Chapter 7 – Dysfunction Junction
Journal of Anastasia Steele – Late May 2011
Every so often in life you just need to climb an imaginary mountain and at the stop of your lungs scream – What the fuck! Today I, Anastasia Steele, get to grab the megaphone and shout at the top of my lungs – What the fuck!It should have been a good day – I was finally being discharged from the hospital, the smaller cuts on my face were healing nicely, the dizziness was now rare as opposed to whenever I moved, the large bruises on my legs are fading, my pain level was almost manageable without narcotic pain medication, and I was getting to spend the next week at the new apartment with the most important man in my life – my dad.
I'm learning all too fast that life is full of curve balls. Thanks Dad for teaching me about baseball metaphors even if that one sank like a Hoyt Willhelm knuckle ball. Here I sit, writing in my precious journal, after being discharged from the hospital, a panic attack, and probably soon to be hissy fit – boy am I bitchy. I feel like Kate when she had to get up for a seven a.m. class. Worst semester ever!
I knew that Sawyer or another member of Mr. Grey's security team were going to be standing guard in my hallway, but I wasn't prepared for the reality I faced when I arrived home. The first hint that I'd lost control of my life came before I was even discharged. Sawyer was standing outside my door as usual when Taylor and a woman, who I would learn is Mrs. Jones, Mr. Grey's housekeeper came to visit me.
Why am I referring to him as Mr. Grey? It's because after that day in his apartment and the events of today, I will always be formal with him. His staff however, is another story; or at least I thought so. While I've been cooped up in the hospital these last ten days, they slowly went from being formal with me, calling me Miss Steele or ma'am, and after I bitched enough, graduated to calling me Ana.
Dad even got along well with Sawyer, not so much with Taylor, as he sees him as management since he's technically in charge of the security team. As much as Taylor has tried to win over my father, his success was limited and the harder he tries the more crap Dad gives him. Honestly, I think Dad is enjoying screwing with him since he hasn't seen Mr. Grey to continue giving him a hard time.
Dad's not stupid. He knows there's more to the story of what happened that night. All I've told him is that Mr. Grey and I had a date, we'd met because Kate is dating his brother, and I left because he was too forward. From there I rented a car and headed back to school. From what Taylor's told me, Mr. Grey told him the same story, but as I said – Dad's not stupid! He's always been untrusting of rich people, mainly because mom left him in search of a richer husband. I don't blame him. I don't trust rich people easily either, though I do trust Kate. It's why I get along so well with the security team – they are normal, salt of the earth people. Well at least to me they are. After today I'm wondering if they haven't been working for Mr. Grey too long such that their foothold with reality is slipping a bit.
So, back to Mrs. Jones. She's pretty, sweet, and by the glances she throws Taylor's way, she's either cheating on her husband, Mr. Jones with Mister Management; or just likes to sneak a peek. I can't say I blame her. Taylor's a good looking man, but then again, so it the entire security detail. They should do a calendar for charity and call it: Twelve Shades of Mr. Grey's Bodyguards. Hell, I'd buy a copy; maybe more than one. Taylor is an eight or eight point five; Sawyer is a nine point five; Ryan is a solid eight; as is Reynolds.
Leave it to Kate to nickname the security team: Taylor is Hot-Thing One and Sawyer is Hot-Thing Two. Reynolds and Ryan are Borrowed and Blue – borrowed because Reynolds is on loan from a billionaire acquaintance of Grey's and Ryan for his blue eyes.
When it comes to looks, unfortunately, Mr. Grey is a ten and an EF-twenty on the unofficial fujita scale of fucked-upness, and that scale only goes to a ten. Yup, he's a traumatized four-year old in a twenty-seven year olds body.
