All rights to the characters and story of FSoG belong to E. L. James.

Forgive the grammar and spelling mistakes. I did edit it, but not in my usual OCD manner.

In Chapter 19, Ana finally broke. When I started to write chapter 20, it occurred to me that I wanted to hear Ana's inner monologue and use a Stream of Consciousness Narrative. Therefore, this chapter is Ana's inner monologue, her thoughts, and insights on when/what/why. If some of Ana's thoughts seem illogical, irrational, or crazy, they are what I would expect from a person in such an insane situation.

Sunday, May 10th, 2015-June 3rd, 2015

Bellevue/Seattle, Washington

Ana's POV

The magic elixir of Demerol and Phenergan. Surgical incision reopened. Twelve new and wonderful staples. Two stitches in my middle finger. My middle finger. Ironic. The first of my many fuck you's. Another hard hospital exam room table in an emergency department. I've begun to feel the medicine flowing within my veins and my discomfort begins to ease and my mind is starting to melt into a fuzzy haze. I am still able to hear and understand the quiet voices around me. One belonging to a nurse. Another of the doctor who is answering Christian's inquisition, "Your wife seems to have caused herself further damage. This is a set back, blah, blah, blah…" All I'm doing is looking at the four people around me. Three who know the truth, one that I'm not sure what he knows, and my father, who only knows his natural klutz of a daughter fell down outside and clearly got fucked up.

We're waiting for fifteen minutes to pass before we can leave since the doctor wants to see if I have any reaction to the shot. Fifteen minutes. We've been here two hours and the only time the elephant in the room was addressed was when Ray went for coffee and that was when Carrick and Kate were coming up with excuses to give Elliot and Mia about the state I'm in. I hear the underlying sarcasm in Kate's question, "Well, they're going to wonder…" A bandaged hand. Staples that closed up my surgical site, yet nothing to sew up this hole in my chest. Christian's eyes, his stupid, stupid eyes as he asks me how I could have complete disregard for my health and behave the way I did. I would wonder about his nerve at asking such a question and then my drug infused haze lifts for a second and I realize who he is. Maybe I'm being too melodramatic. Yeah, melodramatic. After all, he is Christian Grey. So, another fifteen minutes in this small room that is full of something oppressive, what? Dread? Confusion? Resentment? Hate? Oh, it is safe to say it is all of those. Again, Ana. Melodramatic.

I am exhausted and dizzy and I hear Kate telling me to just give in to the medicine. "Ana, just lay down." If my body can begin to relax this much, why do I still feel like exposed electrical wires? Why do I hear the rain on the window and recall the dreary morning that reflects my dreary feelings that fill my marrow and a gratitude that I'm unable to stand up and scream out the truth this rain is pouring upon us? Yesterday was warm and lovely and look how it turned out. So I revel in the typical Washington weather because I know that it will eventually cease. The jokes life play on us cease. The pain another inflicts upon us will cease. But does the pain that we inflict upon ourselves ever cease? My heavy eyes can no longer win the battle and the last face I see is Katherine's and it's etched with worry and eyes full of fury.

My head begins to roll on someones shoulder and I'm roused from my temporary stupor. We've arrived at our temporary home, Carrick and Grace's and I feel myself being carried bridal style inside the house and I know by whom. He smells like himself and I know this because my face is in his neck. He smells like Christian. Christian Grey. He is six feet and two inches tall and has copper hair and gray eyes. This is the man that I love. But then I'm torn from the darkness I've been surrounded by and hear the voice of Lucas Sawyer, "Let me open the front door for you, Sir." That's when I remember. Ana, you cannot love the devil.

Thanks to having a mother-in-law who is a physician, I have been knocked out from several injections of pain medication. After being asleep for two straight days, I jolt awake when I feel someone touching my hand. It is Grace and she is cleaning up my hand. "Hello, sleeping beauty. How do you feel? Time for this bandage to come off and let these stitches get some air." I don't reply and continue to watch what she's doing with my hand. Grace smiles brightly. The smile doesn't reach her eyes and in that instance, despite still being groggy from a drug induced, two day sleep, I know. I know that smile contains questions she would like me to answer. Oh, Grace. There are some truths that should remain buried.

