Chapter 2 - 2,555 days
2,555 days. . .
The measure of a man is what he does with power.
Addison Adrianne Forbes Montgomery-Shepherd found herself helpless in the face of a powerful man.
Power is a force that needs an object. To have power, a person has to have it over something, or someone.
He's not powerful by any means of wealth, status or occupation - oh, no, absolutely not!
He's tall but never stands tall. Not like a Montgomery.
He works in a factory. That's all she knows. She thinks a chocolate factory because he would sometimes bring bags of perfectly edible, discarded candy bars.
She loves chocolate. Dark chocolate. It was an everyday struggle. Emphasising on was. Now, she can't even stand the sight of chocolate.
He's always complaining about how tight money is at the moment and that irritates her because she can't do anything but pretend to feel sorry for him. She can't do anything to get them out of this freaking shoebox.
What can she do?
Nothing.
All she ever does is listen and agree to whatever he's ranting about.
I'm so sorry to hear that.
Yes, of course.
Certainly. You are the best.
Is there anything that I could do?
I understand.
Thank you so much.
Please, I'm so very sorry.
It's rehearsed. All of it. It's fake. All of it. It's what she has to say. All of it. In order to keep him from detonating on her, she has to keep his temper at bay because she's afraid he'll snap and break their promise, taking Christopher away to God only knows where.
Though they made a deal, he's never to be trusted. He snatched her off the streets seven years ago. Tricking her into thinking that he was hurt, that he was a homeless man. She's literal proof of how much of a maniac he really is. His screws are loose. No sane person would ever do that.
Power.
She can take all the beatings, the assaults, the ... whatever - like she has so many times before - but taking her baby away from her, she just can't handle that. Not at all.
Christopher is her everything.
Power.
Those cheap tactics are definitely not the same approach the Montgomery men take.
The language they speak. Upper class.
The suits they wear. Bespoke tailored suits only by New York finest.
The shoes they wear. Straight cap derby in dark brown Shell Cordovan leather with double leather soles
The careers they pursue. Doctors. Lawyers. Military.
The country clubs they go to. Sebonack Club.
The sports they play. Golf.
And of course, the occasional extravagant parties they throw. Parties that are as equally essential and of utmost eminence to the men - though they'll never admit to it - as it is for the Montgomery women. Parties that literally screams"I'm so filthy rich that I let my wife throw these elaborate parties I know we don't need, when she likes and whenever she pleases because I can."
Power.
That is what power is to the Montgomeries. Wealth. Occupation. Status. Reputation.
It's always about what people thinks of the Montgomeries. Everything is about reputation and their reputation is everything to them.
And he's no Montgomery. No!
Montgomeries are phlegmatic, illustrious and are notorious for their generous donations.
It's also always about how much. Crucial. The price is always of key. The more zeros there are in a cheque, the better.
Money buys everything. Just like how money bought all her teachers to turn the other cheek when it came to her and her brother since the sixth grade. They literally got away with everything since then. It was more beneficial for Archer than for her, really. He got into trouble almost everyday but never received any hard punishments for his behaviour because of the the lump sum of generosity that helped completed the renovation of the school library, that built a much bigger swimming pool. The Montgomery Aquatics Center.
That's how it is in an elite New York City private school.
That's what a Montgomery does. Manipulate.
But he's, well, the fucking maniac is crass, arrogant and scary.
His power stems from dominance and control.
Though he almost double her in height, triple in weight, and though he's able to squash her in just one flick of a hand, his ability to control her - wrapping her around his finger, making her beg on her knees - terrifies her.
She has never felt so low, so sad in her entire existence. In complete submission. So not in control of who she truly is. So out of character. So not a Montgomery.
She follows. That's what she does now.
She's a follower.
That got her thinking about all the ways she had handled powerful men before and how she had learned to do it.
Twenty Seven Years Ago
She walked into the aromatic and pristine kitchen in the mansion she lives with her parents and elder brother after putting on her best dress - a vibrant yellow with white polka dots that brought out the crimson in her hair - for dinner because that's what Mother says; to be in your best dress for dinner otherwise you will go to bed with an empty stomach.
Mother always emphasises on will, she's very adamant on that particular rule. She will not tolerate anyone who do not obey her sets of law.
She found her mother vigorously whisking something in a large bowl, murmuring incoherent tangents as she does.
"Addison." her mother exhaled when she saw her walked in.
"What are you making?"
"Honey pecan pie. It's your father's favourite." she chimed, in control, whisking about. She doesn't look an ounce out of breath. That always fascinates her about her mother, she's always poised and on point.
Sharp.
Not a strand out of place on her very stiff upswept hairdo.
Not a bead of sweat on her perfectly painted face.
"Can I help?" Addison asked as she took a seat on one of the chairs by the table.
"Pie's done, but I can teach you how to make whipped cream. Of course there's so many things I should probably teach you first." her mom said.
Excitedly, Addison beamed at the chance of broadening her horizons. Like the French say - l'apprentissage est l'œil de l'esprit - learning is the eye of the mind.
She loves it when her mother teaches her new things because it's very different from what she learns at school. It's not algebra, biology or grammar. It's practical and always applicable to every day situations. "Like what?"
"Like how to be a woman. That is the most important lesson I can pass down." her mother said intuitively, putting the bowl down in front of her on the table and passing her the whisk. "As the cream thickens, you whip it a little faster, ok?"
Nodding, "Don't I become a woman just by getting older?" she questioned.
"Oh, no, Addison. There's some things you're too young to understand, but I think you're old enough to learn about the mask." she wiped her hands over her apron before tucking a few strands of her daughter's red hair behind her ears.
Curiously, she furrowed her brows. The mask? But she quickly relaxed her forehead when her mother gave her a stare that says - if you want wrinkles, carry on.