Oh yeah, back to Mrs. Jones – apparently when I gave Sawyer the apartment key to check out the security, Mr. Grey took it upon himself to have Mrs. Jones play decorator and the security detail her design team. Don't get me wrong, it's a kind gesture. It really is, but virtual strangers have gone through my personal belongings. Who unpacked and handled my underwear and other unmentionables? I mean how did they know I didn't have adult toys in my belongings? I didn't, but still – they took my privacy away on his order. More than anything, did they read my journal? I know Kate finds it entertaining reading, but I don't want Mr. Grey or his staff reading my private thoughts. I'm damaged. I know it, but that doesn't mean I want to share it with the world. Perhaps instead of a scarlet A on my chest, I should wear a scarlet F'd Up on my chest. I might need a bigger chest to pull that off though. God forbid I ever run into Juggs McFetish, I'll have to ask where she had her work done then go someplace else. Whoever did her work left her looking like a blow up doll.
So before I'm even discharged I know my precious privacy has already been violated. All I wanted to do was crawl into my comfy bed; wrap myself up in the quilt my mom made me when I was a child; and sleep. I've always been self-sufficient – I've had to be to a great extent. When I get sick, I tend to do more than normal, just to prove to myself that I can. Fate, or should I say, Mr. Grey and his merry band of security and housekeepers, decided it should be otherwise. I can't shake this image of them dressed like jesters, dancing around the apartment as they organized everything, while dancing to the Safety Dance by Men Without Hats.
Still, I kept my cool – well for a little while anyway. Keyword: little while,
They gave me a nice dose of pain medication through my IV right before the removed the cannula before my discharge. The nurse said it was because the car ride would leave me more uncomfortable than I'd been in the past few days. All I could do was nod. I tried to stay calm, but after meeting with John Flynn, Mr. Grey, and security last night, I'm terrified. It doesn't help that Sawyer isn't as subtle as Taylor is as he scopes out the area around us during my walk from the hospital to the car. By the time I got into the back of Mr. Grey's SUV, sans Grey YAY, with my Dad and Mrs. Jones, my hands are trembling. Sawyer and Taylor are in the front, with Sawyer behind the wheel. Ryan is driving my father's truck, and from what I overheard, Reynolds is in another vehicle. It's a conga line of beefcake and I can joke about it now, but all the security started me down the slow tailspin that would be the full blown panic attack to come.
The entire ride to the apartment I clutched my Dad's hand until his fingers went numb. I kept looking for a black SUV, even though I was sitting in one – ironic, I know, or any sign of Juggs McFetish. I think I'll discriminate against women with enhanced breasts for the rest of my life, through no fault of their own. Yup, I'm a complete and udder mess. Udder – utter, yup a little levity never hurts, even though it's lamer than I am right now. FUCK! I HATE FEELING HELPLESS – HATE IT!
By the time we reached the apartment, my entire body hurt. Merry Christmas to me! Yes, I know it's May. I'm not that out of it … unfortunately. Just watching Taylor, Sawyer, and Reynolds guard the SUV like I'm someone of importance makes my blood pressure rise. Ryan goes upstairs and does a final sweep of the apartment. I didn't realize I was holding my breath much of the time he was gone, only breathing when necessary. Yup, I can feel my blood pressure skyrocket, and my head to throb - so much for the pain medication lasting. Dad and Mrs. Jones helped me out of the car. Honestly, if they didn't, I probably would have remained inside it utterly paralyzed. I'm watching everyone who walks or drives by as they lead me into the building. I'm terrified, but at the same time I feel ridiculous surrounded by Mr. Grey's legion of men in black.
I inhale sharply once we are in the lobby. After a quick elevator ride to the second floor we enter the apartment. To say I was shocked to see a living room that should have been in an architectural spread shocked me. I was assuming our living room would be empty until we could shop for a new couch, but it's fully loaded; as is the kitchen.
Glancing over at Dad, it's clear he's as shocked as I am and not pleased either. When they show me my beautiful bedroom I can't help but love it, but at the same time, I don't want it. I want the comfort and familiarity of my own things. This doesn't feel or smell like home.