Yes, I agree I need a shower and my teeth feel disgusting. No. I can get up on my own, but fuck no, she will not hear of it. I truly love you, Grace, but please go away. Please. I want to be alone. I need to be alone. But no. I'm automatically helped to the bathroom and then placed in the shower, although I cannot catch a fucking break as I wash my hair. My precious mother-in-law has alerted the calvary and I hear both Mia and Christian talking with her in the adjoining bedroom. "I brought you a fresh nightgown, Ana.". No, Christian, I don't need your help to take a shower and if you come near me I will probably physically die. Once I am gone and he is looking around the rubble, will he know that he is the reason I am dead? The reason that the majority of my being has died? No, of course he won't. Again, Ana. Melodramatic. You have read too many fiction manuscripts.

Mia chatters away in the bathroom as she helps me dry off and get dressed. Yes, I know it is blue, sweetheart, and thank you for saying it makes the blue in my eyes stand out. Chatter, chatter, chatter. Giggle, giggle, giggle. I love her because she is my sister and she's exuberant and full of life and optimism, but she shouldn't touch me. I'll taint her with my jaded reality and the disgusting knowledge I am aware of. Disgusting, humiliating, and vile. I walk around with this inside my veins and yet I laugh and smile and pretend to be alright. "I'll just braid your hair, Ana." That is fine, because when I walk out of this bathroom with my hair braided, your sick brother and his mommy issues will pass out when he sees me. The sick fuck who has splintered my heart and has left me a woman determined to splinter his entire life. He is fucked. Fucked. Fucked.

Hurricane Mia has downgraded to a tropical storm and gingerly leads me to the bed. Do not look at me with pleas of desperation, Christian. I'm not going to break your mother's heart. You made that decision when Elena's cane across your back helped you become the man you are now. I've been incoherent for the better part of three days and I even see that your thinking is brainwashing from years of child abuse. If I had the nerve to hold your stare, I might be convinced that I see an apology in your eyes. Can a sociopath apologize? An apology that you made a fool out of me with your old family friend? When Christian takes me from Mia's arms helping me in the bed, I wonder if he feels anything at all. Is this man capable of feelings on some level? Why do these thoughts invade my mind? Why is it that when someone you love breaks your heart that your love can't automatically cut off? Why do I know how twisted and dark Christian is and I still look at him and want to reach out and caress his face? Because I'm fucked up. "Here, sweet girl. Take these pain pills and I'll give you a sleeping pill later." A sick fuck like Christian never deserved a mother this kind. Maybe this medicine will ease the edge of this feeling that I have. The feeling of wanting to open this third floor window and hurl myself out of it.

I've been fed, my pillows have been fluffed and now the lights are off and the television is on. Christian is under the covers beside me and we both mindlessly stare at the eleven o'clock news. I hear his mind working up to what he should say to me. I wouldn't dare bring it up and I've been wondering if he'd ever have the nerve. Surprisingly, he does and I don't let him off the hook. I stare at his profile until he looks at me. You're sorry? Well, of course you are. Christian, you never wanted anyone to know this secret. No, Christian. I don't believe that you're sorry for lying to me all these years, so pull every hair from your head and see if I give two fucks. "You don't understand, Ana. It's complicated, but she helped me. I was out of control." No, he's a goddamn idiot. A pedophile cannot help you. Fifteen and forty-one equals child abuse. Fifteen years of near daily contact is disgusting and he's in need of intense therapy. Two pain pills and I'm still hurting. One sleeping pill and I'm still awake. The bedside clock reads one o'clock in the morning and I close my eyes. I close my eyes. I close my eyes. Dark.

Staples removed and stitches dissolved. Dr. Trevelyan makes bedside visits and I'm up and about. Downstairs and outside. Katherine is here nearly every day, but we cannot talk because we are never alone. I always see Luke through a window as he walks the perimeter around the house. How fucking stupid. Do I quietly delight as I watch Christian walk throughout his childhood home as if he is a broken puppy? Yes. When I heard that Mrs. Lincoln was somewhere in California having yet another nose job, did my smile light up Times Square? Probably. She's to convalesce for a while before returning to Washington? What a joke. She is hiding her coward ass from Carrick and Grace. Christian finally returns to work and that's the only time I am forced to lay eyes on Taylor. He's been staying with his wife at the so called home of Mr. and Mrs. Christian Grey. Good. Watching Christian and Jason Taylor interact would be my motive in their murders. True, I cannot hurt Taylor, but a day is coming when I will spit straight in his face. A day is approaching. "I'll be leaving the office early from here on out, Anastasia." As if I fucking care.

