Regret is a feeling I'm well acquainted with; it's hounded me for years. There's a song from my childhood that comes to mind when things are particularly bad. It's an old country western tune my Grandpa would play on an ancient cassette player when I was growing up. I don't recall all the words save a few lines: "Postman, can you sell me a special kind of stamp, one to send a letter from this crazy lonely man? Back into the wasted years of my living past? They say hindsight's 20/20, but I'm nearly going blind from staring at her photograph, wishing she was mine..." The song's about love lost, but it's always been more than that to me. It's about wanting to rewrite the past, to go back to a time when things were simpler, when I didn't have blood on my hands—when Grandpa's voice singing along to that worn-out cassette used to fill the house. I thought regret was about missed chances back then, but now I know better. I find comfort in the idea that regret is part of the human condition. Still, then again, this guy's biggest issue is that he let go of a chick, while mine is that I participated in the fall of an entire country that then ruined the lives of everyone stuck in it. I chose the selfish path, chasing 'better' jobs and 'family values.' I ignored the lies—What a crock of shit it turned out to be. If I had listened, really listened, I would have heard the lies spun as truths, but I preferred ignoring facts. So, I help them make this a reality. I picked up a gun and killed and fought for the lies they sold me. And am I happy? No, I'm fucking miserable. I live each day unable to unsee the hurt I've caused. In short, I'm a regretful hypocrite. And regret she's a bitch, she follows you no matter how fast you run.
The promises I fought for—better jobs, more money, family values—haunt me now, mocking me every time I see the consequences up close. And this morning, I got another reminder of what I helped build. I stood there as Mrs. Waterford beat Offred for the simple act of her biology, doing what it does when a blastocyst doesn't implant to become an embryo. She was held culpable over a biological function entirely out of her control. She is property, and she failed her owners. The only reason she is allowed to exist is to get pregnant, to give her owners their prize, her flesh and blood. Failure to meet this one biological imperative makes her useless to this society, and her owners can punish her for this deficiency. It's not just that they can beat her. It's that they'll replace her like she was nothing. A failed machine. They won't even ask questions when the body's gone—they'll just order a new one like they're swapping out broken parts. And me? I'll be there, like always, watching, doing nothing. What kind of life is that, standing by while the world rots in front of you? There were moments I could have done something, even small things—warnings, turning a blind eye. But I didn't. I just stood there and let it happen. Worse, I helped. I followed orders like a good little soldier, and now I'm neck-deep in blood, and it's not washing off.
Imprisonment has returned. She has been locked away for her sin. On the first day of her solitude, I was instructed to nail the shutters on her windows closed. Locked away behind the nailed shutters, her world reduced to darkness- and I'm the one who sealed them shut. She doesn't even bother turning on the lights in her room. After all what is there to look at? But it's not just her. We're all imprisoned in this nightmare. She's behind a door, but I'm no freer. Every time I follow orders, I hammer another nail into my own coffin. This is my punishment, my prison—living with the knowledge that I'm part of the very machine that keeps her trapped.
The sun is barely up, and I'm scrounging through the fridge for some breakfast when Rita appears, grumbling under her breath. I peer over the top of the refrigerator door and see she has a food tray covered in broken plates and smeared food. Alarm bells ring in my head, and I look her over for injury.
"What happened?" I ask, tossing the food I've chosen on the counter.
"Offred scared the crap out of me. I dropped the tray," Rita growls, tossing it, dishes and all, into the sink.
I raise an eyebrow and wait.
"She was laying in the closet, eyes closed. She says she fainted,".
I nod and grab a frypan. "She, okay?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
"I think so, but I still convinced Mrs. Waterford to send her to the doctor today, you know, Ceremony and all," she sighs.
I go about making my breakfast, my mind spinning. I cracked a few eggs into a pan when Rita saunters over and grabs the spatula from my hand, and shoos me away from the stove. "I don't need to be scrubbing baked-on egg out of this pan for the rest of the day," she snarks. I just smile and go over to the sink to begin picking out pieces of broken dishes off the tray.