Taylor explained that Mr. Grey wanted to make sure I was comfortable while I recuperate, but this is ridiculous. Suddenly in my bedroom, I freeze looking at the only picture I have with my birth-father taken the day I was born, which now rests in a crystal frame of my bedside table, and next to it a picture of me with Ray. When I ask where the previous frame was and they tell me they replaced it with a newer frame, I completely lost it and painfully sank down to my knees and bawled my eyes out.
That frame and picture are my two most valuable possessions – the picture because it's the only I have with my biological father and because he bought that frame the day I was born and inscribed the inside backing to me. When they informed me they believed it was thrown out, I felt the air leave my lungs as the panic attack overtook me. It took Ray nearly five minutes to get me breathing normally again, then I cried in Dad's arms for at least an hour, before falling asleep. Even now, journaling about it, I feel panicky.
Until whenever journal, until whenever…
We'd arrived at the apartment yesterday at around eleven am and I was asleep just after twelve noon. Reluctantly and painfully, I got out of bed, found my pain medicine and took some, then made myself a cup of tea while I wrote in my journal. Until whenever journal, until whenever.
I woke up with just my dad in the apartment. I peeked into the guest bedroom and he was fast asleep. Any normal person would be at three am. I'd slept nearly fifteen hours. The apartment is beautiful. Leave it to Mr. Grey, control freak, to steamroll in and take over the apartment, but his staff did an amazing job. The only empty room is Kate's bedroom.
After placing a cup of cold water into the microwave for a second cup of tea, I head toward the front door. My expectation is one of Mr. Grey's calendar boys will be on duty, and when I crack the door opened, Reynolds is sitting on a chair reading right outside the door.
"Good morning Reynolds. Can I make you coffee or get you something to eat?" I ask.
"No thank you ma'am," he replies, but quickly changes his response when I glare at him to "No thank you Ana." He yawned.
"How do you take your coffee?" I insist. He was part of the security team that brought me home – doesn't that idiot Grey give them any time off to sleep? I can see his hesitance, so I tap my foot feigning impatience.
"Cream and sugar," he finally replies.
"Well, come on in," I order opening the door wider with my good arm. Amazingly, he followed me to the kitchen. After I examined the new-fangled coffee maker on the counter for a minute, he laughed and taught me how to use it.
"Reynolds, why did Mr. Grey do all this? It's a lovely gesture, but –
"You don't want to feel indebted to him," he finished my sentence. "Mr. Grey is a good man, regardless of what many people think. He tends to take control, though after your father tore him a new one over the phone yesterday after you came home … er… well, nevermind that. Mr. Grey asked us to tell you that he sent you an email. If you turn your computer on and look in Outlook, you'll find it."
"I don't have an email address," I explain to him, but by the sardonic look on his face I know I do now. The whole point of me agreeing to email only contact with Mr. Grey was because I didn't have an email address. Dammit!
I nod in understanding. "How long will guard duty go on?"
He pours himself a cup of coffee as he explains it will go on until they find who did it as Mr. Grey wants to be certain that I am safe. I just want this over with so I can remove the complicated Mr. Grey from my life.
After chatting with Reynolds for ten more minutes about the latest James Patterson book, he resumes guard duty and I head into my bedroom to reluctantly read the email from Mr. Grey. I sigh as the computer boots up, then click on the Outlook icon. There it is, an email from the Master of Kink himself – Christian Fucking Grey.
TO: Anastasia Steele
FROM: Christian Grey
DATE: May 21, 2011
SUBJECT: Apologies & Regrets
My dear Miss Steele, I hope you are adjusting satisfactorily to being home and that you are well. First and foremost, I would like to apologize for my over-zealous attempts to ensure your apartment was prepared for your hospital discharge. As your father explained it to me last night, it wasn't my place to have my staff unpack your belongings, decide what required replacement, and making sure the deemed items were replaced prior to your returning home. For this violation of your privacy and trust, I apologize. My intention, while honorable, caused you increased stress and for that, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive this, my latest sin against you.