Carrick, Grace, and Christian are at work. Mia is still asleep. Luke cannot come in the house and Kate arrives. I feel her baby kick. Emma Grace. I smile, she laughs. We are finally alone. Carrick hasn't questioned her or Luke about that night. Yet. Kate is carrying her large Louis Vuitton purse and pulls out a phone. Probably her new one. "Luke got us all these phones. We have to buy minutes to use them and he told me that we shouldn't talk about all of this shit on our regular phones. We'll have to hide this up in that room you're staying in, Ana." Christian has placed a temporary team together to run Grey Publishing until I am well enough to go back. Luke's friend got into Elena's and found what she has on Christian. The pedophile had saved so many disgusting images and damning evidence. Even more proof she has sexually abused and physically tortured many other young boys. They are all gone now. Luke's friend took them. She is fucked. Fucked. Fucked.

Pedophiles and child abuse invade my thoughts now. It was only my days and now into my nights. The sleeping pills don't chase the dark memories from my unconscious sleep. A copper haired and gray eyed little boy whose running to me and giggling. He sees me and smiles. He loves me. A copper haired and gray eyed man who has me by the wrists so I cannot move my arms. He isn't giggling. A raised cane. There is no love for me. A dark haired man with brown eyes. A hand across my cheek. I scream and cry. There is no love and I am ten years old. He's holding me down while he tears me apart. I scream, but now it is aloud, there is a light on, and my enemy is holding me and his parents run into the room. "What has happened?" I hear Grace ask, as the enemy rocks me back and forth. A nightmare. The first one in such a long time. It has been brought back to the surface of my life, although I would kill myself before confiding that to Christian. I am trash. Bitten. Flawed. So fucking scarred.

The nightmares continue. I know why. Kate knows and told Luke, so now they both know why. Now, they are fucking psychiatric experts. Therapy. Therapy. Therapy. Kate finds the best in three states. A specialist in her field. I finally relent and Kate makes the appointment. The entire family agrees, although they believe it is because of what happened the night of the party, but I catch Christian staring at me at dinner and I see in his eyes that he has derived a conclusion. My two and two and Christian's two and two do not equal eight. They equal fucked up, but in two completely different ways. Elliot's eyes on me across the table. "You alright?" Am I all right? Do I appear to be all right? I suppose that it depends on whom you ask.

Carrick never asked Kate. He had never asked Luke since he considered that Luke would never go against his boss. But he does ask me. Carrick's eyes are angry, but it is an angry form of pain. I see that similar look in my own eyes whenever I stare at myself in a mirror. Carrick knew it all. Was it a blessing or a curse that Kate's iPhone didn't pick up every word those two sick fucks said to one another? So, Carrick knows about Christian and Elena. A pedophile beating and fucking his son. As I watch his mouth move, I realize the phone never caught the part where Christian admitted our marriage was a sham. Would it hurt or help me if Carrick had heard those words? We'll never know. "Did you already know, Ana?" A question that is strained, full of hurt, shame, and pain. I shake my head. Suspected anything? Oh, yes. Oh, yes. I go with the truth. It is a spotlight on your family, Carrick, but it is the truth. From day one. Kate did too, and from the first moment we laid eyes on her. Where? In your living room. Why? Obvious inappropriate behavior between them. Late night dinners while waiting for Christian to come home. Alone. Silence. Silence. Silence. I have pointed out Carrick's blind spot or was it a chosen blind eye? It's tragic, but I can't worry about people who live their lives with their head stuck in the sand. Mine is no longer buried in the sand. It's about truth, Carrick. Not yours. Not mine. It's Christian's truth. I do not say all of this to Carrick or what else I know. He stands up and pours himself a tumbler of scotch.