"Fresh air and a walk will be a welcome reprieve, I imagine," I mumble.
Rita looks at me over her shoulder. "Ain't good keepin' someone up there like that," she whispers.
I toss the broken dishes into the trash, then drop down into a chair at the island. Rita's braver than I am, even when she knows the walls have ears. She knows I'm an Eye, and she's still willing to trust me with these small acts of rebellion. I don't deserve it. But her trust is all we've got, all that keeps this place from swallowing us whole. I bite the inside of my cheek before deciding to engage. "Anything else besides the fainting?" I ask, sure to keep my voice neutral.
Rita cuts up some ham, tosses it in the pan with my eggs, and shrugs. "She's pale. Lifeless." She says quietly, turning the sizzling mixture around the pan.
I feel my breath catch. The last time I saw that look—pale, lifeless—it didn't end well. I still remember the way the other Offred's eyes had gone blank, a hollow shell of a person who'd had all the fight beaten out of her. This isn't supposed to happen again. Not to her. I consider asking Rita more about it when the sound of heels drilling into wood echoes down the hall. Mrs. Waterford comes barreling into the kitchen. "Rita, I need another cup of coffee," she demands with an exaggerated sigh.
The Martha moves the pan of food off the burner before turning to the coffee pot and pouring a steaming cup for the woman. Rita's eyes flicker toward me as she hands Mrs. Waterford her coffee, a silent understanding passing between us before she turns back to the stove. "Mrs. Waterford, I was about to contact the Glen's Martha about a walking partner for Offred, is there anything else you would like me to pass along?" Rita asks.
Serna laughs; it's a hollow, mean sound. "Oh no, Offred will not be walking! I mean, if she's sick, then she shouldn't overdo it, should she?" She asks rhetorically. Clearly, she thinks this is a waste of time. "Nick, you will take her. I've already cleared it with the Commander. Rita, let Nick and then Offred know once the appointment is set," she instructs. "She needs to be back here tonight for the Ceremony, no exceptions," Sernea states flippantly. The Ceremony is all that matters. It doesn't matter if Offred's pale, sick, or falling apart—they just need her body to work. And I'm the one tasked with delivering her like a lamb to slaughter. Again,I feel the weight of the command settle over me. My grip tightens on the fork, knuckles whitening. There's a flash of anger, quick and sharp, but it fades as fast as it comes. What am I going to do, defy her? I relax my hand, forcing myself to act like everything's fine. Like I'm fine. Like I'm not just watching another person's life unravel right before my eyes. "Yes, Mrs. Waterford." I give the same automatic answer as always, but it feels like I'm selling a little more of myself to this twisted place each time.
With a roll of her eyes, Mrs. Waterforld turns on her heels and leaves us to do her bidding.
Rita moves the eggs and ham from the pan and sets the plate in front of me with a sigh. "No fresh air today."
I stab a piece of ham and study it. "At least she gets to leave the house," I say evenly.
Rita levels a gaze at me. I know what she's thinking: " It's not enough." I push my food around my plate for a second. "I'll see what I can find out," I say, scooping up a fork full of food.
Rita looks slightly relieved and gives me a nod. "I'll call the doctor," she says, disappearing down the hall.
A few hours later the skies have open and rain is falling in buckets when it's time to collect Offred for her appointment. I stand outside the front door, umbrella ready to protect her from the torrent of water falling from the sky. She exits the house and stands for a moment on the stoop, her eyes closed, taking in a deep breath. I'm shocked by her appearance. Rita told me, but seeing it is different. She is not just pale; she's utterly devoid of life. The only color on her skin comes from the dark circles under her eyes. Her face is drawn, and her lips chapped. The phrase, 'death warmed over,' filters through my of the other Offred lifeless body invade my mind, and I squeeze the handle of the umbrella tighter. I shake the image away. This Offred isn't dead yet. I still have time.
As we head down the stairs towards the car, I hurry to put the umbrella over her head to keep her dry. I get drenched in the process, but that's okay; a simple cold won't kill me, but it might do her in her current condition.