"The mask?"
"It's what my mother called it. It's the face you wear when you don't want people to know what you're feeling. All well-brought-up women conceal their emotions. It's very useful, especially when dealing with men."
"Why?"
"Well," her mother gestured for her to continue the whisking and she did what she was told, "if a man knows what you're thinking, it gives him power over you. For example, if a man knows how much you love him, he'll take you for granted. He'll hurt you carelessly, cruelly, constantly."
She thought of what she saw yesterday, of Clementine - her nanny - and her father kissing. It wasn't just a peck on the lips. There were touching on very odd places. She don't really know what it means, all she knows for certain is what she had witnessed made her feel weird inside. Now, she's racking her mind on whether she ought to tell her mother. It sounded like she already knows.
But - don't tell your mother - that's what dad had said yesterday. It's our secret. Ok, Addie?
"Does daddy know that you love him?"
"Yes. I have told him repeatedly that I cannot live without him." she gritted, staring blankly past her. Her tone sounded odd like she's sad, like she's about to cry. But her mother's always in control of her emotions. She knows she'll never cry.
Addison doesn't quite understand what her mother was trying to explain to her. It doesn't make much sense. But maybe Mother has her reasons. "If you're so upset with him, why are you making his favourite pie?"
"Because after all of these years, I've forgotten how to wear my mask. So now I must do things to distract daddy. Like this pie. When I bring it out, he'll be so excited, he won't notice the devastation in my eyes."
"Devastation?"
"Mm-hmm. It's an emotion, Addison. The kind you might feel when your friend calls to say your husband's LeSabre was seen in the parking lot of a certain motel, next to his secretary's Bonneville."
Addison frowned, feeling upset for her mother. So all this time she knew and never mentioned or even gave an inkling that she knew. She knew and she pretended. She knew and she hid behind the mask and the pies.
She continued with her whisking. Feeling tears prickling in her eyes, she stared down the almost sturdy cream.
When she has a husband in the future, she's not going to be like her mother if he ever cheats like her father does. She's never going to cheat because she understands how devastating it can be. She's not going to tolerate his extracurricular activities like her mother does with her father's.
"Practice your mask, Addison." her mother picked up her chin so that she's facing her.
Blinking back tears like her mother thought her how, she put on her best smile. The ones that showed off her braced teeth.
"Oh, no." Mother chuckled in distaste, "Honey, that's too much. All you need is the hint of a smile."
The hint of a smile.
And so she followed, curling her lips ever so slightly. The right was a tad bit more curled than the left side of her lips and her blue eyes had the tiniest edge of shimmer.
"Perfect." Mother smiled, "When an expression like that, no one will ever know what you're really thinking."
"And I'll have power over men?"
Her mother laughed uneasily, "God, I hope so."
One would think that the appeal of power is to be able to control things, to change them to fit your vision of reality. But actually people who desire power are mostly looking to control one thing - themselves.
So she pegs the question here; what of himself is he trying to control?
He's so obviously dissatisfied with himself and using her to feel better about himself was the answer.
Why can't he just find a girlfriend or a wife to do that for him?
Maybe that's why, he's a pathetic loser.
He's obviously living a double life.
One outside of these four walls, where he probably has less control over the bearings of his own life, where he loathes his job, where he has nobody, where he has no friends and family, where no one knows him for who he really is.
And one with her, in this room, where she knows his true identity - an ugly monster - where she has experienced the pain he's capable of inflicting, where she awakened the beast inside on countless occasions. A life where he's playing some sort of role that strokes his ego, pleasing himself by demeaning her, crushing her spirit, her hope, her fate, stomping on her vulnerability with heavy boots, making her lose and forget who she really is.
She's chuckling now. He's living the life she's living now but on the outside. He has freedom whereas she doesn't. That's the difference between him and her.
Autonomy quenches the desire for additional power. Generally, when people say they want power, what they really want is autonomy. And when they get that autonomy, they tend to stop wanting power. So, yes. By keeping her in here, he wouldn't have to crave the power he had so desperately desired before because he has power over her. This macho crescendo that he craves has already been fulfilled. He's the man. The strongest. The alpha. The provider.
A nutcase.
He's mentally ill.
She rolled her eyes. He definitely has mommy issues.
Maybe the reason why she couldn't understand his desire for power at the beginning was because she had always had autonomy and therefore, never had any strong desire for it. She was born into power. And he definitely wasn't and hence desired it - she's not a hundred percent certain but she's fairly confident with her theory.
So you can see, she has plenty of time to wander in her head.
Running her hands over her sweat slicked face, she has been lying in bed for the past hour or so since she has a bone churning migraine. She feels nauseous. She feels tired. She wants to sleep but she can't. Her head is aching too much to give her the peace she desperately needs.
She doesn't want to admit it but she suspects the symptoms she's experiencing is because she's coming off Percocet, something she've been taking for years now. It's a cycle of swallowing pills after pills to feel better.
Opioids withdrawals are the worst. It is a pain in the ass. It feels as though she's being hit by a train again and again and again. Non-stop. In full speed.
He didn't come by last night which meant that the groceries that they need and the Percocet that she's now literally all out of - she took her very last pill the other night - are not at her disposal.
She's not addicted. She doesn't even like drugs. She's not an addict. She just doesn't want to feel this way.
The trash bag that she had put by the door for him to take out was still there, along with the list of groceries.
Please pasta, lentils, tuna, cheese (if not too costly), and apples.
Thank you.
Her once neat and ornamental penmanship has now become scruffy scribbles because her right hand aches and shakes so badly sometimes.