Finally recovered and able to go back to the home I share with Christian. "Another reason for therapy!" Kate snapped. Still not up for a full day at Grey Publishing, I go for half days and while I drown out the dark voices in my head with work, Luke sits in his corner of my office and works on what I've told him I need. Nails. Those many nails for that one coffin. Katherine burns so many minutes on our pre-paid phones that Luke constantly buys more. Christian calls me several times a day and we know what he is doing with his time a couple of days a week. No turning those videos and camera feeds off until the day of. The day of what Kate and Luke ask me, but I stare at them obstinately. Time stamped remember? I sit in on so many meetings as I catch up on what my company has been dealing with. How am I? Yes, I am much better, now fuck off. I text Kate to contact realtor ASAP. I want a home on East Lake Sammamish, Lake Front only. Therapy. Dr. Caroline Swann. Dr. Caroline Swann. She had better be the best in the entire Northwest considering her hourly rate.

Dr. Caroline Swann is an older woman with kind green eyes and graying hair that is up in a bun. A forensic psychiatrist who specializes in abuse and trauma. Purportedly, the best in the Northwest, at least she is according to Katherine Grey. A big and welcoming office. Yellows and pale blue and a two hour session. She has not gone high tech and has stuck to paper and a pen. She is quietly reading my responses to her standard questionnaire. Dr. Swann finishes going over it and pins me with her soft eyes. "A fist is fast, isn't it, Ana?" What? Dr. Swann explains her question and probably does so due to my manifestation of confusion. The fist is all of my trauma and how quickly they moved in my life. This hits me hard. Like I did not want Christian to hit me. I tell her about my life and she listens. She does not just hear what I am saying; she is actually listening to me. This perfect stranger is listening to the details about my life and is interested. She asks the hard questions. You were molested when you were ten. Who knew that it happened? Whom did you tell? My stepfather and mother knew. How did my mother respond? I jeer at that inquiry. Help? I had enough and I never told another soul until I met my current best friend. Yes, I actually told my husband, but I'm not sure how it made him feel. Yes, I knew about the BDSM and Christian told me that he had given it up for me. Yes, yes, I believed him. I wanted to believe him because my heart obscured the truth. Through my tears, I admit to her that I love Christian. I do love him. Fuck you. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Oh, but I was stupid, although I am not stupid anymore.

"Explain that to me, Ana." Give me a verb, an adjective, a noun, or an adverb to throw at this woman. Do I tell her what I'm hell bent on doing? The amount of money I've spent putting this all into motion. Will I be judged? Do I care anymore? No, I don't and I unload it all in her office. I vomit thoughts, plans, dreams, hopes, failures, disappointments, sorrow, and pain all over her office. She listens and I weep. She listens and I yell out loud. She listens and I curse. I curse my mother, myself, Christian, Elena, disgusting sexual lifestyles, child molesters, liars, fools and idiots. I curse for allowing myself to be a victim, for having no self-respect, no self-preservation. She listens. Can you ever feel worthy after being induced to feel worthless? She challenges the direction I view myself. How I have permitted others to guide my spirit and my determinations. Where does my decision making come from? What drew me to Christian and then kept me there after that first night? That bat shit crazy first night with him that was nothing but fear, fury, and sexual deviance. Christian showed me who he really was and yet I closed my eyes anyhow. That first night was nearly all that I loathe and yet I fucking stayed. It has just been one hour.

"I understand your heart is broken. I realize that on some level you feel entitled to retaliate. Nevertheless, I do not realize the extreme decisions you have taken in. Why not leave this session and then go leave your husband?" Her lips flap as her words drone on. She cannot be serious. Why? Why? Who avenged me when I was a child? I was pieced back together, but no one had to pay and now the bastard is dead and I cannot do a goddamn thing to him. Do I make my so-called mother pay for his sins? No, she has been shunned for her own. I admit every mistake I ever made with Christian Grey. Nevertheless, my fucked up thinking and mistakes did not give him a free pass to turn my life into a joke. There is not enough retribution for that, Dr. Swann. Yeah, and then I was drawn to Christian sexually because he was rough with me and the lighter side of BDSM turned me on. No, it never occurred to me that my abuse as a child contributed to that factor and that idea does not make sense at all. If that were true, then why did I refuse to let him hurt me? For God's sake, I let the man tie me up! Why did I just not give him carte blanche so he would still be mine? Dr. Swann stares at me in silence and I am not sure that I am still breathing. ? I wanted Christian Grey to love me as I loved him. I wanted Christian to love me. Christian did not love me, did he? I witness the dust of my heart float out the window into the Seattle rain and drown in a puddle of self-realization. It is not all about him. It's about what is and what is never going to be. What it never was. This is about me and how I allowed Christian to treat me. I allowed his behavior to slide and never called him on it. I did not love or respect myself and I allowed Christian to show me he did not love or respect me. I have to fix this myself. Those two hours are now sadly over. Kate and Luke were right about therapy and I make an appointment for next week. We shake hands and her clutch is gentle and strong. I really respect that.

