Alienation,

I watch her as she walks towards me. Her light brown hair is long enough to adorn her features, as it falls over her ears and eyes. Her gleaming blue eyes are crashing against mine like the ocean that meets the sand. Her graceful neck, arms and torso form her typically female body and those swaying hips make her come to me in a painful slow motion. If I wasn’t her slave, I would say she is gorgeous. I can’t though, because my eyes see no beauty; they see anger. My eyes see no grace; they see hatred. My eyes see no love; they see obsession.

This physically attractive woman seems emotionally empty and mentally ill: it’s been one year since she found me and forced me to divorce my wife, Lauren. I was happily married back then, but now I’ve been reduced to become a highly scared little boy, whose hands are metaphorically tied up to a chair.

I met Lauren in my teenage years and we grew to love together. She was my first girlfriend and the only one I’ve ever loved. We got married in happiness and consent, and three years later we had a beautiful daughter, Charlotte. We could be called the perfect family. Obviously, we had our problems, our fights with personal matters, trouble in our jobs or difficulties with raising our Charlie. We always came through, fortunately. Our loving bond always helped us to move on as one and we were happy for another eight years.

However, a single threatening written note and a scary warning phone call ended that smiling picture. I began to feel watched and one day it happened. I was trying to get home after another day of hard work; I was a top insurance agent. I was spoken to by three men who seemed to be looking for a certain bookshop. They seemed like typically normal, geeky people, but they fooled me well. One hit me on my forehead and other drugged me with chloroform in the middle of that empty street, and I instantly passed out, falling onto the third’s arms.

The next thing I knew I was laying on a huge bed, both hands and feet tied up tightly to the horizontal wood structure. In front of me, plastered to the nearest wall, were two pictures: Lauren and Charlotte. I recognised them immediately and instantly saw that those had been taken from a hidden spot, and I came to the horrible realisation that someone had been watching them.

I started to panic and my breaths got stuck in my throat; as I tried to cry my panic out, I realized that that my cries were muffled. Only then did I notice the piece of duck-tape covering my mouth. I had been kidnapped. The vulnerability that set in made me feel like a lost kid, anxiously seeking a familiar face in the endless crowd.

Seconds later, as if someone could hear my screaming thoughts, the door was opened and a woman came in. I got to know her name a few days after that terrifying first meeting: she was Jessica. From that moment, I found out how evil a woman could be, especially a maniac-depressive one. Apparently, she had developed a bizarre obsession for me, but I never knew why. She told me too many times that she had found in me the perfect one for her heart, the man of her life, the one in her fate. I never believed her, but I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I was too scared. Jessica knew exactly how to tie my hands behind my back. She threatened me with the lives of my daughter and my wife. Everyday she showed me new pictures of them, of their sad grieved countenances, to tell me that I should be hers and only hers. Jessica wanted me for herself and even forced me to divorce my wife. She didn’t let me see her; she was the one who sent the papers in my name to my wife, and somehow Lauren signed them. I never knew if Jessica had ever threatened her too, but when I asked her about it, she would simply smirk at me and start a whole new conversation… when she didn’t do worse.

Two weeks after the divorce, Jessica made me start working for her as a gigolo and a drug seller. I never had a choice; she would beat me up if I didn’t do it. Maybe it sounds weird to you that I was beaten up by Jessica; maybe it seems weird for a grown man to be beaten up by a mere weak woman, but the only reason I never retaliated was because she kept threatening me with my daughter’s life. I had to surrender… or I would lose the most important person in my world. Plus, I could say that I was a coward too. I was just too afraid that this maniac would hurt Charlie, or Lauren. I’d never forgive myself for that, and that was why I gave myself to her obsession. I hated myself for this pusillanimous submission, but I simply couldn’t. My heart was blind with the pain of being away from the woman and child I loved the most, and my hands were caught in the fire of her threats. I felt useless and couldn’t do anything except to feel sorry for the ones I was taken from.

It had been one year since my crying had started. I rarely cried in front of Jessica; I was too afraid that she would come to me with her menacing eyes or worse, with her snake-like tongue and her malicious words pierced through my heart. I was fragile, incomprehensibly fragile, though my mind found in Jessica the justification for my weakness. I had never felt so frail before, since the day I found love for the first time, but now I was a little boy again, because I was being kept away from my main source of strength. I didn’t know if they ever tried to find me; I didn’t know if Lauren ever tried to remember me; I didn’t know if she still talked to Charlotte about me; I didn’t know anything about them.

