WARNING: This chapter contains explicit references to sexual abuse.
…
Sara used to love poetry.
It sounds so much like a stereotype, of course. Now, movies and books make an effort. Growing up, the girl will like running or mechanics, her hobbies will be some kind of statement. But Sara really was that dork, who stayed up studying at the school library till closing time. Who borrowed poetry books for light reading, when her mind needed to refuel.
A lot of times, she wondered, what if she hadn't been so keen on becoming a doctor? What if she'd majored in literature, and hadn't gotten her hands on a free morphine-supply?
No Fox River. No Michael.
Sara closes her eyes.
The bite mark on the nape of her neck prickles.
No Kellerman.
Using her body to save her husband, well. That's a stereotype too. A worse one. Growing up, Sara kept hearing what a good girl she was. And that's got to count for something, because one thing she doesn't seem good at is getting better.
You thought you knew rock bottom, Sara?
She traces her index along the tile grout.
Her life is more of a worse and worse style.
It's weird how it keeps flashing through her mind, right now. Poetry. That one line in particular—
I should have been a pair of ragged claws,
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas
It's better than to think of Michael, in their bedroom. His burnt face. His eyes. The feel of his thumbs crushing her windpipe.
She gave anything to be with him again. And what does she have now?
Hollowed out, all the nooks and crannies sucked clean from soul.
Who gives one damn about her soul aside from Jesus at this point? She wishes she could have faith, like her mother—at least, she would have that.
But her entire being has been turned inside out, and there's not a fleck of anything substantial left in there.
It's how it has to be, how she survives.
Every fiber of her wants to be with Michael right now. And he wants to kill her. What choice does she have but shut everything down?
Pins and needles shoot down her legs as she gets to her feet. A gag reflex hits her as she bends to pick up the pile of clothes that lay on the bathroom floor—the same clothes she wore last night, with Kellerman. But everything else is in her bedroom, with her husband. Whoever he is now.
Oddly enough, her skin doesn't crawl as she zips up the skirt, slips on the shirt. Maybe it smells of Kellerman's office, of conquest and whiskey. She doesn't know. Doesn't care, right now.
A very not subtle Daryl starts as she flings open the bathroom door.
"Damn," he says. Then, "Sorry," because he was obviously there on purpose, waiting to catch her on her way out. Or eavesdropping, in case she did something stupid?
Sara almost laughs—an actual laugh.
When's the last time she made the smart choice? A long, long time. Last night was more stupid still.
And she wants to laugh, because she knows in her bones she'd do it again. In a heartbeat.
"Uh—" Daryl shifts his weight, awkward, like a wolf would look on his hind legs. "I don't take it you wanna talk or anything. That's OK. I just figured—"
"Lincoln asked you to be here."
He shrugs.
Of course he had. So he could be with his brother, and keep an eye on Sara at the same time.
Ha.
Sara marvels at how it happens, how Michael becomes his brother. A stranger, both in flesh and mind.
"Hey," Daryl says, when she motions down the hall. "Where you going?"
"Out."
"I, uh—is that a good idea?"
She gives him a look.
If she spends one more moment in this place, where Michael is, she's going to go mad.
"Why don't you try and stop me?" she asks.
Daryl stares at her, like she's a puzzle who just broke into a thousand pieces before his eyes.
She brushes past him and doesn't stop walking until the icy air hits her outside. Doesn't grab a coat, or her purse. There is not even room for destruction on her mind. Whatever carries her down the street is nothing as reassuring and familiar. She walks past all the bars, all the places where she could lose herself.
She is lost.
And she keeps on walking, knowing only that she doesn't want to be found.
…
She can still feel Kellerman's teeth in her neck. Not, feel them in a ghost way. As in, I can still feel his hands on me when I close my eyes. She can still feel him, literally. Not just his teeth. The ring, melting into her flesh. And of course, the rape.
The smell of his aftershave, drilling into her lungs, drowning that burnt pig smell. Even as he pressed her face into the sofa, even if she didn't breathe, she could smell it.
Then he thrust into her and she didn't really care about anything.
I should have been a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
"Watch where you're going sweetheart."