Luke helps me in the back seat and I unexpectedly begin to weep once the door is shut. He says nothing and doesn't start the vehicle. For fifteen minutes I cry. I weep for myself. For Christian. I weep for what I've drug Luke and Kate into. I cry for starving kids around the globe. I cry because I want my father, and because I was weak. Then Taylor further ruins my mood when he calls Luke to check in on us. Because I'm a four year old child on a leash. A fucking leash. My tears are gone now and all I want to do is to drive through the rain and meet the realtor at the home Kate said I should look at. Kate and I text, text, text. I am fine, it went okay, and I am going back. Nevertheless, my best friend is able to gauge my mood through my text messages. Let it go, Kate. Let it go and because Kate understands and loves me, she lets it go. "Ana, are we headed up to that house? We've got to bust our ass if we are."

Mrs. Geraldine O'Hara has dyed red hair and wears too much make-up. Luke made sure she signed the NDA and if she recognized me, she never let on that she did. Kate was correct about Mrs. O'Hara's discretion. Several lake front acres on the eastern side of Lake Sammamish. Five large bedrooms. Seven bathrooms. Huge this, huge that. Three fireplaces and this kind of room and that kind of room. "This is a security nightmare." Luke mumbles, though I don't listen. Mrs. Red hair and too much make-up just made herself a huge commission and I'm not sure if her huge grin is from the sale or her steady gaze on Luke's ass. Do you think I care? No, no I do not.

Katherine was absolutely thrilled. Yeah, of course she is. It's not her life that imploded. It won't be the dissolution of her marriage spread over every newspaper from here to there. I'm not resentful. I'm not resentful. Yes, I am resentful. I rub my forehead until the skin nearly falls off. I am insecure. I am jealous. I am resentful. The problem with resentment runs way deeper than I knew. It is a strangling force around my throat. It is nearing the point where it is cruelty behind every word I wish to speak. I feel my resentment as an always-present shadow in a room that I occupy. It is choking accusations that I want to hurl at people and hurt them with. These bitter, bitter words. The bitterest word. My mind drifts back to my session with Dr. Swann. Drifting to that place, I had closed off. Now my mind wanders to that familiar place. One I do not talk about or acknowledge. A place where there is only me. A place that I hate.

My attitude changes when Luke hands me two folders containing information about the present life of one Hillary Wilkins, i.e., Declan. My smile grows larger the more I read. Could this be perfect? She has two staunch and strict Catholic parents. She is married to a graduate of Notre fucking Dame, Jonathon Declan and he teaches theology at the very same Catholic school as his wife. They met when she got her job at the school they teach at. She has two daughters and her in-laws are also Catholic and graduated from their son's alma mater, Notre Dame. Her father-in-law is a prestigious attorney and her mother-in-law is a socialite and a Sunday school teacher. Luke has the addresses for the Declan's home, the priest of the Catholic Church they attend and the prestigious private Catholic school where they work. He also possesses' the address' of her in-laws residence and her father-in-laws prestigious and well-known law firm. My mouth drops when I get to the last pages of her file. In January of 2013, when she was living here in Seattle and was Christian's sub, she was treated at Swedish Medical Center for a broken arm. Miss Wilkins, i.e., Declan required surgery for her injury and went home with a private nurse to care for her. Hmm. Her contract with my husband ended in January and she left Seattle the next month and abandoned the condominium Christian bought her and never returned. The entire hospital bill and private nurse were paid anonymously. Tears fill my eyes. Christian broke her arm.