I get her deposited into the back of the car as quickly as possible and move around to get behind the wheel. I've just put the keys in the ignition when the front passenger door opens. It's Serna Joy, and she is reaching in to put up the partition between the driver and the passenger. Her message is clear: I won't be providing any company for my charge. Serena Joy slams the door. My grip tightens around the steering wheel. My Gilead mask—the one I've worn so well for so long—slips, just for a second. The bitterness rises in my throat, choking me. She doesn't even look at me as she turns away. To her, I'm as invisible as Offred. A servant. A tool.
The drive to the clinic is silent. My eyes keep glancing in the mirror to the back seat, but each time, I find Offred staring out the window from behind her red curtain, her face unreadable. I wish that I could just put the partition down, but I don't dare. There are "eyes" everywhere. My actions could get back to Serena. I can't do that to Offred. I drive through the pounding rain, my rage flash as bright as the lighting that lights the sky.
There is little to do while I wait for Offred to finish her appointment, so sit in the car listening to the rain hitting the roof, watching the lightening crack the midday sky. The wait is mind-numbing, and it's only been an hour, never mind, 13 days like Offred has been made to endure. There is a peck on my window and a jump a bit. I shake the dark thoughts away and look out to see a guardian waving me toward the pickup door. Offred's appointment is done. I pull up and quickly get her out of the rain and into the back seat. All the while the feeling of reluctance to return us "home" building in my gut.
We are only a block from the clinic when I glance in the rearview mirror again. She's too still. Her hands are clenched so tightly in her lap, her knuckles have gone ghostly white. And then it comes—a soft sniff, almost imperceptible, but enough to break the dam. Her shoulders shake first, then the sobs follow, violent and uncontrollable. They rip through her like she's trying to claw her way out of her own skin. The sound is so raw, it makes the rain sound like a lullaby in comparison. And when the screaming starts, it's like thunder inside the car, her fists banging against the glass, her whole body trembling. The rain is relentless, hammering against the car like it's trying to drown out the sound of her sobs. I grip the wheel tighter, trying to focus on the rhythm of the drops instead of the storm raging in the backseat. But even the rain can't drown her out. Her sobs wreck me. I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure she isn't hurting herself and I pray that she knows that this is a safe place to do what she needs to do. There is nothing I can do to help her, but I will bear witness to her pain; it is the least she deserves from me.
As quickly as her storm of emotions rolls in, it rolls out, and she slumps, boneless, against the back seat. Her eyes are empty and haunted when I open her door in the driveway. "We're home," I mutter, knowing that by no means is this her home. She doesn't move, her dull eyes focused on nothing. Her pain is still thick in the back seat, and it hits me in the stomach. "Look, I'm sorry this is happening to you. I wish…."
Her voice, broken but sharp, cuts through the silence. "You wish what?" she asks, her eyes locked on me, begging for an answer I can't give. What do I wish? I wish I'd never picked up a gun for these people. I wish I could rip this world apart for her, drive her away from all of it. I wish I weren't a coward standing in the ruins of my own choices, useless and mute.
"What do you wish?" she asks again, her tone stinging my ears.
I wish I could be your friend. I hold out my hand, an offering, but I know it's not enough. She stares at it for a long moment, her eyes flicking between my hand and the empty space between us. But she doesn't take it. Her fingers curl back into her lap, and the silence stretches on. In that moment, I realize that no matter how much I want to reach her, there's always going to be something in the way—a gulf too wide, a divide too deep. I pull my hand back, clenching it into a fist, and we sit in the suffocating quiet of what can never be.
Dinner is quiet. Rita has been set off to the neighbors to fix dinner as their Martha is sick and has been taken to hospital. I sit at the table, picking at my dinner, my mind replaying the drive home, all the things I should have done, and what I might be able to do to help her, at least a little bit. Getting her out of that room would be a start. As I pounder my options, Fred strolls into the kitchen. Fuck. Good thing I think fast on my feet.