Jessica had never spoken about myex wife and my daughter until that day. She came to me smirking evilly as usual, unlocking the door to the house she called ‘ours’. I had never lived here, at least not psychologically, since my heart and mind were lost in my past. No matter how much I was beaten up, raped or yelled at, I never saw myself as a part of her life. I was like an alien in her world, with a feeling of such inferiority that I let her do whatever she felt like doing to me. I felt ashamed of the condition that I had allowed myself to fall in, but what else could I do? I wasn’t alone in that house, but I was lonely as a grave. Letting her do such things to me brought me closer to Heaven, or Hell, whatever you want to call it. My body was being ripped into pieces and my mind only grew closer to myex wife and daughter, to my family.

Yesterday, though, Satan fell again from his ancient spot in Heaven. Jessica mentioned Charlotte’s name, but not directly. She said that Lauren had died. My beautiful wife was gone from this world, along with her brother, due to a car accident. I felt like I was part of that wreckage. I was in that car too, or at least I wanted to be in there with her. The main part of my heart went with Lauren to her lost destination in that endless road. Then I remembered: my daughter was left alone out there, and only God knew where.

“Your daughter is safe, Frankie”, Jessica told me before throwing some pictures into my bare hands. I looked at them, but not before gulping, as I didn’t know if I was ready for what I might see in them. I had always wanted to see my Charlie and I’ve asked Jessica several times if she could take me to see her. I didn’t care if I could only see her at distance, because I just needed to be sure that she was safe. Jessica never allowed me to do so, obviously, and right then, no matter how much I wanted to ask her again, I didn’t even dare to clear my throat.

“See it for yourself…” she spoke again with her daunting voice, which made extra-cold chills climb up my spine. I fumbled a bit more with the pictures in my hands, things I had never requested to see, but was forced to look at. They showed me an unhappy Charlie, who was with someone I had never seen before. “She has already found a new family, Frankie, so don’t worry.”

I had to surrender to that evil grin dancing in her eyes, which she tried to disguise under her sad face. I knew that she wasn’t upset at all; she loved to tell me those things and make me suffer because she knew how fragile I was on her hands. I had nowhere safe to run to, or to hide, because she would always come after me and find me. I never knew how she did it, but she would always find me; she always knew where to find me. I guess she could smell my fear or hear my screaming thoughts as I ran, as she always managed to catch me off guard and find me. I hated her with all my heart, but I had to pretend that I loved her. She wanted me to marry her, but I had managed to excuse myself out of it: I told her that I wasn’t ready for the commitment. It wasn’t a lie, after all, and I knew she could tell that I was lying to her all the time, but she enjoyed my words, my lies. Especially because I never spoke what my heart wanted to say, and she adored it when I was forced to say whatever she wanted to hear. I was cowardly scared like that.

That day, she made me tell her that I was happy with Lauren’s death; I gulped, preparing myself to say the words, to say those lies. She knew what it meant. However, she decided to ignore it and simply listen to what I said:

“I love you, Jess. I’m so happy that she’s dead and can’t find me…” The words hurt more than I could have ever expected. I had never said anything as hard as this simple sentence. And Jessica always did this to me; she would force me to say the things she wanted to hear.

Then I unwillingly hugged her and rubbed her back, something that I wanted to do to Lauren, and obviously my daughter. Charlie… Thinking about her made me cry and I made us hug for a longer time so that I could shield my tears from Jessica, but she forced me out of our embrace. She pushed my body away from hers and I kept my face down. She ordered me to look at her, but I continued to shield my gaze away from her; I couldn’t let her see my face. I couldn’t let her see my tears and so I wanted to make them stop, but my mind carried only one memory, one image, and it made me sniffle slightly.

I realized what I had done when the first slap came to my left cheek. My face hurt from it, but I just ignored it. I was already used to them; Jessica slapped me whenever she wanted, even if I had done nothing wrong. But now I had made a mistake; I had sniffled and I was crying, and Jessica knew it wasn’t of happiness. Plus, she hated it when I cried… and so she slapped me again, making the same cheek sting. No words came from her mouth; she always enjoyed to see me hurt, and especially to hurt me. I already knew it for a very long time and I didn’t need to wait for the third slap to know it. This one was hard and heavy. I was weak since the moment I had been taken away from my wife and daughter.

