Page 21 of In You

Brief Touches

Tamryn

A Year Ago

"You're going to do what I asked you."

I swallow thickly, my throat burning and mouth dry and scratchy.

"I won't!" I rasp, my eyes flashing angrily at him; a spark in the desolate cave of fear he'd been inching me into so slowly that I hadn't realized the pinprick of light behind him getting smaller and smaller as his presence loomed dangerous and large before me.

Using my want for love to kill my spirit.

Crushing me into a weak, whimpering shell of what I once was.

But that pinprick of light is still there.

It's small, and fading, but it's there. I turn in my seat, narrowing my eyes as I bite back.

"You can't make me, you sick, demented fuck. "

Calvin's arm shoots out, backhanding me so hard across the face that my head snaps to the side.

I cry out as I go flying out of the kitchen chair, landing hard on the tile floor on my side.

Shocks of pain shoot up my arm and across my shoulder.

Stunned, I turn my head to see his foot encased in a perfectly shined black dress shoe that I cleaned myself, my gaze traveling slowly up the leg of his perfectly ironed pants until it lands on his gray eyes.

They're narrowed down at me in anger, and displeasure.

Disappointment.

Blood trickles from my nose to my lip, and I sniff as I stiffly pull myself up back by my chair, my throat burning because I haven't had anything to drink in so long that I taste blood when I swallow. And now there's more blood from my nose until all I can taste and smell is copper.

That pinprick of light flickers as my vision wavers.

Both Calvin and the table spin as my head begins to throb even worse than before, and the reality that I'm in some intensely unfathomably deep shit sobers me and removes all fight I'd had.

"You can have what I let you have," Calvin snarls, the evil in his eyes swallowing up the gray iris as his pupils blow so wide I wonder again if he's on drugs.

Humiliation swamps me in waves, and my eyes go to his, pleading for him to see me.

Horrified at what he demands for me to do, the shivering starts from deep inside, and I reach for the glass of water, only to have that knocked away, too.

It hits the table to spill all over, and my eyes nail themselves to the liquid as it travels to the edge of the table and drips off the other side.

A singular tear makes its way down my cheek.

"Say. It."

I don't want to do it.

Nothing in me wants to.

I vowed never to use that word, so betrayed I am by my father's abandonment that I refuse to refer to anyone in that way.

Because if my own father can hurt me the way he'd done, then so can every other man who comes into my life.

And now look, Calvin's proving me right.

It only took two months after I moved in with him for him to convince me to merge our bank accounts after selling my mother's house, and then another month for the monster to come out.

I went to the bank just a few days ago to withdraw some money just to be informed that the pin number had been changed, and I'd been removed off the account.

All that money from my mom's house, his now.

When I got back home, he took my purse and my keys, and then my access to food and water after I dared fight with him about it.

My head pounds with a headache due to dehydration. My fingers tremble, and my dry lips crack as I work to slick my dry tongue over them, praying for moisture. But of course there's none.

I sit at the table, staring defiantly at the wood grains, trying not to look at the water that I'm so thirsty for I feel half out of my mind with it.

For days I've ruminated about the morning I'd went into the flower shop, and wished like hell I would have kept going.

Maybe if I hadn't stopped for flowers, I would have gotten to my mom in enough time to save her, I would never have run into this monster, and I most definitely wouldn't be sitting at a table begging for water like I'm an animal.

"I'm not a dog," I whisper softly, feeling my face break. "Calvin, I'm not a dog."

"Well, that can be remedied." He shifts in his seat, threading his fingers together to place them on top of his elevated knee in a quietly refined move that I've come to know means he's gathering himself.

Patient, until he's not. My cheek stings, the burn becoming hotter and more uncomfortable the longer the seconds tick by, but I don't dare bring my hand up to touch it.

"You're going to be picking yourself up off the floor all night until you say it," he says in a warning tone.

How I ever thought his voice was warm and kind is beyond me. I must be crazy.

I turn my head to look him in full on in the face, defeated, feeling my heart finish breaking clean down the middle.

All my girlish daydreaming about Calvin being my knight in shining armor dissipates, disintegrating into a nightmare I can't wake up from.

We stare into each other's eyes, and instinctively, I know I'm trapped.

My chin quivers.

"Daddy," I whisper, feeling tears clog my throat and well up in my eyes as I lose. It's not the first time I've lost against him, but this one definitely hurts more than the other losses I've sustained.

Because he knows how bad this hurts me. He knows.

I told him. I've cried in his arms about this very thing in our bed. About how all my childhood I felt abandoned, tortured, unwanted by the man who was supposed to love me more than anyone in the world. The man who was supposed to be my savior…

But not me. My savior left me.

Unwanted.

Unloved…

Calvin saw how deep that wound was, and he promised me he'd take care of me, protect me… love me. He said it.

He whispered it against my lips when we were sharing the same pillow the night of my mother's funeral after we made love for the first time.

It's when he also told me his father was an abusive alcoholic, and spent much of his life beating him, and his mother.

Until one day, he died of cirrhosis of the liver after a failed attempt at getting sober.

"Good girl," he says softly. Rising up out of his seat, he steps into me.

My fear ramps up a notch, causing my heart to race, and my palms to sweat.

I tuck my arms in, and my lips tighten as I feel myself leaning away from him as he comes to my left side, putting a hand to my head and pulling me to rest my head against his chest. "I'm so proud of you.