Massaging her wrist, she had just spent the entire morning scrubbing the floor. Again. It seems like all she ever does in this hellhole was scrub the damn floor. She had just done the tedious chore yesterday but since Christopher had gotten a little too excited, jumping up and down at the fact that they're having pancakes - which understandably could excite a five-year-old - he had accidentally nudged the bowl with his elbow that contained their batter, causing what's left to splash all over the floor.
"Christopher!" she propped a hand on her hip and glared fiercely at her son.
Arghhh!
She's so sick and tired of him being excited and happy all the time. It's just pancakes. They're just having breakfast. There's nothing exciting about waking up in the morning.
Not anymore that is.
There's nothing exciting about not being able to close the door when using the bathroom. Or having to craft her own pads with old clothes for that time of the mouth since the maniac is a fucking cheapskate. Or having to wear these dull and nasty fabrics that she now calls clothes. Or not being able to open any windows because there literally aren't any. Or not enjoying the warm morning sun, the wind blowing through her hair, the cool droplets on her skin when it rains.
There's nothing exciting about this God awful place.
"Great!" she threw her hands in the air, still holding the spatula, "Just great! Thank you Christopher. You just gave our breakfast away to the fu - to the goddamn floor. It's like you think we get our food for free."
Well, being stuck in here is payment enough. So, the food they get is definitely not at all free. And she also has to hear him fulminate before getting what they need.
Her tone was condescending and was definitely registered by her son as he stared guiltily down at his feet, rubbing them as he dare not meet his mom's gaze.
She stomped a few steps towards the back to grab a few towels. Her fingers messed angrily over her hair, tying it up with an elastic hair band. With it pulled back, her cheeks were flushed with colour as were the very tips of her ears.
She didn't mean to shout at him. She's just cranky today. Everything just irks her. Literally everything and anything. A sneeze, a call of her name - Ma - a smile, a touch of her hair - everything could have very well brought her over the edge. She's not on her best behaviour today. It's one of those days. She doesn't know what's wrong with her.
She hates feeling this way.
Helpless.
Sighing heavily, she got down on her knees, annoyed with her son, and began cleaning the mess he had created. She just wants to - so badly - continue on with her tangent, to dump all her frustrations on her sinless son.
She's so pent-up with frustration that screaming at Christopher seemed like the only reasonable option for her release. And she was so close to doing that when she realised she would be just as depleted as him. Maybe even worse because Christopher doesn't deserve to be yelled at.
Christopher is her baby.
"I just want to help, Ma." he said sadly, and she saw tears well up in his eyes when he knelt in front of her, "Ma, I'm sorry. I didn't-"
"It's ok, Christopher. Just - Hey. Don't. Please don't make it worse." she interceded when he reached for a towel to help her, "Would you just take a seat and wait for breakfast patiently."
He nodded. Shoulders slumped as he took a seat by the table. He propped his elbows on the table and rested his palms under his chin. "Sorry, Ma." he whispered.
She didn't look into his eyes for the rest of the morning since she knows the hurt she'll see was a result of her hurtful words.
She loves Christopher. Like she had said, he's the only reason for her existence. He's the best result from this baroque situation. She don't think she'll ever want to change what's happened to her because if she wasn't here, she wouldn't have him.
She might. Who knows? She could. But she wants this Christopher. Only him.
It's bittersweet but it's the truth.
Lying in bed in exhaustion, she pinched the bridge of her nose. How is this migraine only getting worse? Her mind drifted off to Marisol, her housekeeper at the brownstone.
Had she paid her enough?
Is Derek still using her for her service?
Oh, that sounded wrong.
Did she notice her gone?
Did she even like her?
She like to think that she does. She doesn't know. Anyway she seemed to. Good morning, Mrs. Shepherd. She'd greet her a very good morning with her brightest smile every morning. How was your day at the hospital yesterday, Mrs. Shepherd? She would like to think that she was somewhat generous towards her, that she was well liked, that Marisol would have noticed that she wasn't home.
Now, she understood what it feels like to clean another person's house. It's not at all enjoyable. It's degrading. She's a doctor. She's not supposed to be scrubbing floors. She've never cleaned an inch of her ceramic tiled floor in the brownstone, not a day in her life. And now she's scrubbing cold cemented ground that's definitely infested with ... something and crawling with cockroaches.
She deserves punishment, she knows she was selfish, she knows she was horrible, she was very stuck up, she's very well aware of all of her flaws, but she really don't think her castigation should be like this - the worse possible punishment.
It was only that one time.
No matter how many scrubs, no matter how many times she cleaned this room with vinegar, it will never feel clean. Nothing feels clean anymore.
Not even her own body. It hadn't for years. She's dirty. She's been marked. And she can't ever scrub herself to purity.
Stretching her long limbs over the child size bed, she massaged her throbbing temples just the way Derek would. In deep circles. As she breathed through each relief, she can hear Christopher whispering about as if he was talking to someone.
What can she say? He has one very riveting imagination. It's cute and heartwarming to watch his innocence. He would talk to things and about things like it has feelings, like it understands him, like it would actually give him a reply. Sometimes, much like today, she just wants to shake him and tell him that it has no feelings. They're objects and he's been using the wrong pronoun all this time. She wants to tell him that there's a beautiful big world out there. A so much better world than what they're living in. A world with eight billion other people. A world with colour. A world with plentiful opportunities.
All his life, this is his norm. He was born here, raised here. She wants him to experience life like a normal five-year-old. He's missing out on a lot of things already like making friends, playing with other kids just like his age, going to an actual school and not just sparing two to three hours out of their day for them to go to 'kindergarten'.
Rubbing her eyes, "Christopher, who - holy shit!" she exclaimed, grabbing a pair of her slippers from under the bed when she saw who - more like what - he's been talking to.
With one swing, her slipper flung across the room, hitting the nearby wall as a result. Successfully scaring the rat, it scampered back to where it came from.
