"To touch a sore is to renew one's grief." ~Terence
Elena
Three Weeks Later…
With a rusty hair pin that I stole from Jenna's bathroom, I begin to twist and manipulate the lock of that stupid drawer. From wires to kitchen knives, nothing has worked to unleash the contents of my master's secret world. He doesn't notice the marks from where the knife slipped and scratched the wood surrounding the keyhole, but then again I'm not sure Damon notices much lately. Instead, his mind is concentrated on drinking a repugnant liquid that sits beside his bed. Its potency is enough to make my eyes burn, but that's his muse since my punishment, since the day he came home soaked in urine and sweat. His obsession has been his expectations of me.
Once the drinking began, so did his involvement in my life. He found his words, forcing them on me as he sipped from the bottle. I still remember his harsh lecture, and even when I cried, he would take another gulp from his stash without concern.
"I've left you alone since your arrival," He had begun with his back facing me.
I had laid on the bed, yawning, still ignorant to what he would say next. His eyes remained hidden from me, as if he knew that the extent of his desire could not bear to be seen. My heart jumped in fear, and in some ways, I feel Damon could sense it from where he stood by the dresser.
"I expect something in return," He said lightly.
"W-what do you mean?" I whimpered, yanking the sheets up until they touched my cheeks.
"I expect what a husband would ask of his wife. By now you would have been wedded to that pussy back home. I doubt he would be okay without a little affection."
He began to reach for the back of his shirt, pulling it over his head with ease until his muscled torso touched the chilled air of the room. The sight made me tense, it made my cheeks burn with a nervous guilt. I tried to think of what things I would have done with Landon, what 'things' Damon was speaking of. The thought made me tremble, even tear up. My abductor wanted me to do the intimate things I planned only to share with my husband.
"I-I don't know," I whispered in shame, "Kiss-"
"Not fucking kissing. This is for my benefit, not yours." As his shorts began to descend down his thighs, I could feel my throat constrict.
"Then I-I don't know what you're saying." My lips began quivering. "I already share a bed-."
"Are they still keeping girls fucking naive as hell in that city?" He spat, "It means that if I want something from you, I will have it. It means I expect you to do as I say, to lay there quietly as I take you."
His voice was so deep, so unlike him. He turned around to face me, to the point that his bare body was all I could view in front of me. I cried out, horrified. It was unexpected, almost unjustified. Some part of my innocence fell away in that moment. Maybe the city had kept me in the dark about marriage, about things involving the opposite gender, but in some ways, that's what I wanted. Damon stepped closer, against my pleas for him to stay away.
When he was beside the bed, my eyes clamped themselves shut, and I felt the air swirl as he disappeared, back to where he had been by the dresser. He ignored my sobs and my tortured mind as he mocked and prodded my ignorance. For as long as I had been here, the man left me alone. He ignored me, commanded very little, almost pretended I hadn't existed. Now, he wanted to break me, to laugh as I handed myself over to him. He wanted something, and yet I couldn't decode it. What did husbands and wives do? In all truth, I don't know, I don't understand, and with Damon, I understand even less. He is not worthy of whatever I am expected to relinquish.
"You're late for work," He sneered as he shut the door of the bedroom, leaving me to the deafening silence.
From that day on, I expected him to enact the plan he had spoken of, the one where I give him his long-awaited favors. Even today, as I listen to the click of the drawer echo, I have yet to understand. In some ways, Damon's patience has allowed me to discover his dark past, to maybe finding my ticket out of here. There could be a map, a key to a car, or even a loaded gun in this drawer. My need to return to my old life is so strong, stronger than Damon's need to keep me here. That I know, and precisely, that is my plan to escape him.
"Yes," I cheer in a whisper as I slide the hairpin out of the keyhole.
The drawer finally skids out. My heart races, eyes checking the doors and windows carefully. I stare for some time at the contents of the clandestine stash, trembling as I reach in. Photographs, knick knacks, the collar used to punish me. Nothing goes together, no story revealed as I pull each item out. The adrenaline begins to pump when feet rumble in the hallway before dying down. Almost paranoid, I check the door one last time before returning my eyes to the drawer.
