The cottage, really more of a small home, is nestled back in a shady, quiet glen. We don't exchange words on the journey there, but I take the opportunity to learn a little bit more about her. She has an almost unnoticeable limp to her right leg, most likely a break that didn't heal correctly. The unmistakable circle of a cigarette burn can just be glimpsed through the sheer sleeves of her blouse. There are years of systematic abuse written in the creases of her forehead. It will be interesting to see her nude. I'm certain several more scars must dapple the pale bluish skin that covers her brittle bones. I wonder at the sound they make when they snap. I wonder if she'd make any sound at all.
I open the door for her and she steps inside. Her head swivels quickly, taking in the room, swiftly searching out any places she might hide. Old habits die hard. There is a sumptuous leather couch that cradles you in it's embrace. I reach for her purse and she relinquishes her grip, letting it fall into my hand.
"The restroom is just down the hall and to the right. Why don't you take a moment to freshen up."
"Thank you."
She walks down the hallway without looking back. I can hear her heels click softly as she reaches the tiled floor, and closes the door behind her.
Her purse is clean, tidy. There is a red lipstick, a small cheap coin purse, and a slim black wallet containing seventy-five dollars in cash. I slip her driver's license from it's plastic sheath and look at her photograph. There is no trace of a smile on the face of Bonnie Anne Haflinger, age 26, who resides in Easter Falls, Kansas. I replace her personal effects and zip the purse closed.
I sink into the large leather armchair adjacent to the couch. The muffled sound of running water swishes from the bathroom door, and a few moments later, she emerges with gloves back in place. The scars on her wrists are by far the most painful for her. Because she was searching for a way put and was not strong enough to follow through. Because even in failure, she has failed. That must sting tremendously.
She renters my presence with almost no sound, quiet as a housecat, and twice as canny. I gesture to the couch.
"Sit. Please."
She does as told, sitting rigid on the edge of the inviting sofa. The drapes are drawn, and warm, burgundy light diffuses through the room. I must say it calls to mind my office, a lifetime ago when I was still in private practice. Just the right atmosphere to get little Mary no-one-loves-me to wail out all her frustrations with the world and it's constant refusals to treat her like the princess she is. I have a sneaking suspicion that little Bonnie will prove to be more tight lipped than her previous counterparts.
"Alexandra, you seem quite tense. May I offer you a glass of wine?"
"No, Thank you."
Mental note: her father was a drinker, or her mother. Or both. She equates alcohol with a lack of control, and self-control is of the utmost importance to her. It would be wise to refrain of the worship of Bacchus in her presence.
"Alexandra really is a lovely name, Miss de Winter. How did you come by it?"
"I was named after my grandmother. She used to read to me as a child, and take me sailing."
Active fantasy life as an escape from reality. Elaborate scenarios feature prominently in her coping mechanism.
None the less, Alexandra, I think I'd like to call you by a different name. I think I'd like to call you Bonnie."
She stiffens here and her fingers clench into twin fists in her lap. A view rises along her temple.
"Oh, I see. You're more comfortable with Alexandra. Why is that?"
Still no verbal response. She has been taught that there is no right answer. Any answer will result in a blow.
"What is Alexandra that Bonnie is not? What purpose does she serve for you? If you'd like me to help you, Bonnie, You're going to need to answer now."
"I don't want to be her anymore."
"Uh-huh. Because she is weak?"
"Because I've outgrown her."
"No, there you're wrong. You haven't outgrown yourself at all. You've just tried to hide behind a self you like better."
"What does it matter what you call me?"
There is a brassy note of annoyance in her tone. It will have to go.
"It matters to you, because it matters to me, and it will have a bearing on how we spend the rest of our time together."
"Do you think I sought you out to spend time with you?"
"No, I believe you sought me because you tried to escape at least once yourself and failed miserably. Those scars on your wrists are so shallow I bet you hardly bled at all."
There's a tinge of anger coloring her pretty face. I wonder if she knew it was hidden there, or if the feeling is a sudden surprise.