Somewhere behind the kitchen wall.
Christopher shrieked as he jumped backwards, accidentally stepping on a plate that just happened to be there.
She had frightened him.
He had frightened her.
Rats.
She hates rats. She hates it. She can't stand it. Everyone who knows her knows her that. Rats are filthy and disgusting and hideous and disturbing. Only infesting in dirty environments. A proof of how much of a dump this hellhole is.
"Christopher! What the hell is wrong with you?" she shouted and got a brush and dustpan to sweep up the broken pieces of the plate.
"You made him gone!" he shouted back at her.
"Yea, well, you should thank me for getting rid of it."
Rats are it. Not him.
"What was this doing on the floor anyway? Now we're down to two big plates and one small, that's it, Christopher, I can't -" she growled, fisting through her hair.
Her migraine is getting worse. Her head feels like it's about to explode.
"Mouse was liking the crumbs. So, I let him have some." he protested, crossing his arms around his small chest.
She cringed at how he's talking about a rat.
It's a freaking rat. Not a mouse.
New York City is crawling with rats, especially at night. That's when they like to mingle. And she hates going home alone because she can't face those creatures all by herself. Fear frozen. She needs someone to help snap out of her irrationality.
It's a rational fear.
"Christopher!" she scolded and dragged the stove out from the wall, from where the rat had just ran into. And as expected, she came face-to-face with a little crack at the bottom of the wall.
"He was real. I saw him."
She rolled her eyes, getting a bundle of aluminium foil from the kitchen cabinet and started pushing balls into the cracks.
"Please don't." he whimpered.
"I'm sorry." she shook her head, "But where there's one there's ten."
"That's crazy math, Ma. You're dumb." he pouted.
She can't hear him. She's blocking out his angry wails and continued stuffing foil paper into the holes.
"Listen," she held him hard by the shoulders. He's still crying and she allowed his tears to cascade down his cheeks, exploding in ripples when they hit the floor. "Christopher, listen...okay. If we let him stay, we'd soon be overrun with his babies. Stealing our food, bringing in germs on their filthy paws."
"They could have my food! I'm not hungry! He's my friend! I don't have any friends!"
Arghhhhh!
"Christopher..." she said in clenched teeth, pinching the bridge of her nose.
He's not going to listen.
She must feel sorry for him but she's not. Sooner or later, he's going to get over it.
She can't deal with him right now.
Sighing loudly, she saw no point in arguing with a five-year-old. She's right and he's wrong. He's not having any of it and so is she. Stubbornness runs in the family. Montgomeries are not only manipulative, they're also stubborn.
So, she shoved the stove back to the wall and hurried to flop back onto the bed. Stuffing her pillow over her head, she growled into the mattress, and drowned out his cries until she finally dozed off.
It was almost six when she finally woke up. And like every dreadful time she wakes up, reality hits her hard. Screaming at her. She held onto the blanket tighter, gathering herself. She's still here. She's not in her brownstone.
She wants to go home.
Groaning as she sat up, she ran her hands through her tousled hair, nauseous. Very nauseous. Her head still feels heavy. Maybe even heavier. She feels worse than before, to be honest.
She crawled out of bed, reached out for something sturdy when the room began to spin.
...Inhale...exhale...inhale...exhale...
She told herself when she suddenly had the urge to vomit.
When she was steady enough to walk, she head over to the sink to wash her face. The cool speckles made her feel slightly better and she waddled over to Christopher who was now engrossed in his favourite book - Jack and the Beanstalk.
It's his favourite because it reminds him of them. They are just like Jack and his mother. Poor. They love each other very much.
"Hey." she said softly, combing through his long locks. He looked up at her with his knitted brows and just as quickly went back to ignoring her.
"Can I have a kiss?" she smiled apologetically at him.
He shook his head.
She gave him a small smile and reached over to tuck the loose strands behind his ear, "Ok. Can I kiss you then?"
He shook his head again.
"Three kisses?"
That's for when she's sorry and she is so very sorry. She didn't mean to shout at him.
He shook his head, "No, five. I'm five now, remember?"
How can she not?
Her baby's a big boy now.
And so she smiled. She knows he couldn't stay mad at her for too long. "Ok, c'mere." she lifted him off the rocking chair with a huff and sat down, placing him on her lap. He giggled when she placed a kiss to his forehead, then both of his cheeks. "That tickles!" he said when she kissed his nose. And lastly, she kissed his lips.
"I love you, Christopher."
"Love you too, Ma."
They had instant noodles for dinner tonight and since the bananas are about to go past overripe, they had to eat as much as they could.
Bananas are Christopher's favourite. So he doesn't mind stuffing himself with the sweet fruit. Besides he likes it best when they're brown and squishy because they're much sweeter, like candy.
Again she wasn't doing much of the eating, it was all Christopher, since every time she tries swallowing, she just kept gagging the food back up.
Two more hours till he's here.
"Ma, can I have cake?"
"Sure. Just a piece. But don't force yourself if you're already full. You've had a lot to eat today." she said but he's already grabbing a piece and skipping towards her by the time she finished her sentence.
Addison smiled, unable to stop staring at the little boy who's munching on the cake in his hands. Crumbs landed everywhere around them and she suddenly had the presage that the old her would never allow that in her brownstone.
"It's crunchy, Ma." he laughed, "Have some. You haven't eat any food all day, Ma."
He looked worriedly at her, a lump rose in her throat and she started to wonder if it's - if this sickness is something more than just withdrawals.
"I can't, sweetheart. Ma just don't feel good today."
"Is it wrist?" he stroke his fingers over the bump on the centre of her right wrist.
She nodded, though she doesn't really know for sure what's wrong with her.