Long plastic structures stand out, and as I hold them, they are cold against my skin. They look like legs, with the outline of feet attached to the bottom. Metal screws hold straps at the tops and bottoms of the molds. Hey, Beautiful is etched on the back of one of them, Perfect Soul engraved on the other. The white straps are worn, dirty from plenty of use.
"Regan," I mutter, craning my neck up to look at her photo collage above the dresser.
Elijah had spoken of her disability, of her differences. It almost feels wrong to be holding something so ethereal, so precious. I quickly place them into the drawer, immersed in the guilt of a dead girl's struggle. My shaky fingers reach for the collar next. I hold it, wincing at the memory of the pain it had caused me. Without much consideration, I tear the battery flap open, emptying the source of its power. The cylinders clank against the floor, rolling in all directions.
I gather them before chucking them into my dresser drawer, a place Damon pretends is infectious. His nose even scrunches slightly if his fingers brush the handle by mistake. As I pick up the photographs scattered across the base of the secret compartment, my eyes grow wide. A wild-haired girl lies naked, awkwardly aiming the camera at her bare body. Her skin is so smooth, so clear, without a trace of hair. It is almost unfathomable that a girl could look so empty. This is what Damon wants. This is what his heart has always been set on. She is beautiful, skinny, tall, and unimaginably hairless. It almost puts me to shame.
Then there is that small rectangular box. I read the label: post-intercourse contraceptive pill. I bite my lip, unsure, almost annoyed at my lack of understanding. My fingers dig into the opening of the cardboard container, pulling out a tray of pills, each individually encapsulated by clear plastic side-by-side. Only one is empty, torn from its shell in the top left corner. He has used one, and only that one. But why? If this was important to his health, why would only one be taken, especially if I have only seen him unlock this drawer once? I shake my head as I return the sleeve to its original packaging.
The last object, hidden in the back is a wooden toy wrapped with disfigured silverware. It looks so familiar, because it is. Maverick's toy, the one he told me he had lost. Just like the others, it resembles a human, yet the perfect size to lie in a person's palm. It is so odd, so creepy. To steal from a child, one that you despise greatly.
"What happened to you?" I whisper to myself, shocked by what my abductor has chosen to hide from the world, things that he may cry about whenever he opens the drawer, whenever he needs to remind himself of his pain.
The doorknob rattles suddenly, and I slam the compartment shut, throwing myself onto the bed. Damon walks in, red streaks all down his white shirt. The vibrant color is dried beneath his fingernails, some splattered on his cheeks. My stomach clenches.
"W-What the heck?" I ask.
His eyes flick up at me. For some time he ignores me, grabbing a new shirt from his drawer, styling his dark locks in the mirror, running his fingers over Regan's portrait mechanically. Then, when he feels it is safe enough to respond, he turns himself toward me.
"Do you want to eat tonight?" He questions accusingly, as if I'm the crazy one.
Damon goes on his way, not bothering to witness my reaction. Inside, he is laughing at me, rolling his eyes, and when he returns from the bathroom refreshed, I glare at him in rage.
"They told us serial killers don't feel empathy. You kill animals, living beings. So, you're a serial killer, then. A psychopath." The man whips around, clenching his jaw.
"You are not going to speak to me like this." He rubs the edge of his belt, staring at me. "Unless you want to see a psychopath in action. I'll show you no mercy, because empathy is not in my vocabulary, right? You know nothing."
I nearly choke on my own spit. His words slice me like knives, with so much intensity that I can only blankly stare at him. For the first time in so long, I realize that he doesn't have that glass bottle. He is serious, firm in his word. As always, he doesn't stay in the room for more than a few minutes. With a clean shirt and a newly cleansed conscience, the man leaves me here, my mind pondering what awful things he would have done if he had caught me digging through his secrets. Yes, this break-in has only stirred up more unanswered questions, and less understanding about Damon's cryptic past. One full of naked women, of broken hearts, of dark secrets he will not bear to ever tell.
I watch the blood rush down my inner thighs, swirling into the water of the shower floor. The sight is soothing, as if my will is being flushed from my insides. It feels good when the pain travels through my legs, my hips, through my stomach. I surrender to this aching, closing my eyes to cry. If only I had the strength to believe I could escape this prison, to find my way home. The blood reminds me of our dinner, of the red covering Damon as he slit the creature's throat.