"Blessed Evening, Commander," I state, standing.
Fred nods at me and goes to the fridge. "Blessed Evening. It feels like forever since I've seen you, Nick," he says casually.
"Yes, sir, Mrs. Waterford has kept me extra busy these past few days."
He takes out the pitcher of iced tea and pours a glass. "Yes, I know. I understand you took the handmaid to the clinic today," he says.
"Yes," I answer.
"Mrs. Waterford assures me she is in good health," he says, leaning against the sink.
I look at the man for a long moment the decided to go for it. "Praise be. Speaking of the clinic, sir, I did hear some talk while I was there today that I think you should be made aware of."
Fred takes another long drink. "I don't put much credence on idle gossip, but go on," he says.
"Sir, people are starting to talk. They've noticed Offred hasn't been at the shops, and you know how rumors spread. The story going around is that Offred is sick, has been for some time, and that it's being ignored," I lie.
"Ha, ridiculous," the Commander laughs.
I paint on a faux conspiratorial smile. "Yes, I agree, and I wouldn't mention it at all, but a driver I trust warned me that his mistress was planning on contacting the Red Center. Apparently, she's been on the list for a handmaid for some time, so she takes every opportunity to help move the process along for other families," I tell him.
Fred grumbles under his breath. He hates being undermined or questioned, which is what will happen if Aunt Lydia shows up for a check and finds a hollow-eyed handmaid barely clinging to life. Handmaids are a "waste not want not" kind of commodity. No one cares about their lives or how they are treated, really, but they do try and keep them alive so they can pop out babies. Fred takes another slow drink of iced tea, his eyes narrowing slightly. "People do love to invent their own stories, don't they? But my household is in order. Always has been." He smirks, clearly proud of himself. "Still, I appreciate the warning, Nick. I'll have a word with Serena." Fred claps me on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Nick." The words feel like a stone in my gut. A good man. What would he know about that? I watch him leave, pretending his world isn't crumbling around him, pretending I'm just as blind.
I stand at the table until his footsteps disappear down the hall. That was all the leverage I had; I hope it does some good.
The next afternoon is gray and damp, but the rain has stopped. It's time for car maintenance. I've changed the oil and am working on topping off the fluids of the Benz when Offred appears around the hood. Without meaning to, a smile breaks across my face. She's out. She's alive. Not hollowed out like before. She's pale, sure, but there's light in her eyes, something I haven't seen in weeks. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like maybe we're not entirely lost. She's found the will to go on, which is the only thing any of us can hope for in this forsaken place. Yes, Praise fucking Be.
The pieces of my sidearm lay in four separate but distinct piles across my tabletop. The room smells of metal and gun oil, a scent I find strangely comforting. I'm passing the cleaning rod through the barrel when a knock on the door breaks my concentration. I dislike uninvited people at my front door, but then again, it ain't really my door. "Just a minute," I call out, setting my project down and grabbing a towel to wipe my hands. Serna Joy Waterford is not who I expected to find, but here she is in all her blue-green glory.
"May I come in for a minute?" she asks.
I nod and step back, allowing her entry. "Blessed Day, Mrs. Waterford," I start.
She bypasses my greeting and turns her stark face to me. "Are you aware that we are only granted a certain number of months with a handmaid?" she asks abruptly.
I'm shocked by the question and how blatantly she's asking it, but I answer. "Uh, yes, ma'am. The level of the Commander determines the time frame," I stammer.
She nods and begins pacing in the small area that pretends to be my kitchen. "That is correct. We were given six months. And next month will be the sixth month," she tells me.
I say nothing, as I'm unsure where this is going. She stops pacing and turns to face me. "I need to make sure she's pregnant by then...or at least know I've done everything I can to make it happen. I don't have time for any more failed attempts, Nick. We're running out of time."
Again, I remain silent, but concern is starting to creep up my spine.
"Did you know that handmaids who do not conceive after three postings are sent to the colonies?" she asks.
"Ummm…yes…sometimes that happens…" I stammer,Rarely.