"You're not afraid of dying here and now at my hands, and yet your pulse is racing at the mere suggestion that you lay aside the pretense and be who you really are. So let me make this easier for you. I'd like you to be Bonnie for awhile. That would be immensely pleasing to me. If, on other hand, you'd prefer to remain obstinate, I can strip your mind of any sort of memory of me and return you to the street where I found you. I'd prefer to let you keep that knowledge, Bonnie. I'd prefer to let you remain here with me, at least until I'm able to decide what it is I'd like to do with you. But please don't think for a moment that I'm not perfectly willing to cast you back out with a brand new set of pain and anguish to hold you close at night. If you think you've know pain and suffering before, poppet, believe me when I say that I could easily introduce you to agony far beyond anything your little mind can even conceive of now."
Sad, angry tears are brimming in those dove-gray eyes. For a moment I think she might bolt for the door, and I finger the harpy in my pocket, but she sinks to the couch and curls her legs beneath her with a docile grace that is quite alluring. For the first time since I've made this strange acquaintance I can see myself thrusting atop her with ardor. I've paced my women few and far between, and always as means to an end, rather than the end themselves. High priced escorts mostly, who have almost as much interest in me as I have in them…although they always seemed to warm a bit when they received the substantial gratuities I am accustomed to doling out for good service in any vocation. From what I have gathered, most well-dressed men are egregiously poor tippers. But for the first time in many months, I can feel a hidden lustful stirring that begins with the woman instead of the biological underpinnings. I haven't touched a woman I've desired since that brief stolen kiss on the banks of the Chesapeake. I clamp down on the memories and divert my attention back to my living room. I've lost whole days reminiscing about that one, and I'm far from through with her, but now is not the time. I have more pressing matters before me. Bonnie finally leans back into the couch and looks up at me with resignation. Good girl. All good things to those who wait.
"Thank you Bonnie. I appreciate your willingness to cooperate. Your helping me, helps you. Let me tell you what I'm willing to do. I'm willing to help you work through all the issues swimming in that pretty head of yours. I'm willing to give you new tools to dissect and process the forces that have been at work upon your psyche. And I'm willing to put you out of your misery. But I'm going to have some fun with you in return."
She absorbs this placidly, and nods.
"I'd like to see how you process sorts of pain. I'd like to watch you squirm under my heel. But I promise, at the end of the road, I'll put you down. Are we agreed?"
"Yes."
How fearless. How wonderful.
"Then, Bonnie, first I'd like to hear a little bit about your childhood."
I open the door for her and she steps inside. Her head swivels quickly, taking in the room, swiftly searching out any places she might hide. Old habits die hard. There is a sumptuous leather couch that cradles you in it's embrace. I reach for her purse and she relinquishes her grip, letting it fall into my hand.
"The restroom is just down the hall and to the right. Why don't you take a moment to freshen up."
"Thank you."
She walks down the hallway without looking back. I can hear her heels click softly as she reaches the tiled floor, and closes the door behind her.
Her purse is clean, tidy. There is a red lipstick, a small cheap coin purse, and a slim black wallet containing seventy-five dollars in cash. I slip her driver's license from it's plastic sheath and look at her photograph. There is no trace of a smile on the face of Bonnie Anne Haflinger, age 26, who resides in Easter Falls, Kansas. I replace her personal effects and zip the purse closed.
I sink into the large leather armchair adjacent to the couch. The muffled sound of running water swishes from the bathroom door, and a few moments later, she emerges with gloves back in place. The scars on her wrists are by far the most painful for her. Because she was searching for a way put and was not strong enough to follow through. Because even in failure, she has failed. That must sting tremendously.
She renters my presence with almost no sound, quiet as a housecat, and twice as canny. I gesture to the couch.
"Sit. Please."
She does as told, sitting rigid on the edge of the inviting sofa. The drapes are drawn, and warm, burgundy light diffuses through the room. I must say it calls to mind my office, a lifetime ago when I was still in private practice. Just the right atmosphere to get little Mary no-one-loves-me to wail out all her frustrations with the world and it's constant refusals to treat her like the princess she is. I have a sneaking suspicion that little Bonnie will prove to be more tight lipped than her previous counterparts.
"Alexandra, you seem quite tense. May I offer you a glass of wine?"