I knew you could do it. Your daddies are going to be so proud. "

I stare at the wall in front of us. The wall that has an African mask, and wish to God I could put it on and pretend to be someone else, because I'm not a victim. Never have been one until now.

I can't believe this is happening to me.

He grabs the cup, fills it from the spigot in the refrigerator, and places it in front of me.

My jaw clenches when I see the small cup is only a third of the way full.

My eyes burn, as does my throat, because it's not enough.

We both know it. I go to reach for it anyways, but he slaps the back of my hand like he would a child.

Hurt, I pull my hand back into my lap, still staring blankly at the water.

"Now, Tamryn, what do you say when we have guests?"

My mother would be heartbroken to know that I'm being subjected to this kind of treatment.

My eyes slide to the door, and I stare for a second.

Longing for freedom, praying for someone to save me, wishing that my mom or someone would come through the door and take me from here back to my old life where maybe I didn't have it all, and I didn't have a dad, but I had safety, security, and contentment. But of course, no one comes.

Why would they?

As my eyes go back to his; cold, lacking warmth and compassion, I just know I'll be able to be saved from him. It's just not right now. Not yet. I stare, my mind emptying, my soul dying.

"Tamryn?" he says expectantly.

My lips tremble. "My name is Camilla."

Calvin pauses slightly, tilting his head to look at me. Eerie silence meets uncomfortable tension as I wait for his hand to slap me across my face again. But a hit never comes.

"Camilla," he says softly, rapping his fingers in a light rhythm on his thigh. "What do we say when we have guests?"

My eyes drift from his hands to his. "How may I serve you?"

He nods once, with a proud glint in his eye. "Perfect, Tam -" He cuts himself off, giving me an almost serene smile. "Camilla… You may drink your water now."

I snatch the glass of water up, the contents sloshing as I bring it to my lips with a breathy whimper.

It's been over two days that I haven't had a drink.

Two days he's followed me into the bathroom to make sure I don't sneak a drop even out of the sink or shower tap.

He's covered my mouth with duct tape during showers so I couldn't even stick my tongue out for relief.

Cameras have been erected all over the house with the threat of retaliation should I disobey him.

I gulp greedily. The water goes down, cold, refreshing, but I'm so thirsty it's barely enough to quench my thirst.

I gasp, bringing my hand to my lips and rubbing. My eyes going back to his, begging for compassion. "Please, sir. It wasn’t enough. Can I have some more?"

Leaning forward, he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, the briefest touch of his fingers against my skin. "No," he says quietly. "You may not."

Then his touch leaves me.

Present

Words like identity integration, eye movement desensitization and processing, and talk therapy are thrown around between Dr. Richardson and my Savior, however, all I can do is just stare. Not be a part of what they're talking about.

A throat clears, bringing my attention to Dr. Richardson.

"I verified with Ms. Sarah Johnson that she can get you in as soon as next week.

She's going to put you on a two sessions a week schedule, and you will do your own intake with her.

" My eyes slide from his to the window beyond, seeing that the sun is beginning to set.

I sniff, smelling what seems to be maybe meatloaf, but I don't remember when it was made.

I don't remember all the questions I was just asked. My brain hurts and I feel like I'm trying to operate within a deep fog.

Looking over at my savior, who's sitting on the couch opposite me with that increasingly familiar stoic stare, just assessing me calmly like he's waiting for me, I hold my hand out, feeling my face break.

I'm so tired. Tired of wondering what's going to happen to me, if I'm going to be hurt, if I can make it to the next hour or not.

All I know right now is, this man saved me, and ever since he saved me, he's only been trying to help me.

I feel my chin quiver as I reach for him, and though there's a slight pause in Dr. Richardson's speech, I'm no longer listening.

I want him to leave. I'm tired.

I implore my savior with my eyes as he gets up to slowly walk around the table between us, holding his hand out to me letting me know he's coming.

Fear meets relief, and my fingers tremble when he presses them to mine in just the briefest of touches.

He stands patiently waiting as I shift uncomfortably to the very end of the couch and then shove the blanket completely in my lap and in between us.

He lowers himself to the other end, with one cushion in between us, and I'm so utterly thankful he's thoughtful enough to give me space.

"I want to go to bed." I sniff again, feeling a tear slide down my cheek.

"I know, sweetheart," Caleb says calmly, his dark gaze roaming my face. "We're almost done." He gives my fingertips a slight squeeze then turns his face to Dr. Richardson, but I bury mine in Tink's fur.

"Camilla," Dr. Richardson says quietly.

"No," I whisper.

"Camilla, will you please look at me? Please?" Dr. Richardson implores in a soft voice.

Though I don't want to give him any more of my attention, I peek up, eyeing him warily. "Don't you understand that I don't want to talk anymore?"

He gives me a gentle smile. "I know, and you don't have to as our evaluation is over. But, I just wanted to let you know that I'm about to write you a prescription for some anxiety medicine, and something to help you sleep at night, okay? And I'll see you again next month."

I nod, keeping the blanket clutched in my hand. "Okay, bye."

He gives me a kind smile. "Good-bye, Camilla. It was nice to meet you."

I turn my face away.

He and my Savior walk away, and I slip down on the couch, pull the blanket over my face, and drift off to sleep with Tink in my arms.