"You don't want to happen to Offred, do you?" she asks, her tone manipulative.
I tilt my head. "That would be an…unpleasant come," I say cautiously. My heartbeat picks up at her ominous tone.
Serena dips her head and stands to her full height. "I agree. That is why I'm asking you to serve this family and help me to…ensure procreation." She says evenly, her eyes locked on mine.
I blink at her, playing the words over in my head. Wait…did she just ask me to…."You want me to…. perform the ceremony with Offred?" I ask, knowing every word out of my mouth right now could get me hung.
She doesn't show me the courteousness of a verbal response; she just nods her perfectly coifed head.
This woman wants me to force myself on Offred so she can steal the baby created by it. No…no…I'll stop this, I'll report it, I'm an Eye!
I don't even get a chance to counter this request when she threatens me outright. "This will be between us, you understand, yes?" It's not a question I'm meant to answer, so I stay mute. "The truth can be…flexible in Gilead, don't you think? And who do you think they'll believe—me or a driver? If you think about making a report, I'll deny it and tell them you've had intentions for the handmaid since she arrived," Serna asks evenly.
My heart hammers in my chest, bile rising in my throat. I can feel the weight of every word. Report her? She'd bury me before I even got a chance. A Waterford versus a driver, even an Eye—it's no contest. I'd be swinging on the wall by sunrise. The room feels too small like the walls are closing in. My throat's dry, but I nod. What else can I do? She's holding the knife, and I'm already bleeding.
"I'll bring her after she returns from shopping. Make sure you're home," she states, like the queen she believes herself to be. She turns and walks out, not a glance back, like I'm already part of the furniture. A servant to be used, discarded. The door closes, and the silence swallows me whole.
I glance at the door, the thought of running flickering for a moment. But where would I go? Even if I escaped, they'd find me. And what about Offred? She's trapped here too. I don't have the luxury of running—not if I want to keep breathing, and not if I want to keep her safe. My throat's dry, my hands clenched into fists, trembling. This isn't just about me. It's about her. Offred. She'll also pay the price if I don't go along with this. She could be subjected to worse, so much worse. A dead man can't do anyone favors, so I have to do this.
My morning routine goes by in a dull haze. My mind spins and spins trying to find a way out of this situation, but there is nothing I can do that won't get me, and possibly the handmaid, killed. I wander into the kitchen in need of a stimulant to clear my head, but just my luck, I find the very subject of my thoughts sitting at the island working on a bowl of oats. At the sink, I glance over at her and find her smiling at me. It catches me off guard. It shouldn't—it's the same smile I've seen before, soft, hopeful, unaware. But today, it feels like a knife in the gut. If she knew… God, if she knew, she wouldn't be smiling at me. She wouldn't look at me like that. She would hate me. She would see me for what I'm about to become, her impeding rapist.
Rita hands me a cup of coffee and gives me a good once-over. She's known me long enough to sense the disturbance in my soul. "Thank you," I manage to say.
She dips her head a bit, "Blessed day," she says more gently than is typical for her.
I keep my eyes on the floor and take a drink of my half cup of joe. It's tasteless.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" she asks, prodding.
Don't I wish!"No," I respond.
She turns back to her project on the counter, "Must be nice," she says, but there's no heat in it.
With my tiny portion of coffee down, I rinse my mug and wash my hands at the sink. As an Eye, we are trained to know when we are being watched, and it's not as if Offred is being coy about it. I can feel her eyes boring into my back. Perhaps she's decided to take up my offer of friendship and this is her proverbial outstretched hand, it's too bad that won't last past 2 pm today. I'm so sorry, Offred.
Serena's voice cuts through the air, sharp and sudden, like she's been waiting just outside the door, waiting for the right moment to strike. "Offred? Can you help me outside for a bit?" She doesn't even bother pretending—it's not a question, not a request. It's a command wrapped in fake politeness.