The washcloth caresses my skin so gently as tears cascade from my cheeks. I press myself against the wall, moving the fabric between my legs, sobbing when I touch the area. A sharp gasp escapes at the sensation, the instantaneous relief it provides. I begin to move the rag in circles. My neck snaps back, the wet strands of my hair clinging to the wall behind me. It feels good. I rub harder, testing the limits of pleasure. My eyes blur, the base of my neck tingling. The blood in my veins quickens its pace, and nervously I tense. Then, as if slapped across the cheek, I stop.
My eyes again fill with tears, and not for the reason I want. Guilt. I slump my chest forward, covering myself in shame. What have I done? My cheeks feel hot, likely red, displaying my sin for all to see. I cry harder, maybe from my regret or maybe from fear of never leaving Damon. In my hand, a white towel sits, waiting to be wrapped around me. I tremble as I dry myself, stuffing layer after layer of toilet paper into my underwear.
The room is empty as I enter, a robe swaddling my tall, lanky body. I collapse on the bed in relief. Without Damon, I feel life is bearable, and when left to my own devices, I do not have to be afraid. For a few more minutes, I use the towel to dry my hair. The door clicks open just moments later, and my heart races. Damon. He doesn't look at me as he walks toward the dresser, not an uncommon greeting lately. The infamous bottle sits in the grip of his hand, clinking against the wood when he sets it down.
I can feel his brief glances, like his eyes cannot commit. My body freezes, and even as cold droplets trickle down the back of my neck, I dare not move. He steps toward me, something unusual, almost unheard of. Out of complete fear, I allow him to. His feet slap the floor as he approaches, the faint scent of that toxic drink seeping from his mouth. I believe he can hear my heavy breaths when he squats down in front of my sitting frame. Those bright blue eyes scan me like a prize, and the moment I believe he will move away, his fingers reach out.
He gently yanks at the strap of the robe. I wince, my skin prickling at the feel of his hand touching my belly. In complete shock, I cannot react. The words catch in my throat, and I just watch as he opens the garment, exposing both breasts to him. The nipples tighten when the cold air whooshes past them, causing me to whimper in both confusion and fear. He lets the fabric slide down my arms before holding the robe there. The man's face has no expression, his eyes skimming my chest. I'm not sure if he knows how swollen they feel, or just how much fuller they seem tonight, but his expression proves to reveal nothing. Even so, his hot breath only causes more shivers up my spine, to the point that my muscles clench painfully.
Then, before the tears even reach the brim of my lash line, he returns the robe to its closed position, until my skin is hidden beneath it. As he stands again, I hug myself, squeezing until my ribs compress. I begin to tremble, trying to make those goosebumps disappear along with the sudden humiliation. Damon begins to undress near the desk, acting as though we had not encountered each other at all. I am still paralyzed on the mattress, even as he crawls beneath the sheets and reaches for the lamp beside him. In the darkness of the room, I silently cry, tormented and confused.
I stand up, shuffling toward the door. Damon's heavy breaths echo from the bed as I slowly sneak out. My body aches, and maybe not from my monthly visitor. Some part of me believes that he knew how to make me feel insecure, like some form of control. My shaky sobs grow as I feel my way down the dark hallway, counting doors and steps. Soon, even breathing becomes a challenge, almost something I have to force by the time I knock on his door. The barrier opens with my help, and shakily I step inside.
"E-Elijah?" I croak, bursting into another round of wet cries.
"Elena," He sleepily groans, "Are you okay?"
"No," I whisper pitifully.
I can see the outline of his silhouette sit up, fingers rubbing his eyes. My feet step closer and closer, unsure. He waves at me to join him. I nearly trip onto the mattress, hugging the safety of the sheets. Elijah grabs me gently, pulling me to be beside him and holding my quivering body. I cling to him, finally giving into the sobs that have bubbled up inside.
"You're safe now," He hushes, stroking my damp brown locks.
"He humiliated me," I sob, "He made me feel unworthy."
Unsure of how to respond, the man just holds me against his hot skin, leaning until we are both on our backs. He adjusts his body so that his face is just inches from mine. I can even taste his warm breaths fanning my lips. His touch is so careful, so soothing.
"You're safe now." Again, he hugs me. "Sleep here, okay?"