A chest bumps into Sara and she teeters, keeps going. Anywhere is better than—
On that couch, with Kellerman. The feel of his tongue licking goosebumps across her shoulder blade. His hands, roaming along the curves of her body. They did not roam, really. No more than the settlers did, planting flags into foreign land.
Even his pleasure was an empty victory. She'd prayed—yes, actually prayed for him to finish. If God was listening or not, she couldn't say.
Well.
She would not have bothered to pray, if she had known he'd only start again. And again.
After he took her a third time she stopped hoping for a natural end. Only stared out the window, waiting for the dawn to break.
She had never felt the force of each second in a minute before that night. The pain was worse, somehow, than anything she'd ever experienced. Every second he was in her, her body was not her own. In those brief lapses when she closed her eyes she thought this was what pigs must think, at the slaughterhouse—
That blade coming, the blood. You have to die, don't you know, because you just taste that fucking nice.
"I'm not a pig!" she wanted to scream.
But the knife was coming, blood splattered the wall, and a voice spoke low in her ear. Crazy, how familiar it sounded.
But of course you are, dear.
You are a pig. Don't you know that by now?
"You know," Kellerman breathed into her ear, after the second time. "If you beg for mercy, you might get it."
He flipped her over so she had to look him in the eye when he said this.
"We could take a shower. Settle for softer activities. Like we used to, back at your place, in the good old days."
His eyes looked warm, never mind how cold she knew him to be. She wondered if he meant it.
It did flash through her mind.
Please.
He really might, she thought. Take pity on her. Spend the rest of the night cuddling her, brushing her hair, being all affectionate and sweet. Heck, they could watch TV, he could have room service bring them blueberry pie. For whatever was left of the night, she could have Lance the Addict, instead of Paul Kellerman.
A mercy, indeed.
There were moments when he enjoyed being merciful, she remembered. When he wiped her hair in the motel bathroom, softly padded a cotton towel to her damp face, brushing locks away from her face—he liked that part, as much as the rest. The velvet glove, after the iron hand.
Even in revenge, there's room for mercy. Crumbs of it.
If you're willing to lick the floor to find them.
Her arm muscles pulled, stretched upward, her wrists still bound with his tie.
She opened her mouth. Willed out the plea. She would hate herself for it, as she hated herself for the scream when he marked her. But no more than she hated the pain of him inside her, the raw injustice of his body taking hers.
She didn't break eye-contact. He would take that as weakness. And Kellerman had no respect for weakness.
She thought the word again, to give herself the strength. Please.
Then said, "Fuck you."
It surprised her as much as him.
His brows arched, and he looked so pleased she wanted to die. Really. Almost wished she could meet Michael there instead. Not in the flesh, but in the afterlife.
"Well," he said, "if you ask so nicely."
"Hey, miss, you okay?"
She wriggles away from the hands that try to steady her, from the concerned faces. Outside, the cold is a solid force that she tangoes with. Snow fattens the sidewalks. Sara is underdressed for the weather.
Does it matter?
Kellerman's hand, under her chin, as he held her face inches from his. "This time, I think I'll have you look at me. You don't object, do you?"
She didn't expect it'd be worse than having her face pressed into the sofa. Didn't think anything could be worse. But it was, somehow.
Not just because she saw the pleasure on his features, the thrill in his eyes. Or because he saw the pain in hers.
But because before he covered her body with his, his hand locked around the back of her head and he kissed her.
"Look, uh—I don't mean to hassle you, ma'am, but you want me to call someone? You don't look too good."
"I'm fine."
Sara steers away from the busiest streets. Wanders into dark alleys, tries to find solitude. But this is New York City. There's no such thing as alone here.
Her entire body has broken into gooseflesh, and the cold has nothing to do with it. She feels it again—this time, in a ghost way. The kiss.
Kellerman's lips, flush against hers. His tongue looking for an entry through her teeth. His thumb brushing the bite mark he left on her neck, moments ago.
The kiss started a riot inside her organism, like a chemical reaction.
In a way, it was just like when Michael kissed her—but in reverse.
Oh, she better not think about this. Michael. If she lets in the thought of her husband—
But it's too late.
Every time Michael kissed her, she sensed in her bones that something greater than herself was happening. Something cosmic. She even saw it. Stars aligning. Planets slowly following the course of their orbit.