"Yes, Mrs. Waterford," Offred agrees readily; I'm sure she's trying to keep in her mistress's good graces after her last stent in solitude. Too bad she's about to find out that Serna Joy has set up for her to be raped by a new man today. I imagine solitude would be preferred to that.
Scooping the last bit of food from her bowl, Offred is out the door, following Serena outside.
Rita turns to me as I watch the pair disappear outside. "What?" she asks in a hushed tone.
I look over at her. I have no words. None that are safe to speak. I shake my head. "It's better you don't know," I offer.
Rita's eyes are on me, reading the lines on my face and the tension in my shoulders. She knows something's wrong—she always does. But today, it feels different. Today, she presses, even if only slightly. "You safe?" she asks quietly like the words themselves could get her in trouble. I almost laugh, but it comes out as a bitter, humorless sound. Safe? Not in this world. Not today. I laugh humorlessly and rub my palms over my face. "As any of us are, I guess," I mutter. It's not like me to show my hand, no matter how small, but I can't keep it all inside. Not today.
Rita's hand on my arm is light, but it feels like an anchor, keeping me from sinking further into the pit in my stomach. Her eyes meet mine, and there's something there—something she won't say out loud, but I can feel it all the same. We're both trapped in this hell, both surviving however we can. And today, in this moment, that's enough.
The knock on the door comes too soon. They are in my tiny apartment too soon.
"So, uh, do we pray first?" I ask, feeling awkward and sick simultaneously.
"No. There's no time." Serna states. "Please," she adds, gesturing to my small double bed.
I keep my eyes on the floor as Offred makes her way across the room. I want to scream, I want to run, I want my fucking penis not to cooperate, but the male sex organ isn't that sophisticated. My body betrays me.
I follow after her, but when I don't hear Serna go to leave, I look back. She's going to stay. Of course, she is. I should have known she would. Got to make sure I get the job done. I'm sorry, Offred. I'm so sorry.
Each second feels like an eternity. The space between us shrinks, and with every step, the weight in my chest grows heavier. Too soon, my hands are undoing my belt. Vomit threatens, but I push it down. She's being much braver about this than I am. But I've always known that was the case.
Too soon, she is lying on my bed, her dress over her knees. I want to cry as she looks up at the ceiling, resigned to this terrible fate.
I can feel Serena's eyes on me, a silent threat lingering in the air. I don't get to say no. I don't get to refuse. My body isn't mine, not really—not in this world. And now, it's being used as a tool for something I want no part of. But what choice do I have? There's no room for choices in Gilead.
I step between her legs and enter her. I decide not to look at her, to try to finish the job as quickly as possible. God help me, but the spot where her knees rest on my hips tingles, and electricity flows through the layers of fabric to my skin. Suddenly, I'm back in her room with the tea towel of ice. I had put that moment out of my head, deeming it a ridiculous thought. Chemistry with a handmaid only spells disaster. I refused to nurture the seed of wonder that moment planted in my head. But here it is, replaying in my mind's eye. It's wrong in so many way to be considering any kind of attraction right now. I'm a genuinely terrible as my conscience battles with itself, my body doesn't seem to care about the weight of it. It betrays me, moving like it's on autopilot, following commands that make me want to retch. I've never felt so disconnected from myself—like my mind's screaming at me to stop, but I can't. I can't do anything but finish what I've been forced to start.
Then I feel her eyes on me, and though I'm determined not to make this personal, I can't keep them from turning to meet them. They are placid, but she looks at me, full on- unafraid, before turning them away to take in the rest of the room. I can't tear my gaze away now that it's found her. I study her profile. She's beautiful, and I don't mean just her physical looks. It's her spirit that has been drawing me in these past months. She doesn't deserve this. No one deserves this.
The end is finally near, and my pace quickens. Offred looks up at me, and in the final seconds, something changes on her face. I can't begin to understand it; there is nothing happening here that makes any sense. As I finish, her hand finds my arm. It's the smallest thing, so quick I almost miss it, but it's the only thing that feels real in this whole nightmare. It's not desire, not even comfort—just a reminder that beneath the layers of fabric, beneath the forced roles we've been shoved into, we're still people. And for a brief second, that's enough genuine human connection to keep me from falling apart completely.
