Note from Riottori: Here's a bit more for your reading pleasure. Just wanted to say that Christian's problem with Ana's C-section scar is not that he is bothered by scars - as some of you have pointed out, his torso is filled with them - more that he's having difficulty reconciling her as the mother of his children and as his companion in The Room. Sorry if I confused a few of you. Also, the 'room' in the Escala is called "The Red Room" and the 'room' at home is just simply, "The Room". Anyhoo, on with the story (now back to Ana's POV):

The couple next door rouse me from sleep again. I leave my dreamworld, reluctantly. It's a world where my husband hasn't cheated, where he is lying next to me, where his eyes will flicker open as he joins me in the real world, the world we have made together and I will be the first thing he sees. Will I really never wake to that again? The thought spikes my heart. Soon there will be no more heart left to hurt. And then I will be better.

I hear the girl's giggle again through the paper-thin walls of the motel. The sound throws another wave of grief over me. Life's continuing, people are happy, the thought is almost too much to bear. Pull yourself together. The voice has followed me here, crept in through the walls while I slept. No-one's found me but the voice. Get up!

I pull back the covers, push away the heavy blanket that has cocooned me all night, has comforted me with its weight. I reach for the bag of groceries that I have stored under the desk and take out the carton of juice. The straw makes a satisfying 'pop' as it pierces the foil hole. I drink, the liquid soothing my ragged throat, tight from swallowing back the tears, swallowing down the hurt.

That's it, the voice cajoles. Step one: you're up. Now get in the shower. I obey the voice like its my master. I don't know what else to do.

I had left Dr Black's office in a haze of hatred, stumbled into the street as her words swarmed around me, aggressive as summer wasps. He would never cheat, I told myself. I am enough. What we have is too precious. He knows that.

Love and sex are two different things. It was the kind of statement I could imagine coming from Kate's mouth years ago. It would have been rewarded with an eye-roll from me. Now it was rewarded with the turning of a table and the breaking of a vase, it would seem.

I know my husband, I thought again, as I found my feet and walked decisively towards the car. He'd never given me cause to doubt him. Why was I allowing these demons of doubt to live? I am enough, I am enough. My mantra kept time with my quickening step and beating heart.

But you were wrong, weren't you? The voice fills the dingy shower cubicle, envelopes me. I try to push it out. I don't want to remember. The wound hasn't even fully closed yet but the voice penetrates the same spot again. Why won't you let me heal? I implore. Please...

The voice laughs its response. What was the real problem with this one, Ana? Too young? Too much like you? Why did you suddenly grow a back-bone?

The water pounds on my scalp but does not drown out the voice. Because she was getting 'more'. My bit, I shout. What was left for me? I rip the scab off. The wound gapes open, dangerously. I may bleed to death.

I knew someone had been in the apartment in Escala; I could sense the alien presence, intrusion like moisture hung in the air. I trailed my hand over the back of the couch. No, the intruder hadn't been there. Down the corridor, yes, they'd been here. Into our bedroom, no, the trail went cold. I turned and edged closer to The Red Room. I didn't know what I was searching for but it was my demons that had led me here and I was following the path they had carved out. I suppose that I'd never really stopped looking for clues over the years. Clues to catch my husband out.

I slotted the key into the lock. It fit with ease, allowed me access. Carefully, like a trespasser in my own home, I pushed the door open and entered. I hadn't been in here for years, even longer with him, but the smell of the mahogany, the warmth of the wood brought me back to the beginning. I could not feel anyone else's presence in here, just his, like it always had been, always would be. The feeling was intoxicating, overwhelming, all-consuming. I moved into the womb of the room, permitted it to swallow me up. I ran my hand along the red bed, remembering. Were these really my memories? This life of mine when this room existed to us seemed like many lives ago.

I wandered over to the wardrobe where he'd kept his tools, his box of tricks as we'd called them. I opened the door which creaked its greeting back to me. I had never opened it in his presence but knew the contents like they belonged to me. Many a time I had stood in front of this wardrobe, our dirty little secret becoming a secret of my own. I had counted the floggers and whips and chains that he had never used on me. They hung in the dark; a promise, a threat.

It was the extra flogger that made me catch my breath, made my heart skip a vital beat. A flogger I did not recognise, was a stranger in the flock. An imposter. I grabbed it, pulled it out, pulled it taut, tried to punish it so it would speak to me. What are you doing in there? I don't know you. It stayed silent, obeying its master.

You know what it's doing there, the voice crept in. And you know that you were looking for it. Satisfied, baby? And so began the slow yet sudden dimming of my sun.