So I do. I fall asleep in his embrace, in the warmth of these sheets. Throughout the night, an arm remains anchored around my waist, his mouth methodically worshipping sleep beside my ear like a lullaby. For once, I feel truly at peace, truly safe in a place where pain is all any of these people know. I keep my arms pressed against my ribs, trying to forget the feeling of Damon's eyes touching them.
I wake to the door creaking open. Elijah's fingers stroke my arm up and down sweetly, even as we watch Damon set a stack of clothing on the desk just beside the entrance. The man doesn't even look up at us, and just as quickly as he appears, he is gone again. Elijah's nose nudges the column of my throat with a soft hum.
"We have to get up," He says softly, "You can change in the bathroom first, if you want to."
"D-do you think he's mad?" I nervously mumble.
"Damon is mad at the world. He can't be any angrier than he was the day before. When he's not mad, then you should be concerned." Elijah says it almost teasingly, and I smile, relieved that I'm not the only one to notice.
"Thank you for everything," I smile as I stand.
"I really enjoy you being here." He then gestures toward the bathroom, "Take your time, Elena."
After I finish dressing, I wait for Elijah in the bedroom, running my index along the shelves of books lining the walls. He catches me holding one of them, smiling as he grows nearer. The spine is thin, but the tiny print fills each page from corner to corner. Elijah laughs as he hugs me from behind, causing my body to tingle unexpectedly. He rests his chin on my shoulder, drawing out a long sigh.
"There are plenty of books to keep your mind off things," The man whispers, "So if you ever want to borrow any, please do."
I hear my name faintly through the wooden door behind us. Both our heads snap in the direction of the noise, Elijah pulling away just as the door swings open. Bonnie runs over to me, grabbing at my hand desperately.
"It's Vicky," She shouts, "They're going to force her to lose the baby."
My mind is a puddle, confused, worried, almost scared. Elijah seems just as alarmed, and when our eyes meet, his are pleading with me to follow the crazed girl. Bonnie pulls me out into the hallway, her hair braided into a bun with a flower poking out of it. She looks beautiful, like the presence of Kai had never existed, as if this is the only life she has ever known. With Jenna and Alaric, she says she's happy. I'm not sure how the sleeping arrangements are for the three of them. Maybe they all share the bed, maybe Alaric takes the floor. I am sure of nothing.
"What baby?" I ask in panic.
"She's pregnant and they're making her abort the baby and she's so scared and no one knows how it happened and everyone is fighting over what to do. We have to help her. She is hysterical." Bonnie says everything so quickly, it takes me a minute to fully understand.
In the kitchen, a group of people stand bickering, trying to speak over the voices of everyone else. Vicky sits with her head down, shaking violently. Jo and Lexi rub her back, repeatedly reassuring her time and again. They both back away as we approach, as if somehow I am the only one who can fix this. She looks up at me, eyes bloodshot, sobbing.
"I can't have this baby," She whispers, "They're right. An abortion is the only option."
"No, no, Vicky," I plead, "This baby is going to be beautiful."
Jeremy comes to stand behind me, arms crossed. I scoot my chair in enough for him to maneuver to the other side of the girl. He sits silently, and in my chest I can feel my heart pounding. I remember what I had witnessed between Vicky and Tyler. I remember it almost too clearly.
"Say it," He commands. "I want to hear it from your own lips."
Vicky whimpers, moving her eyes to meet his sheepishly. I lean in closer to her body to guard her as best I can. Jo and Lexi choose to walk away, leaving the three of us here at the table. There is so much tension, and with it I cannot predict what will happen next.
"Jer, I-," She squeaks.
"Did you fuck him?" he yells, bashing the table with his palm.
Both of us jump, our blood racing at the man's anger.
"You bitch," He howls, snatching her dress with his giant hands.
He locks his arm around her throat, tightening it as she fights him. I try everything to remain calm, screaming for help repeatedly until heads turn toward me. Tyler is the one who fights off the attacker. I am shaking, crying, begging for this to be over. Vicky's face grows a deep red, her lips bulging. Jeremy releases her neck, turning his attention to Tyler.
"Nice. The fag screws his friend's girl. Real nice," Jeremy roars, throwing himself onto his opponent.
Alaric and Luke separate the two quickly, the cracking of bones echoing through the room.