The third slap on my left cheek anticipated the fourth slap, which landed harshly in my right cheek, and for that I wasn’t expecting. It made me whimper and stagger backwards, causing me to sink to the bed as Jessica watched me. I still had my head down though, but now my tears had been bluntly slapped away. It didn’t stop; Jessica watched me as I sat instinctively on the bed, but it wasn’t over yet. Two more consecutive slaps, in different cheeks, made me whimper quietly at the pain. The contact of her fury on my face made my ears sting too, as if she had shouted at me for years in a row.

And then came the first punch.

It hit my nose and lips unusually harshly, but no blood rushed out of them. I wished I was bleeding because it would have made my face a little numb and the second punch wouldn’t have been so painful. Unfortunately, my brain felt the pain in such a way that my head was thrown against my right shoulder. I had fought back only once and nothing major happened until the next day, when I got from Jessica a picture of my Charlie with a long, ugly, red scar across her face. It happened in one of the first times Jessica had vented her anger, or whatever she was feeling, on me. After that picture, I couldn’t sleep for one month afraid of what she could do to hurt my family.

I learned the hard way that I should always surrender to her will. I had always let her do what she wanted to do with me, not caring about my own pain, as long as myex wife and Charlie were okay. I was doing this for them, not for myself, and so I had to endure those beatings, the words I didn’t want to say and the obsession of a woman I didn’t want to love. She wanted to force me to love her and apparently she hit me because she wanted to punish me for not loving her enough. It had always been a vicious cycle: I didn’t want to love her because this obsession was keeping me away from the two most loved females in my life, so she beat me up harshly and brutally, not until I began whimpering, bleeding or shaking, but until she got tired of doing it. When she beat me like that, she’d always be silent, as palms, feet, elbows and knees hit my muscles and bones; whenever I caught glimpses of her face, there were no feelings plastered on it, but sometimes I glanced her trademark evil smirk.

Yesterday, it was no exception. I could see her slightly smirking features the moment she grabbed my hair and forced me to stare at her. I felt her intrusive gaze against my own, which was still dark-clouded from the recent news that I had received from Jessica. I knew she could read the pain inside me and she recognized it correctly, or she wouldn’t have made me get up and definitely she wouldn’t have pushed me senseless to the floor. And that was when it all began.

There was no possible count of the times we had repeated this moment of a wicked love, of an unwanted obsession. Jessica just watched me as I landed on the carpeted floor with a thump, before kicking my two ankles sharply for no reason but her sick willpower to hurt me. No words could describe the intolerable pain I was feeling, but I still kept silent, refusing to give her any more reason to hurt me even worse. I shut my eyes and my fingers gripped at the carpet, as I got ready for the rest of the kicks. However, I already knew that they wouldn’t hurt me any worse any more, I was already grieving for my deadex wife. I curled myself into a ball as the unhappy little girl of the pictures, my Charlie, flooded into my mind once more. Jessica didn’t kick me anymore; maybe she had read my mind and knew that it wouldn’t affect me that much now, so she forced me to stretch my body again. She made me uncurl on the floor and I whimpered quietly; I felt like I needed my body warmth to keep my heart inside my chest. It felt as though I was about to fall apart any moment.

I guess Jessica wanted exactly that: to rip my heart out of my chest so that she could manipulate it to her will and inject it with love for her. The thought made me shudder in disgust and the feeling wasn’t completely off of my body when she struck me in my lower back. I had to press my lips and keep my eyes closed, and I gripped harder at the carpet; that specific reflexive move of my arm made me hear and feel the nail on my little finger break by the cuticle. I opened my eyes at the pain and a scream hitched in my throat, before I could see the blood pouring out of my finger erratically. Apparently, Jessica didn’t see it, and didn’t hear it as I had heard, because she punched me once more on my right side.

“Jessica…” I dared to call weakly and again I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I knew I wouldn’t let them fall, but a fat one was rebellious enough to escape my left eye, landing loudly on the carpet.

“I love you”, I forced my raspy throat to say out loud and no more slaps, punches, kicks or any other hurtful caresses from her limbs landed on mine. Her manic-depression was then particularly confirmed, as she landed on her knees on the floor, near the back of my neck, and pecked my cheek softly. I never knew the basis for her strange behaviour, bipolar-ly changing from scary and evil to loving and sweet in only a matter of moments. It was shocking.