Kissing Michael felt like following the laws of the universe. Like gravity.
And just as Michael's lips opened a world of inner bliss and quiet, Kellerman's opened a whole new universe, as well.
It was black as midnight, and there were ghouls, waiting at every turn for their pound of flesh.
A voice inside her bristled to life.
I'm not a pig, It said.
"In this place," Michael had told her back in Fox River, "you open the door, and there's a hundred other doors behind it. And the monsters behind them are all real."
In a way, Sara is still falling, in that universe that Kellerman's kiss has opened beneath her feet. Then, should she wonder that everything is upside down, and Michael wants to kill her?
She isn't in the real world, anymore.
Winding down those circle of hells—Kellerman's tongue against her teeth. He got frustrated and pulled away, a look of surprise on him.
"Your eyes are open," he said, like she was being unromantic.
"I thought you wanted me to look at you."
"Oh, we're still doing what I want?"
She could have slapped him. After all, why not? Michael was safe. He was home. What did it matter now, if she played nice or not?
Come on, she reasoned. The sooner he gets this over with, the sooner you can go home.
Besides, part of her had gone into survival mode. She had to get through the night, no matter what. How much more of this could her body take? Stalling Kellerman was not her stupidest option.
She said, "What else do you think we're doing?"
Kellerman looked coldly at her. It was silly, but sometimes she got that impression, that none of it was real. When his eyes were warm, they were lying. And when they were cold—they were lying, too.
"Kiss me," he said. His hand clutched the back of her neck, and blood broke out from the streaks where his teeth had sunk into her flesh. "Mean it. Kiss me like you'll kiss your husband when you see him again."
Her hand moved, so fast, she didn't think. She would have slapped him, then. To hell with the consequences. But her wrists were bound tight by his tie. All she could do was look at him, and wish her eyes would burn him to ash.
"Or," he said, "would you rather we get back to business?"
The fire crackled behind them. Snow had started beating down the window.
As she leaned in to give him what he wanted, part of her had to know she was opening a door that she could never close again.
In the loneliest New York City streets, Sara starts laughing. Now, she can see the irony.
She didn't just kiss Kellerman.
She gave him the kiss he asked for.
Opening her mouth, to let him in. Letting the taste of him seal her fate into this midnight world where up was down and right was wrong. And you could only get to heaven by crawling through walls of hellfire.
The effect on Kellerman was immediate, terrifying. He moaned against her—an actual moan, which must have startled him as well because he grabbed her harder, as if to bury his weakness in her mortified body.
That was Michael's kiss he stole from her, right there and then.
The kiss she was supposed to give her husband, when they reunited.
And all the while she was kissing Kellerman, her blood boiled with disgust, her mind splintered with how much she hated him, how much she would want to kill him with her bare hands.
She had kissed Kellerman, and meant it, because everything was upside down and anyway, it was one moment to take away from the pain of his body.
And when the time had come to kiss her husband, he had done what she had wanted to do to Kellerman all along.
She had kissed Kellerman with love. Her husband's love. The truest love she'd ever known.
And her husband had greeted her with murder.
If there is such a thing as poetic justice, there's got to be room for poetic injustice, too.
Sara finds balance against an alley wall. Finally, alone. No one in those streets but roaches and rats. She feels very much in her element.
Her eyes droop shut.
Kiss me. Mean it.
She speaks, only to deafen the sound of Kellerman's voice. "Where are we, Michael? What world did I bring upon us?"
…
End Notes: I don't usually leave ANs on this fanfiction—mostly, because this fic feels a bit as if I'm dragging you all along a therapy session. It is cathartic to put words on so much violence, especially to do so in a poetic way. Which is the whole reason for this note, I guess: the lines from the poem mentioned in the text are from T. S. Eliot. It's a beautiful poem.
That said, I hope those of you who are reading this are getting something out of the story. Violence should never be gratuitous, and to me, the way I explore it in here, it's not. I could write a whole essay about why I'm putting my characters through so much torment, why I write Kellerman the way I do. Why Sara and Michael went through such a traumatic reunion. But that would probably be too long.
Please share your thoughts in the comments, and take care!