I will listen to Dr. Caroline Swann. Don't torture yourself. Don't hurt yourself. Don't end up the victim or try to make sense of the nonsensical. I'm sticking with what I know about myself and those I can trust. Trust, Ana, trust. There is such a thing in the world. There is, there is, there is. But I cannot help myself and read the second folder. My God, I am sabotaging my own sanity and I don't even care. I read about our very near and dear Miss Haley Sams, my husband's latest paid whore. Holy, fuck. Is luck on my side or what? What is it with these little religious whore's rebelling against daddy and his religion? Both her father and brother are Episcopal priests here in Seattle. Her father is the priest at Seattle's Trinity Parish Episcopal Church, which is on the National Register of Historic Places. Wow. Big time. Miss Sams also attended the Episcopalian Annie Wright Schools in Tacoma, which her father serves on the Board of Trustees. My head is pounding and my chest hurts. I want to crawl in a hole and die. I want to leave Seattle and never return. I am an idiot, a fool, a stupid, stupid, woman. However, Luke has done his homework and like the whore across the country, he has procured every address we need to drop a few things in the mail and watch some upheaval. It is not close to the upheaval in my life, but it all has its just deserts. In addition, for Miss Sams, there is the little matter of her employment and how I will be handling that. None of this serves as a prize for me though. No matter whom I shame and hurt, no matter whose little neat and cozy life I interrupt, mine will still be the same.

I can continue to force myself to believe that I am already fine and settled within myself. However, if I am honest and say that I am all right, I would be a liar. I can say I am a bit better. Bit by bit, then bits to pieces, pieces to pieces and then I know I will be whole. Super glue not included. "Lunch, Ana?" Luke's right. I am hungry. Lunch at my favorite small bistro a block from Grey Publishing. The rain has stopped, although the sky is gray and the clouds low. Luke is by my side as we head across the street and wait at a crosswalk. "Ana! Ana! Anastasia!" I immediately step behind Luke, who already has an arm in front of me. However, it's all right. Oh, my God! It's alright, Luke. It's just Riley Stough! I hug my college boyfriend as Luke scrutinizes him. This guy has grown up. The almost too long hair is gone and he's even more handsome than I remember. I smile at him with an honest to God genuine smile that has not been on my lips for a long while. Lunch. Lunch with Riley. Lunch with Riley at my favorite small bistro. With Luke's arm on my back and looking beyond pissed. However, I am not Christian's possession. I am a twenty-four year old woman and I have just run into a man that was once in love with me.

Riley. The hot and cool older guy who was somehow interested in a shy bookworm named Anastasia Steele. Riley, now an aerospace engineer who has just earned his doctorate and works for the federal government in a position that I do not dare ask about. He is wearing an expensive suit, although nowhere near as expensive as those Christian wears. That does not matter though Riley still looks edible. We reminisce. Laugh and smile at one another. We flirt. He asks me about Katherine and I inquire if he had stayed in touch with any of our mutual college friends. Wearing a come-hither grin, he tells me he is in the middle of ending a three-year relationship. I remember that grin. I always loved that grin. I nearly blurt out that my marriage is over, but I glance at Luke and realize what a colossal fuck up that would be. Luke is scanning the area and I know he is getting even angrier. He is texting someone and then my pre-paid phone buzzes. Luke has sent me a text, "Get your ass up, and out of here before a pap or a kid with a camera phone takes your picture." I know he is right.

We get ready to leave and Riley asks if I would like to get together sometime soon. Luke clears his throat. Yes, Riley I would. "Let's swap numbers then." God, did Riley's voice always sound this sexy? He gives me his number and when I start to give him mine, Luke clears his throat again. Oh, okay. I understand, you fuck head. I remember to give Riley the number of the pre-paid phone. We smile, hug, and tell one another goodbye. Riley walks off in one direction and Luke directs me toward the SUV.

Luke is not happy. I realize I placed myself in a precarious situation and was downright playing with fire. However, fuck it. I do not give a fuck. I ran into someone who I trusted and knew that he once actually loved me. He made me feel beautiful and confident and appreciated my intelligence. He used to make me smile and he did again today. Riley Stough made me smile at lunch in my favorite small bistro.

A note from me—I realize everyone gets impatient for an update. However, I've gone from being ill at home for several days and today is my first day home from the hospital. So, I haven't meant to leave anyone hanging. In addition, I am really beginning to believe that as planned, this little story will be wrapped up soon.