Given that, at your request, our sole method of communication is via email, I would like to address the iniquities I have committed against you. At the very least I owe you that and more.
Sin #1: No sooner than you left my office after the interview, I had the head of GEH security run a background check on you.
Sin #2: Stalking – I knew you worked at Claytons and I went there specifically to see you.
Sin #3: I never agree to photo shoots - ever. I agreed to do one for the college paper in order to spend more time with you.
Sin #4: When you were almost run down by the cyclist, I desperately wanted to kiss you, but I couldn't because it was then that I realized I would ruin you. This is why I pushed you away then.
Sin #5: Being unable to stay away – Never in my adult life have I ever felt more out of control than when I was attempting to stay away from you. I vowed after sin #4 to keep away from you, but failed miserably. I still don't understand what it was that drew me to you, but I know when I spend time with you, it's like being in the sunlight for the first time – uncomfortable, yet glorious.
Sin #6: Life's inexperience's and the red room – The fictional character Forest Gump said it best, "Stupid is as stupid does" and clearly if this applies to anyone, it applies to me with regard to interpersonal relationships. Given certain events in my upbringing, I've held people, even my adoptive family, at a distance. In many ways, it made me good at business and a tough negotiator, but it also left me a solitary shell of a man. Apparently, I've learned to adjust Mr. Gump's quote in other ways to regard myself: dysfunctional is as dysfunctional does is probably the most apropos. Please feel free to add your own. Clearly, I have no real experience in terms of relationships that require any intimate emotions, or judgment for that matter. I knew you were innocent, well perhaps not quite as innocent as you are, but still, I knew you were innocent – yet I didn't see an issue attempting to lure you into a submissive contract into my maladjusted life and playroom. The beating you rightly provided was an eye-opening moment in my life, making me realize that I am sorely lacking in my humanity and no amount of charitable work will help me find my humanity without investing serious thought and counseling regarding how I became this shell of a man. Once I understand, hopefully I will find the tools to overcome it.
Sin #7: Pulling you down into my sorted life. There is little doubt the attack on you was due to my lifestyle and its involvement in my recent past. Your life was and is in danger because, as you so aptly informed Taylor on the phone the night of the accident, perhaps I should have spent my billions providing psychological counseling to anyone who applied to be my submissive rather than taking them to the red room. If I had done that for the past five years, perhaps the attack on you could have been prevented.
I fully understand why you prefer to not have any contact with me. My actions and inactions have turned your life from that of a college student and thrust you into a threat-filled nightmare. I could apologize a thousand times but the words, though heartfelt, are insufficient. Through no fault of your own have your post-college career plans been thrust into upheaval. For this reason, I've taken the following steps to help you through this time:
Your medical bills related to the accident have been paid in full and any additional medical expenses until you are well will also be billed to me.
A deposit was made into your personal bank account to cover your living expenses until you are back on our feet. It is my fault you are unable to work, so it's only proper that I take this step.
With regard to a position, Sawyer mentioned that you were interested in a career in publishing. I took the liberty of reaching out to Mr. Roach at SIP, who is an old friend of my fathers' and once you are well-enough, an internship is waiting for you.
Security and secured transportation will be provided to you until the threat is removed. I imagine you aren't thrilled with this, but I am the one who placed you in this precarious position, so as I see it, it is also my responsibility to safeguard your well-being until that time when the threat is eliminated. I won't take no for an answer on this one.
There aren't words to express my regret and sorrow for the hardships I alone have caused you. You deserve better than the likes of me. I can see that quite clearly now. I only hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me. You have my word that moving forward, I will work toward not only improving myself, but never repeating my own selfish errors.
I truly am sorry.
Christian
For a dysfunctional little boy in an Adonis-like body, he writes a sincere email.
"Welcome to the freight train that is now departing Dysfunctional Junction," the conductor Dr. Flynn mutters in my imagination. "All aboard." I guess it's better than a rubber room. Let the six week email journey with Christian Fucking Grey being – once I feel better, I'm out of here.