"No, Thank you."
Mental note: her father was a drinker, or her mother. Or both. She equates alcohol with a lack of control, and self-control is of the utmost importance to her. It would be wise to refrain of the worship of Bacchus in her presence.
"Alexandra really is a lovely name, Miss de Winter. How did you come by it?"
"I was named after my grandmother. She used to read to me as a child, and take me sailing."
Active fantasy life as an escape from reality. Elaborate scenarios feature prominently in her coping mechanism.
None the less, Alexandra, I think I'd like to call you by a different name. I think I'd like to call you Bonnie."
She stiffens here and her fingers clench into twin fists in her lap. A view rises along her temple.
"Oh, I see. You're more comfortable with Alexandra. Why is that?"
Still no verbal response. She has been taught that there is no right answer. Any answer will result in a blow.
"What is Alexandra that Bonnie is not? What purpose does she serve for you? If you'd like me to help you, Bonnie, You're going to need to answer now."
"I don't want to be her anymore."
"Uh-huh. Because she is weak?"
"Because I've outgrown her."
"No, there you're wrong. You haven't outgrown yourself at all. You've just tried to hide behind a self you like better."
"What does it matter what you call me?"
There is a brassy note of annoyance in her tone. It will have to go.
"It matters to you, because it matters to me, and it will have a bearing on how we spend the rest of our time together."
"Do you think I sought you out to spend time with you?"
"No, I believe you sought me because you tried to escape at least once yourself and failed miserably. Those scars on your wrists are so shallow I bet you hardly bled at all."
There's a tinge of anger coloring her pretty face. I wonder if she knew it was hidden there, or if the feeling is a sudden surprise.
"You're not afraid of dying here and now at my hands, and yet your pulse is racing at the mere suggestion that you lay aside the pretense and be who you really are. So let me make this easier for you. I'd like you to be Bonnie for awhile. That would be immensely pleasing to me. If, on other hand, you'd prefer to remain obstinate, I can strip your mind of any sort of memory of me and return you to the street where I found you. I'd prefer to let you keep that knowledge, Bonnie. I'd prefer to let you remain here with me, at least until I'm able to decide what it is I'd like to do with you. But please don't think for a moment that I'm not perfectly willing to cast you back out with a brand new set of pain and anguish to hold you close at night. If you think you've know pain and suffering before, poppet, believe me when I say that I could easily introduce you to agony far beyond anything your little mind can even conceive of now."
Sad, angry tears are brimming in those dove-gray eyes. For a moment I think she might bolt for the door, and I finger the harpy in my pocket, but she sinks to the couch and curls her legs beneath her with a docile grace that is quite alluring. For the first time since I've made this strange acquaintance I can see myself thrusting atop her with ardor. I've paced my women few and far between, and always as means to an end, rather than the end themselves. High priced escorts mostly, who have almost as much interest in me as I have in them…although they always seemed to warm a bit when they received the substantial gratuities I am accustomed to doling out for good service in any vocation. From what I have gathered, most well-dressed men are egregiously poor tippers. But for the first time in many months, I can feel a hidden lustful stirring that begins with the woman instead of the biological underpinnings. I haven't touched a woman I've desired since that brief stolen kiss on the banks of the Chesapeake. I clamp down on the memories and divert my attention back to my living room. I've lost whole days reminiscing about that one, and I'm far from through with her, but now is not the time. I have more pressing matters before me. Bonnie finally leans back into the couch and looks up at me with resignation. Good girl. All good things to those who wait.
"Thank you Bonnie. I appreciate your willingness to cooperate. Your helping me, helps you. Let me tell you what I'm willing to do. I'm willing to help you work through all the issues swimming in that pretty head of yours. I'm willing to give you new tools to dissect and process the forces that have been at work upon your psyche. And I'm willing to put you out of your misery. But I'm going to have some fun with you in return."
She absorbs this placidly, and nods.
"I'd like to see how you process sorts of pain. I'd like to watch you squirm under my heel. But I promise, at the end of the road, I'll put you down. Are we agreed?"
"Yes."
How fearless. How wonderful.
"Then, Bonnie, first I'd like to hear a little bit about your childhood."