"You can have her. I'm done, Vicky. I am so fucking done with you. Got it?"
The feud across the room becomes heated thereafter, people reminding the others of the "rules". Others refute with moral obligations, some spitting curses in return. Then finally, the room silences. All eyes turn toward the doorway where Damon stands, emotionless as ever.
"She is getting an abortion," He tells us without room for argument.
"How can you say that?" I bark, standing. "There is a living being inside her."
"There are reasons for the rules in this house. There are reasons that we don't have dozens of children. There are reasons we will never make this mistake again."
He steps closer to me, my body in turn slumping in submission. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing squeaks from my lungs. His eyes look so dark this morning, even emptier than usual. I cannot imagine what monster would not hesitate. Not for a second did he pause to consider Vicky raising this baby. Not for a second, did this man allow her to decide her own fate.
I find the bravery to march over to him, slamming my fists against his chest in rage. He doesn't react, only a wall of muscle staring down at the top of my head lifelessly. I punch harder, yelling at him hysterically. A desperate scream rings from my chest.
"Why are you doing this? Why?" I cry, panting as I throw another fist into him.
Someone grabs me from behind, pulling me from Damon. The arms are gentle, but firm. Damon doesn't move from where he stands. He just stares at my disheveled body, which continues to fight whoever has chosen to end this battle.
"Elena, stop," Elijah begs, pressing me to his chest.
"Take your whore and leave," The raven-haired man hisses.
I stare at his face as he says it. His upper lip twitches slightly, and somewhere in the creases of his face there is an underlying sense of animosity toward what he witnessed this morning.
"We didn't do anything," Elijah says right back, "Don't call her that."
Damon pulls his eyes away from me finally, pushing past us. I turn myself so that I can bury my face into Elijah's neck. He holds me tightly, reminding me to breathe.
"Wes, get set up. We don't have all day here," Damon huskily growls, "And for anyone who thinks I'm wrong, you're forgetting what happens when we break the rules. Don't any of you for a second forget."
I cry harder. The man holding me hushes my whimpers as we walk back toward his bedroom. Each step of the staircase is painful, leaking more air from my lungs. I hold onto his shoulder, seeing vivid flashes in my mind of them strapping Vicky down. I imagine Damon directing it, reminding them all why he is a monster. I fall just feet from Elijah's room, gripping the floor for security.
"Please just tell me why," I beg.
He helps me stand back up, hooking his arms beneath my pits. Somehow we manage to make it inside, even in my crazed delirium. Elijah finds me a pillow to lay my head on, sitting cross-legged beside me on the floor. His hand reaches out to hold mine, long fingers stroking my red knuckles.
"Damon broke the rules once," He tells me under his breath, "...and it didn't end well."
"What happened?"
There is a pause, a hesitancy in his expression. He stares at my hand as he rubs the olive skin some more, and I feel his lips lightly caress my fingertips. The man sighs, shaking his head, almost unsure if he should speak the words.
"Maverick happened," The man whispers, setting my hand down hesitantly, eyes glossed and lips pointed downward. "And that's all I'm going to say."
Author's Note: Thank you to LiveBreatheVampires for editing!
Analysis: Well, just like the other chapters, the title really plays into what happened. There is plenty of touching! From self-touching to comfort-touching to I'm-gonna-kill-you touching, these characters need to keep their hands to themselves! So, to start off, Elena finally breaks into Damon's locked drawer. The things she finds do not really help her figure anything out, only sparking more questions. After, Damon returns covered in blood, and to Elena's displeasure, learns that he participates in the actual animal killings (maybe she was giving the man too much credit). Anyway, Elena showers and accidentally comes across her own self-pleasure. Filled with guilt, she returns to the bedroom where Damon finally expects a "favor". He only stares at her breasts, but of course the experience is extremely humiliating for Elena. She goes to be with Elijah, who comforts her. They wake to Damon handing over Elena's clothes, and later he seems irritated at the relationship, even calling Elena a whore. Finally, the big plot twist is Damon's push for Vicky's abortion. Why? Elijah only tells Elena a tiny bit, but it's enough to confuse her even more. Damon broke the rules, but where does Maverick come into it?
Thank you so much for all the love and support, as always. I hope you enjoyed! xoxo Ren