"Why don't you take the pills?" he shrugged.
"I'm all out."
"Why don't you ask?"
"I did but he didn't come by last night." she pointed at the trash bag by the door.
He placed a finger to his temple. She knows that look, he's thinking.
"Hey, it's nothing for you to worry about, okay?" she assured him. It melts her heart that he's so innocent, trying to think of ways to make her feel better. "C'mon, let's continue reading. You want me to read or do you want to read this time?"
"I'll read." he beamed, then picked up his last bite of cake and munched away quickly before speaking again.
Don't talk with your mouth full.
She twirled her fingers around his silky hair, kissing the top of his head when he began reading.
And of course, it's Jack and the Beanstalk.
"Once upon a time, there was a boy named Jack who lived with his poor widowed mother. They had sold almost everything they owned to buy food. When their last-"
He stopped and scrunched up his forehead and she's taken aback to when her mother used to scold her for doing the same thing - if you want wrinkles, carry on - seemingly thinking about something. "Ma, why does it say Jack and his mother? Why can't it be Christopher and Ma?"
She laughed, "Oh, it sure can. It's just that the author chose to name this little boy 'Jack' like I chose to name my handsome little boy 'Christopher'."
And so he read it again, replacing Jack and his mother with Christopher and Ma.
It's cute. It's touching. It's perfect.
He's perfect.
It brought tears to her eyes.
Again, he stopped midway. She sniffled and wiped her hands across her face, afraid that she had concerned him by tearing up.
She rubbed his back, feeling the small holes of his sleep shirt. "What's wrong, Christopher?"
He's thinking again. She doesn't know why but she could just watch him make that face all day long.
She has plenty of time in here.
They're never getting out of here.
"Let's ask for a new book for treat."
It's their weekly treat, which should just be called a treat for whenever he's in a good mood because sometimes he wouldn't bring what she asked for. He'd pick a fight with her and of course, that entails in no treat at all.
She chewed her bottom lip and massaged her still aching temples, remembering the night she had asked him for a new book.
Of course she had asked for something educational.
"I did. A few weeks ago. I wanted you to have a new book for your birthday. But he said to quite bugging him, don't we have a whole shelf of them already."
Words straight out of his filthy mouth.
"A whole shelf? We could fit like a hundreds of books up there."
Exactly.
She wants to go home. To their library at the brownstone. She wants to go home. To buy all the books in the world for Christopher.
How many publications of medical journals had she missed already?
Thousands?
"He thinks we should just watch TV. All day long."
Christopher straightened up at that. She knows he wouldn't mind.
"Then our brains will rot like his." she spat, contempt in her tone.
Since it's her turn to pick the channel tonight, she settled with the Wildlife Planet. She knows Christopher thinks it's boring - she would too at a five-year-old level - and would very much opt for something much more exciting, thrilling and lively but those channels poses questions, lots and lots of questions, and currently, she's in no state to answer them.
She's so exhausted that her head feels like it's about to explode.
They have about an hour before he comes by which means bed time for Christopher.
Staring at the humongous box of a television - of course, it's not a thin and sleek flatscreen - she's watching as a bale of olive ridley sea turtles come together on a beach - she couldn't quite catch the name of the beach - to lay their eggs in the sand.
A biological mystery, as the marine biologists calls it. But it isn't much of a mystery to her. Maybe they're all coming together to nest their younglings in hiding because there's a bad turtle in the ocean. They're doing whatever they can to keep their babies safe. Just like her.
Such theory wouldn't have made any sense to her seven years ago. It's far fetched. Seven-years-ago-Addison would've laughed out loud at that. She wouldn't even dare to acknowledge the hypothesis.
She's a scientist. She would need concrete and extensive evidence, proving of statement and statistics to counter that theory.
But she's also a mother. She's a mother now. She understands that a mother's instinct is the most powerful weapon on earth.
Stronger than bones and always as accurate as a doctor's diagnosis.
Five Years Ago
She remembered the night following Christopher's birth. She had wrapped him up in a warm blanket, holding him as tight as ever. Not taking her eyes off of him for even a second. She doubted she had even blinked.
Right then and there, she vowed to never let him go, no matter the circumstance. Never. And that's one vow she truly intend to keep.
She've seen thousands and thousands of babies in her career and she have had, numerous times, expressed her content for their perfection.
He's/she's perfection.
He's/she's beautiful.
He's/she's the cutest.
But Christopher is the most beautiful baby she've ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. He really is.
Brown locks. Twinkling blue eyes. Perfect ten fingers and toes.
He was so gorgeous.
Adrenaline was the only fuel coursing through her veins and that itself kept her from feeling the aftereffects of childbirth.
"Please, you need to take us to the hospital! Please!" she begged the second he walked through the metal door. She tried to latch onto him but he roughly yanked his arm away. "Please! Please! He was breeched and he wasn't breathing for a well. There could be something wrong. He needs to be checked at a hospital. He may have developmental delays, cerebral palsy, autism, ADHD-"
"Now, now, hold it right there, missy, I don't like it when you start with that medical gibberish."
"Ok. I'm sorry. Just, I'm sorry, please..." she stammered.
"Is he breathing?"
"Yes, but-"
"But what? Why you so worked up about nothing? This how you doctors scam us for our money." he took a step towards her on the bed, leaning over to reach for Christopher, "Let me have a look at the little one."
"Noooooo!" she screeched, turning around to hide her newborn.
He grabbed her by the hair, twisting it around his hand until he had a tight hold, with his other hand he grabbed her chin squeezing has hard as he could and she cried out, screaming at him to let go of her. "Shut up! Shut the fuck up and stop crying! So help me God if it starts screaming ... This is your speciality, right? You fix him."
He released her neck and she haled as much oxygen as she could, almost choking in the process.
