking me up! Matt is your child, Quigley; please don't try to deny it! You left me pregnant on the floor—"

"I didn't get you pregnant, and that is not my child. You're the liar, Violet. You and those policeman. You people should be the ones in jail—for f!cking perjury!"

Calmly, I replied. "Prove it. Prove all of it." When he didn't respond, I went on. "Do you think everything's been peachy for me? Do you think I enjoyed being abandoned like that? Do you think I enjoyed becoming a single mother? Do you think I enjoyed telling my family I was pregnant? You have no idea what it's been like for me! It's been pure h&ll not having you around. Matt's first words were 'Mommy' and 'Daddy.' Matt cries in the middle of the night because Daddy isn't here. When I told him this morning we were coming to see you, d'you know what he said? He says, 'Daddy!? My real daddy?' I've come so close to slitting my wrists because of you and the only thing that has ever stopped me is your son. If I'd miscarried or something had happened to him, I wouldn't be speaking to you now. You have every right to complain about the conditions here, Quigley—they're terrible. But let me remind you that physical pain fades. Time might heal cut and scrapes and bruises, but it won't heal emotional pain so easily." I wiped tears of rage from my eyes. "You have no idea what pain is."

We stared at each other, waiting for someone to speak. Finally he did. "May I remind you," he said slowly, "that you were quite willing once I overpowered you."

"I was trying to get you to stop," I lied. "It worked, didn't it?"

"You were practically screwing me back! You urged me on, you even kissed me!"

"I'm a good actor, aren't I?" I quoted quietly.

His mouth opened and closed several times, but he said nothing. I saw tears come to his eyes again and felt them behind mine as well. He held his head in his hands and cried softly. If he thought I was going to forgive him because of a few shed tears…

The guard opened the door and informed me my time was up. I stood up, carried my still sleeping son out of the place and left. As we drove away, I realized Matt had not spoken a word to his father.