Everyone knows the old saying, “Don’t judge a book by its cover…”
The same can be said for the house I live in.
The gorgeous landscape of his estate can’t hide the terror that lives within it’s walls. From the men that line the perimeter of the grounds, to the snipers on the roof, no one can come or go without him knowing. It crushes all hope I could ever have of an escape.
When I’m out here I can get lost in the beauty of the scenery. From the tall oak trees to the rose gardens, they help pull me from the hell in which I live and take me to a better place when I need a break from my home life. If you could even call it that. I’ve read books with picture perfect descriptions of what a home should be, but I don’t live in a home.
Love lives in a home.
Faith lives in a home.
Hope lives in a home.
I live in hell.
And I’m married to the devil.
I have no recollection of my life until three years ago. Since then, I’ve dreamed of killing myself at least a dozen times. The two times I’ve actually tried, I’ve failed. The more I try to remember my life before this, the more the emptiness inside me grows. All I have to go on is what he tells me, which isn’t much. It’s the same story every time.
I was lost and he saved me.
I would be in a gutter, or worse, if it weren’t for him.
I’m an ungrateful whore who tried to walk out on his love and generosity.
Blah, blah, blah… All lies.
I don’t know how I know it, but I do. Most days I would rather be in a gutter, poor and homeless, than to have to be in his presence. I’m not sure what I should have been expecting when I woke up three years ago. I didn’t even find out that he was my husband until after he’d already laid his hands on me. I’ll never forget the first conversation that I remember having with him.
I wake up with a start. Looking around, moonlight casts dark shadows across a room that appears black as night. As black as my memory. I can’t recall one detail about myself, about where I am… My head is killing me and it feels like my brain is closer to exploding with each throb. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to will the pain to go away. I move to rub my temples in an attempt to get a little relief, but both of my arms are restrained. I pull at each restraint to see if there’s any give, but all that gets me is rope burn across both wrists.
Suddenly, a light flickers to life across the room, alerting me to his presence. The severe face of a man who looks far too scary to not be a threat to my life. He’s sitting in an over-sized wingback chair, black leather with gold rivets. It’s the only thing I notice other than the blood-red paint on the walls behind him.
“Who are you?” I scream and push with my feet, trying to move myself back toward the headboard. I didn’t make it very far before he lunges up from the chair and grabs my ankle tightly in his grip.
Loosening his fingers from my leg, he walks toward me. The closer he gets, the better I can see his eyes. I close mine in response. His gaze—dark as night and scary as hell—frightens me. By the way he towers over me, he has to be at least 6’ 3”, maybe 6’ 4”. His hair is cut short against his skull and a button-up shirt is stretches taut over his muscular build.
“Still trying to run away from me, I see.”
I lay there in confusion when all of a sudden, he raises his arm and backhands me across my cheek. It hurts so bad, you would have thought he used a baseball bat. It burns like fire, and I scream just to try to make it through the sting of the pain. As I lay there, tears running down my face, the metallic taste of blood on my lips, he stands by my bedside in a casual stance with his hands in his pockets, wearing an evil grin.
I plead with him, shaking my head back and forth, my mind in total panic. The questions start rolling off my lips as my tears fall faster.
“Who are you? Where am I? I have no idea who I am, what my name is. Please, I can’t remember anything. I don’t understand! Please, help me understand!”
Before I can blink, his face is right in front of mine, his hand like a vise around my throat.
“You’ve lived your life your way for far too long. It no longer belongs to you. Everything that I’ve done for you and you wanted to throw it all away by leaving me? You won’t get another chance. You will go nowhere, do nothing, and talk to no one, without me knowing about it. Your life is now in my hands.”
“Who are you?” I managed to choke out through a heavy flow of tears.
“I’m Lochlan Finch. I’m your husband and I own you. You’ll learn what your name is when you prove to me that you deserve one.”
He’s my nightmare, one I fear from which I’ll never wake up.