"This is my specialty but I don't have anything in this fucking dump."
He needs a lot of tests and vaccinations. An MRI to see whether there were any injuries to his brain.
"Tell you what," he said amusingly, "since you just had a kid, I'm gonna let that one slide. Understood?"
She just looked at him right in the eyes. Pent-up pain and rage poured from her in a torrent of sobs and tears until she felt as if she were coming apart.
He's never going to let them go. But she can't give up now.
Snatching her by her hair again, he yanked her towards him. "Understood?" The hold on her hair tightened as he shouted.
"Yes." her voice quivered and she closed her eyes, grimacing at the pain. Everything and everywhere was aching. She's finally experiencing the pain that her patients so desperately demanded for more pain medication. But the most prominent pain was in her heart. For her son. She's scared for him. It's not only her now; he's trapped in here too.
"So, how I see it is you have two options. Option number one, I take him. You stay here. Option number two, the both of you stay and you pray he doesn't end up retarded."
"No. No. No." she placed Christopher gently on the bed and painfully pulled herself to her feet, following suit as he headed for the door, "Please. Please. Please take us both. I won't say a word. I promise. You can say I don't speak English and that I'm your wife. And once we're done, we'll come back here. I won't say anything. Please, please, come back! I'm begging you..."
But the door had already slammed shut.
"Ma, that's weird. But the turtles mothers are gone already." he said when the sea turtle hatchlings liberated themselves from their nest. Orienting themselves to the brightest horizon, and dash toward the sea. "I wonder if they meet sometime in sea, the mother's and the babies, if they know each other or maybe they just swim by."
"No, they're never going to see each other again."
She wondered if the mother turtles cries every night. She knows she would. She would worry out of her mind until she drove herself to insanity. Maybe even then, she'll still worry.
Keeping Christopher here with her was the right thing to do, right?
That's what a good mother would do, right?
Should she have taken up on his offer that night?
She yawned, "I think it's enough fun for one night."
He nodded, agreeing with her. She can see that he's sleepy too. "You're right, Ma. My eyes are heavy like from Bob the Builder's bricks.
She giggled and he wrapped his little arms around her neck as she lifted him in her arms. He's heavy, she noticed. Or maybe she's just getting weaker and weaker by the day.
He tangled his fingers in her hair and hummed something closed to her ear, snuggling close before laying him in the cupboard.
Giving him a big kiss, she tucked him into the duvet and handed him his blanket - the same one she had wrapped him in when he was born - so he could feel safe.
"For a song, I want funny." he said softly. It's dark but she can still see the shine in his eyes.
"Litttle Boy Blue, come blow your horn-"
"The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn." he sang.
"Where is the boy that looks after the sheep?"
"He's under the haystack, fast asleep." he yawned.
She held him close one last, kneeling against the furniture and swept back a few sleek hairs on his forehead and she can't help but smile.
"Good night room." he whispered sleepily, "Good night stove. Good night Trusty Toaster Oven."
"Goodnight table." she grinned.
"Good night plant. Good night bed."
"Good night air." she added.
"Goodnight, Ma."
"Goodnight Chris-"
Beep beep
He's here.
He's early.
She jumped up, cursing when her head knocked against the roof of the cupboard.
"Ma...he's here." his blues mirrored her terrified ones.
Quickly shutting the cupboard, "It's okay, baby. Just close your eyes. Don't make a sound." she whispered.
A gust of cold wind aviated into the room, shivering, and she can feel her heart thumping hard in her chest. Her blood pressure must have skyrocketed ever since being imprisoned. She's fairly certain that her anxiety will be the best of her.
Though anxiety doesn't cause long-term hypertension, episodes of anxiety can cause dramatic, temporary spikes in blood pressure. And if it occurs frequently, such as every day, which it has, it can cause damage to blood vessels, heart and kidneys.
She's probably thinking too much about it, but that's the sole purpose of anxiety.
Isn't it?
Curious irises peered through the slats of the cupboard and she mouthed at Christopher to stay very quiet, that it's okay.
Her back faced the door, like it always should whenever he comes - she remembered her lesson - and with a thump, indicating that the door has already been closed, she turned around on shaky feet.
It's quite early for him to be here since he usually arrives at around nine or past nine. It had barely touched eight thirty and now, he's here. Christopher hadn't even fallen asleep yet.
She took a deep breath as she's always terrified whenever he's around but that emotion would never register on her face because she's using what her mother had thought her years and years ago. The mask.
She's always wearing the mask when he's around.
"Hey." she said softly with a smile, "Let me help you with that." she hurried and took the load of groceries from his arms and as she was about to place them on the kitchen counter, he grabbed her by the arm. Not too tightly but tight enough for her to still herself because she knows the thick hand that's clutching her could very well snap hers in a flick of his wrist.
She doesn't need any more broken bones.
"Where's my kiss?"
"Oh, I'm sorry." she mumbled, swallowing the bile that almost made it's presence.
Stepping towards him nervously, she willed herself to not be too obvious with the quivering. He wouldn't like that. He will be angry and that's the last thing she wants him to be. Do as you're told. And so she reluctantly pressed her lips against his, counting 1, 2, 3 in her head before parting.
"Now, that's more like it." he grinned and she smiled. She hates smiling. She hardly ever smiles now because smiling are for people who are happy and she's not; she's not one of those people.
Her chest was rising and falling and it's not the good kind of rise and fall.
Terrified, she wants to cry.
Quick on her heels, before he could have the chance to try anything else on her, she strode to the kitchen to put the bags down. She peeked in, relieved when the small orange bottle gleamed at her. Good, that means she doesn't need to start an argument with him tonight.
She can finally catch a break and hopefully sleep peacefully.