“I’m here, Frankie. I love you too…” She whispered in my ear before kissing it softly. I felt like I could give myself up to her caresses, if my heart wasn’t so preoccupied with Lauren and Charlie, and if my body wasn’t hurting so much. The worst part of it was my broken nail, or maybe I should say ripped off, since it was aching so much. I opened my eyes again and looked at my hurt hand, immediately feeling the pain worsening as soon as my gaze hit my right little finger. I guess Jessica followed my eyes, as she touched my fingers softly and gasped at the sight.

Jessica had always beaten me up like that, but after that she would hold my body soothingly and take care of any bruises or grazes I might have in my body. She would always clean and dress them with those threatening yet soft fingers of hers. That was how her disease made her act; she could get from manic to sweet in a matter of seconds and no one could predict when she would change. So I was always cautious, waiting for the moment when she would change from a sweet woman into an angry and vengeful lunatic.

And last night I found myself inour Jessica’s bathroom, with a ridiculously huge First Aid box; I had had the same opinion about that box every day Jessica would beat me up, and then get all gooey to take such a meticulous care of my hurt body. It was always the same contradictory actions, always the same bipolar behaviour. Then she walked me over to the bed she called ours and I would have collapsed on it on my right side if I wasn’t so hurt, but I had to do otherwise. I had to lie down carefully and slowly under the duvet, placing my cheek and my right hand on the pillow, letting my bandaged sore little finger rest on it peacefully. Before closing my eyes to sleep, I watched Jessica as she lowered himself to my level and touched my chapped lips with two fingertips, before pecking my mouth. Then I fell asleep to dream of nothing, as my unconscious mind had already learned to be empty of any fantasies, which would give me a false sense of hope and happiness that disappeared quickly when I woke up, and left me emptier than I had been.

This morning, I woke up to sweet caresses on my hair. There was something weird about the scene though, as I didn’t feel my body on the comfortable bed of last night. My head was still on a pillow, but my body was on something as hard as the… floor. The caresses stopped then and I heard someone who I presumed to be Jessica getting up and walking away. I heard the door squeak as she opened it and the sound made my eyes shoot open instinctively. I knew for a fact that the bedroom door didn’t squeak and I knew of only one door in the house that did: the Panic Room door. I looked around as a locking click was heard and my assumptions were proved right.

I was lying on the cold floor of what I called the Panic Room, but it wasn’t a real one, or at least not the ones they mention in movies. This one was my Panic Room, as it couldn’t be opened or unlocked from the inside, it had no windows through which I could escape or even peek outside. There were some small rectangular windows at the highest part of the walls, but they were only big enough to allow some light to enter the room, and they had vertical barriers on the outside, making me feel like I was in a real prison. I felt even more lonely and sad when I was kept in there, because there was nothing in it to distract me from my feelings. It was only me and my pain, and because of that I usually just sank to my lying position and freed the tears I had held back in front of Jessica. It felt terribly wrong to be locked inside that room, with no possibility to escape from my prisoner life of already one year, but yet it was a relief. In there, I was alone and I could cry. Maybe Jessica did it on purpose; maybe she knew I needed to cry my inner lies and pain out, so she brought me to the Panic Room for me to do it in private and without bothering her with my tears and sobs.

This morning it was no exception; as soon as I felt secure by the locked door, I opened my heart to the pain of Lauren’s death, and to the thoughts of those pictures that showed me an unhappy Charlotte. I opened my heart to the pain of loneliness and loss, and I closed my eyes slowly to the feeling of the first welling-up tears. I opened my brain to the pain on my body, especially my right hand with one entire nail missing, and I closed my mind to images of Jessica. I curled up in a ball and let the tears fall silently down my cheeks onto the cold tiles where I was lying. Weak and exposed, I let the sobs take care of my empty bleeding heart and my fragile ribs had to endure the discomfort.

I didn’t know how long it took for me to stop my weeping, but eventually I did, as all the onslaught of the pain took its toil on me both mentally and physically. Probably I spent long hours just lying on the cold floor and hoping that the pain and the unbearable truth was just part of a nightmare. I spent all that time closing and opening my eyes repeatedly, wishing that I would see myself back on the floor of myancient house, the one where my heart and life belonged, but I would always end up disappointed and angry. I was still on the cold tiles of the Panic Room in Jessica’s house, the one she called ours but where I could never fit, not even a little.

