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But then there’s the nightmares. Bad dreams that feel like lucid memories. Like I’m rewatching an episode of my life in third person. A memory so bad that my mind blocked it out entirely, only to dig up those repressed visions to deal with in the throes of sleep. And the nightmares are getting worse, to the point that I’ve started sleepwalking. Ending up in strange places around the house, dazed and confused as to how I got there. Miles has woken me a few times, seeming more irritated than concerned for my safety.

“I told you to stop reading those stupid books,” he chastised me once. And you know what? I truly don’t know any more if the dreams are real life or if my fantasy life is blurring with reality. The only thing I know for sure is something happens to me when I’m asleep and my body is trying to tell me something.

I meet Brooke’s gaze, taking a deep breath to refrain from completely breaking down at my realization.

“Brooke, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

9

Golden light pours in from the bedroom windows. The curtains are half drawn, concealing my naked body as I lay sprawled across the bed, vibrator in hand. It’s around 2:00 p.m. when I set aside time to be with myself. There’s something so freeing, so euphoric, about being able to explore yourself. And the help of toys, old and new, are always a great addition. Like I always joke with Brooke, an orgasm a day keeps the doctor away.

This alone time is more important now than ever to maintain my sanity.

Miles has been more distant than normal. His already long hours at work are turning into almost twenty-hour shifts. Sometimes he comes home at 6:00 p.m. Other times, I don’t hear him falling into bed until 3:00 a.m. I’m worried that he’s purposely staying up later so that he’s so exhausted when he’s home, not having to wake up during one of my sleepwalking episodes.

On the nights when he’s home at a decent hour, I can’t connect with him. He avoids me whenever possible, purposely not kissing me when he returns home and spending more timetaking showers. The only time I get a semblance of the old Miles is when he brings me my nightly ritual cup of tea. But the tea does nothing to calm my nerves, which is why I’m here in the middle of the day, trying to find an orgasm to calm my anxiety.

Scrolling my usual site for porn on my laptop, a notification comes across the top of the screen. I click it to open to full screen.

Pretty Bitch of the West

Don’t ask me where I found this…

A link pops up below the text to a well-known porn site that deals in shady productions. Another set of texts ping in before I have a chance to examine the thumbnail.

Petty Bitch of the West

This explains the bruises.

I’m so sorry, MJ.

That gets my attention. Going back to the thumbnail, I examine it carefully, worried that clicking it might give my computer a nasty scammer virus.

The thumbnail is grainy, showcasing a large group of half-naked men. In the middle is a blonde female bent over a red, leather sawhorse, ass bared to the entire room to see. But the thing that catches my attention is a colorful bat tattoo on the woman’s upper arm. A colorful bat tattoo that sayshang in therein black, gothic font curving around the animal. A tattoo that looks oddly similar to one I had done with Brooke our senior year of high school, against Miles and my parents’ wishes. It was the one rebellious thing I had done back then, knowing the tattoo was more than just ink on skin. It was a connection to mybest friend, along with a reminder to myself that it’s okay when life gets hard.

I run my hand down my forearm where the bat rests, unable to catch my breath as I click the thumbnail to open the video.

After the site’s title screen, the video opens to a large room filled with men of various ages. I count at least eight in range of the camera. There are no identifying objects on the walls behind them. No identifying furniture around the men. The only thing sitting in the middle of the frame is the red sawhorse and the blonde. Standing next to her, caressing her as if she’s some sort of animal, is…Miles.

There’s a masquerade mask covering the upper half of his face, but I’d recognize that facial structure anywhere.

I suck in a breath, unable to create any other noise than that. I can feel my chest constrict as betrayal surges through me.

Miles, dressed in an all-black suit, stands next to the woman tied to the contraption. If the devil had a day job, it would look like Miles in this video. If I wasn’t so sure it was him in the video, I know the minute he starts talking to the men as he continues caressing the woman’s ass like it’s second nature.

“Gentleman. Our little whore here has been begging me to be stuffed, and since Thanksgiving is right around the corner, I think it’s time to get into the holiday spirit.”

Miles walks around and picks up the woman’s head so that she can look at him.

A cry escapes me.

Familiar chocolate brown eyes stare through the screen. But they’re not actually staring at anything directly.

The woman’s eyes—my eyes—are unfocused. My pupils don’t respond to the camera light being shined directly into my face.

My jaw is slack, a lazy grin painted across my face.

“Baby,” Miles says.