"So, how was your day?" she asked, slowly putting the groceries away as she does. Slowly, taking her time because she doesn't want to go to bed just yet.
She doesn't want to sleep with him.
Not ever. Though she knows she has to. Not yet.
But the sooner the ... you know, whatever you call it ... is over, the better because the sooner he'll be out of here.
But the longer she put that chore off, the better, also, because sometimes - just sometimes, when God's on her side - he'd be too tired and he'd doze off the second he lay down next to her. And that's more than okay for her. And that's a chance she's willingly to take.
"You know I'd like to come home to a clean place once in a while."
Frowning, she turned right around. He was sitting on the edge of the tub. His scowling, piercing gaze was burning a hole through the thin material of her sleep shirt. She doesn't understand what he's talking about. Everything has already been shelved, placed, washed, scrubbed, brushed and dusted. This place is not a mess. Definitely not. It's clean. As clean as this dump can be.
But she knows what he's doing; he's undermining her, trying to demean what's left of her dignity.
"I'm sorry. I promise I will do a better job tomorrow." she whispered, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
"It's no crying matter. I understand you were raised like a princess in that castle you lived in with mommy and daddy," he said with contempt, "And now, look how you doin'. For a princess, I'd say good job. Could be better but...hey, I just realised, you're the opposite of Cinderella. She scrubbed floors before becoming a princess. Yes, the floors needs more scrubbing, honey." he chuckled.
She nodded, facing away when tears began to fill her eyes.
Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry, Addison.
Her hands were already aching so badly from today's scrubbing and since tomorrow's Friday that means it's laundry day, she don't think her wrist can take any more of the abysmal pressure.
"Looks tasty." he gestured to the last few pieces of Christopher's cake.
He dragged a plastic chair towards the dinning table, flopped down and waited for her.
For what?
To serve him, of course.
"Oh, it's just the last of the birthday cake."
"Should have reminded me. I could have brought him something. What's he now, six?" he raised a brow.
She didn't answer him.
Pursing her lips in a thin line, she paused, she doesn't like talking about Christopher to him. She avoids bringing her son up at all cost. Contemplating her options - to correct him or not to correct him - she saw no point in him knowing Christopher's age since it wasn't like he genuinely cared. But that dilemma wasn't a dilemma for too long when a whisper killed their silence.
"Five." A soft voice said.
"Christopher..." she hissed.
He laughed. "So it speaks."
It?
She shuddered at the pronoun. Truly offended that he just called her son it.
She wants to shout at him. Should she?
Her eyes darted around the room in a panic when he got down to his knees in front of the cupboard. Moulding her sore back against the cool wall, she gripped the end of the table hard. Her wrist were already screaming at her but she welcomed the pain.
"Hey, buddy. Want to come out of there and try on your new jeans?"
The moment she opened her mouth, wanting immensely to stop him from reaching any further, no words could voice out. Her chest cavity felt weighty, she's having trouble breathing. Sweat began to gather in folds and she can taste a faint tinge of copper on her tongue.
She tried again. Half glad when actual words voiced out but this time it came out in a desperate plea. "He's nearly asleep. Ignore him."
Ignore him, please. Please!
Holding her breath, she waited for either of them to not react, for him to not yank the cupboard doors open - breaking his part of their deal, for Christopher to remember what she had told him - never come out of there, I'll come and get you - but he's a child, kids are stubborn.
"Ok. Ok." he said, standing again, "Can I have a slice then?"
She was rubbing her wrist, flexing it around a bit before she spoke. "It's getting stale. But if you really want-"
"No, forget it, you're the boss." he drawled.
Sarcasm.
She's not the boss.
His sarcasm scares her.
She didn't say anything but stare into her palms. She's too terrified to move even.
He could snapped at any second.
"I'm just the delivery boy, right. I take out your trash, trek around the kids aisles, up the ladder to de-ice your skylight. At your service, my princess." he put one hand on his belly and the other on his back, bowing at her.
It's not her fault. It's his. He's keeping her here against her will. She wouldn't need to ask for his help if she wasn't locked up. She could do her own shopping. She could take out her own trash. She could de-ice that damn skylight all by herself. But then again, she's not stupid enough to come back in here if he ever lets her out.
She wants to go home.
Her lips are trembling now. So she blinked back tears like she always does, like her mother had thought her. She's not going to cry. Addison doesn't cry. She's tired of crying. It's all wasted hydration because she's never going to leave this place.
"Thank you. Thanks so much for that, it's much brighter now."
"There. Didn't hurt, did it?"
"I'm so sorry. Thank you very much."
"Like pulling teeth sometimes." he spat.
"And thank you for the groceries and the jeans."
"You're welcome."
"Here," she took a plate from the cabinet with a fork in hand, "I'll get you a slice, maybe the middle's not too bad." she handed him the plate and smiled.
She didn't forget to smile.
Who knew Bizzy's life lessons could actually come in handy?
She never really had to use it with Derek because just like her mother she had forgotten how to wear her mask.
"Yup, pretty stale." he said with a mouthful.
Told you! You fucking moron!
"Oh, you could try another slice, maybe-"
"It doesn't matter. I'm sure it's all shit."
That's what she've been saying all this time.
She internally rolled her eyes - internally because she doesn't want to be caught insulting him and risk getting whipped - and threw the rest of the cake into the bin.
Watching TV - Jimmy Fallon's on tonight - she's trying with all her might to not close her weighted lids. It's difficult to keep them open when they weigh a tonne.
She walked the short distance to the refrigerator, grabbing a glass as she does and poured herself a little orange juice before heading back to the small couch.
God, how she wished she could pour herself something much much stronger.
Crystal clear, that's her go to distilled of drink.