Even if threatened, I couldn't tell you what the rest of my day entailed. I spent it trapped in my head, replaying my role in terrorizing another human being. I skipped dinner, didn't want to see Offred, and knew I couldn't hide my thoughts from Rita—not while it's this fresh. I wait until the house was dark to sneak over for some food. I should have known better; Offred isn't afraid of the dark.
She's at the sink getting sick when I stop in the doorway.
"Are you sick? Are you sick because of what I've done to you?
She looks up at me from the sink but sighs and shakes her head in frustration. She wipes her mouth and coughs a little. "What are you doing here?" she snaps. "Hu? You spying on me?" she adds with a touch of venom.
Ha, no. I was actually actively avoiding you,I think. "I was just looking for something to eat," I tell her truthfully and make my way over to the counter where she stands.
She shakes her head, looking sad, scared, or a mix of both. "Are you an Eye?" she asks.
I don't let it show on my face, but I'm shocked by the question. I didn't realize she suspected anything. I deflect; it's what I do best. "Go to bed," I state.
She's not buying it and moves closer to me. "Do you know what they did to Ofglen?" she asks, her tone demanding the truth.
I won't lie to her. I decided this morning after Mrs. Waterford's visit, no more lies. I may not share every thought, but I won't out and out lie to this woman. So I nod, and look down, ashamed of what my comrades did to the poor Ofglen. "Yes," I state, looking back up into her eyes.
Her eyes are now damp, and it stings to look at them. "Do you know because you're one of them?"
I don't want to lie but telling this truth could literally kill her. "You shouldn't be down here," I say instead. Not a lie.
"Don't tell me where to go." She cries. I don't want to control her. I'm not one of the sick assholes who get off on the power of being a man. But I do want to protect her. I have since she stepped out of the Red Center van five months ago.
"You listen to me; it's not safe," I try.
Tears escape her lashes. "Please don't tell me what to do."
I feel a tug in my gut, and the words I've wanted to say since this afternoon find their way out of my mouth. "I couldn't say no when Mrs. Waterford asked me. I'm sorry." She looks pained, "I'm sorry," I say again. Now that they're out, I know they aren't enough. How could they be?
"Just tell me. Okay, please? Please. Are you an Eye?" she begs.
I try to find an out. Anything. But I can't deny her this. I just can't. "Yes," I reveal.
She settles back on her feet with a hmmm, she's not surprised…she's relieved maybe.
"Now go to bed, before I report you," I say, trying to end this painful conversation. She smiles. It's sad and mad, but she goes, stopping only once to lock her gaze with mine before disappearing up the stairs.
When the knock comes on my door at 11 o'clock the next night, I know instinctively who it is. Call it magnetism, call it attraction, call it lust, but it's been pulling us together for weeks now. It's clearly worn me down because I'm about to make a decision that will change everything for me...forever.
When she steps in and locks the door, I know it's happening. I should tell her to leave. I should protect her from what this could turn into. But when she kisses me, everything I thought I should do dissolves. Her lips are fire, burning away the fear, the guilt. It's just her. Just us. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like a man, not a tool. I let her lead, and I let her show me what she needs. I'll never take anything from her again. She's an incredible lover. It's a night like anything I've ever experienced before.
In the morning, after she dresses and is standing at my door, she pauses and looks back at me. I'm propped up on my elbows, fighting the instinct to pull her back to bed with me, but it's already later than we agreed, and I don't want her to get caught. She looks at me long and hard for a moment then says the one thing I didn't even know I needed to hear. "About yesterday...you don't need to be sorry." The words linger in the air. "Serena's the one who will answer to God for what she did... to both of us."It hits me harder than anything else that has happened in the 24 hours. I'm not forgiven—how could I be—but the weight lifts just enough to breathe. Just enough to hope that maybe, somehow, we're not completely broken yet. With one final smile, she slips out the door and into the pre-dawn of a new day.