Gin. Vodka. Rum. Maybe even tequila. She can't stand the distillate but right now, in this predicament, she couldn't care less. She'll drink anything.
He's outside for now, on the phone with whoever, whatever, she really doesn't care. Not at all. Since no calls can be received from the inside because he had installed some kind of signal blocking device that prevents phones from receiving signals from base stations, he usually takes his calls outside. And she couldn't be anymore grateful for the stunt she pulled years ago - she was so close to dialling Derek's number when he woke up - even though the consequence resulted in her being starved for four long days because the longer he's out, the better. She's happy since he's not here to constantly patronise her.
Beep. Beep.
The door opened and she sank further into the flimsy couch, hugging her knees tighter.
It's quiet.
Christopher's asleep. She had checked when he was out.
They're both quiet.
She's not looking for any trouble which meant to continue being engrossed with whatever she was watching. Pretending to at the very least. She switched channels because Jimmy Fallon's too happy for her. He's happy. The celebrity guest - she thinks it Sarah Paulson - is happy. And she, she's not happy.
She's jealous.
Everyone's happy but her.
So, she let herself to evaluate about what her life would have been if she had just stayed on that stoop, if she had made better choices.
She shouldn't have slept with Mark, she knows that. That doesn't need any more evaluation.
Would Derek have eventually open the door?
He had to. He had work the next morning.
Would Derek have forgiven her?
Maybe, in time. But she'd never know the answer to that question, now would she?
What about her and Mark? Would their infidelity blossom into something else?
She don't think so. He's just a friend...was a friend?
She was thinking about Derek when she heard the distinctive sound of a belt unbuckling and a zipper sliding down. All awake now, she uncapped the familiar orange bottle, popping two into her mouth, then downing the rest of the juice. Looking into the bottle, the many identical tiny oval shaped pills with it's dosage engraved stared back at her and she found herself popping two more, swallowing dry.
She's not an addict. She's just in a lot of pain.
So, she allowed herself to daydream about the way Derek would stroke her hair whenever she had a headache. The way his fingers would find the small of her back when they're out with friends, colleagues, just so she knows he's there, that he's hers, that he wants her. She thought of the way his voice rumbled in her ear when they're cuddled in bed in the darkness. She thought of the way he hugged her when she burst out crying when she lost her first baby as an intern. Thought of the way it steadied her. Four months into the job, no deaths. Not at all. Not until one sunny summer when her Chief put her solely in charge of one of the Watson twins that she helped delivered the other day and he knew entirely that that baby wouldn't survive through the night. Needless to say her baby died on her watch. Her Chief had tricked her into thinking that she had killed him just so she could be thought a lesson on boundaries, on not getting too attached to her patients.
Derek must be going out of his mind, or Derek must have been going out of his mind - she don't know which. But the thought of that hurts her almost as much as her pounding headache.
She's not sleepy anymore. The Percocet hadn't yet worked it's magic. She took four pills, double her normal dosage. It's just that two innocent pills are no longer acquiring her with the analgesic effect she craves.
She's not an addict. She just needs a bit more since she've been taking Percocet for an extended period.
At least she told Derek she loves him, she reminded herself that, as his heavy footsteps crept closer and closer. Bouncing off the four walls.
At least she's sure he knows.
He has to believe her.
She loves him.
Is he playing happily ever after with someone else now?
Is Derek happy?
Happier than he ever was when he was with her?
Was he ever even happy with her?
"You coming to bed?" he asked tiredly.
She knows it's not really a question. She hasn't got a choice. If she could, she'd say no.
No!
She has to please him.
She wants to go home.
He's just in his underwear now and she nodded, she can't, she doesn't want to look at him. Reluctantly switching the TV off, she internally whimper with each agonising step.
Oh, how she dread this part of the day!
She wish she could just be dead.
This is what she gets for enjoying sex a tad bit more than the average classy women.
This is what she gets for cheating on her husband.
This is what she gets for being too clingy.
He was sitting on his side of the small single bed - the edge - she had to manoeuvre awkwardly to crawl towards the wall.
She doesn't meet his eyes. But she can clearly sense the intent in the air and she swallowed hard.
Is Derek too in bed with someone else?
It's a tight space to fit into but they, she made it work.
Facing the wall, curling over her side, he rolled behind her and yanked her closer. She almost - just almost - flinched when he touched her, when he roughly - he's never gentle - rubbed his cold mangled hand up and down her body, when his breath huffed onto the thin skin of her neck, when she felt him pressing against the back of her thigh.
She needs to have one of those out-of-body experiences right now, but she never does. She's pleading, begging God, asking for His help and guidance, but like always, her prayers were never heard. Maybe she's begging a little too much. Maybe He's tired of her constant whining. Maybe she shouldn't be begging at all. It's pathetic.
Like her mother had always said - Begging are for the poor and Montgomeries are further from poor.
But isn't that what she is now?
Maybe she ought to just accept.
She closed her eyes, counting each and every creak the stupid bed made as he moved inside of her.
Motionless, she does nothing. She wants to scream. She wants to cry. It hurts. Physically, not so much. The pain was coming from somewhere within. It's psychological. She doesn't understand why she's still not used to this. It's been seven years.
... 97 ... 98 ...
He grabbed her by the jaw, using her mandible as leverage as he thrusted harder and harsher. ... 99 ... 100 ... She choked back a moan and he laughed at her. Nothing gets past him.
Derek, I'm here...somewhere...I don't know where I am. I'm alive. I'm stuck. Please help me. Please, Derek.
She wants to stop thinking. She wants to switch off. For good. She wants him to stop.
She wants to go home.
Can she go home now?
Hey guys! Thank you all for reading. And thank you so much for the amazing and wonderful feedback. I love reading what you guys think! It absolutely motivated me to continue. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and please do review!
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