At some point, my natural body needs overtook me at last and I found myself sighing, frustrated, at the sensations. I was hungry and needed to go to the bathroom. I was in the Panic Room and I knew that Jessica would have in there what I needed. It wasn’t my first time in that room and I had the feeling that it wouldn’t be my last one; Jessica locked me in there whenever she wanted to go somewhere and because she already knew that I would try to escape.

She prepared this wickedly empty room for me to stay locked in while she was free out there, somewhere. I used to wonder where she would go, but I never asked her and I didn’t think she would ever tell me. Then I decided that I couldn’t care less about her destination. Why should I bother, when I was being locked in and had no access to the real world? I’d always thought I was lucky enough to have a bathroom in the Panic Room, as well as some shelves with small snacks that I could eat. I guess she didn’t want me to die, no matter how much she enjoyed hurting me; she just wanted me to love her, but that I really couldn’t do.

Especially this morning, as I kept remembering Jessica’s words of how Lauren had died, I knew that I could never fall in love with her. This woman took me away from the two most loved females in my life and I would never forgive her for that; Jessica had turned me into a weak boy in a thin adult body, one that was in inward and outward constant agony. She wanted me to love her, to respond to her manic-depressive obsession with pure affection, but that I couldn’t do. And I had to lie to her, or it would get a lot worse than what I was now suffering in her hands: I had to be a whore and a drug seller when it was convenient to Jessica; I had to pretend that I wasn’t worried about myex wife and daughter; I had to surrender to her threats of hurting Charlie; I had to endure the hurt of getting beaten up like some poor bullied kid at school; I had to wait for countless hours inside a locked and empty Panic Room while she was out… and so I waited, patiently, sadly, over and over again… until now.

Now I am just sitting in here, the same empty Panic Room around me, and I can see it is getting dark outside as the sunlight is already leaving the room with its retreating rays. I am just sitting in here, in the same empty Panic Room, and I can feel my body shaking because I am alone, against the cold tiles of the floor and the cool white bricks of the wall. I am just sitting in here, in the same empty Panic Room, and everything in me is already numb from all the hours I’ve spent in here. I’ve been alone all day and I’ve only seen the light of the sun pouring into this place through the small rectangular windows that I can’t reach; there’s nothing else that I can lay my eyes on. I’ve gone to the bathroom only twice and eaten only four small snacks during these long and countless hours I’ve spent in here, the same Panic Room that locks me away from everything else. I have to deal with my pain and now I am accepting the fact that Jessica may have forgotten about me.

I think I am going to die in here, as I sit on the cold floor with my back against the cool wall, and my mind still in that wretched car that took myex wife’s life away, still in the new home where my Charlie is sleeping, maybe unhappily, but at least safely. I am glad that she is okay, at least that’s what Jessica told me yesterday; until a new worry comes to my mind: what if Jessica has gone out this morning to meet and hurt my daughter? At the same time, I don’t think she would do that because I’ve only given her reasons to keep her promise. I told her that I love her and, even that it isn’t true, and Jessica knows it, she promised me that she wouldn’t harm Charlie as long as I was hers. But I would never truly be hers.

And here I am, inside the same Panic Room, not knowing what to think, feeling nothing else apart from my loneliness, my pain of having lost the two most loved females in my life and my hurting body. That’s what I feel the most, my aching soul and my corrupted body. I am weak. I’ve been fragile, more frail than ever, during the past year, not only because I was beaten up, but because I was kept prisoner, away from myex wife and daughter, by this manic-depressive, obsessive woman called Jessica. Jessica…

Mentioning her name in my mind must have worked as a silent call, because now I hear someone ruffling things on the other side of the door that keeps me locked in this Panic Room. I know it is Jessica because no one else has ever come to this house except Jessica and me; I know it is her, but now the sounds have stopped. Maybe I’ve just heard something outside, through the minuscule windows that now spread no light into the room. I can have misinterpreted the sound… but no. There it is again: the ruffling sounds on the other side of the door that keeps me locked in this Panic Room. No matter how much it allows me to cry out my feelings, I will never get used to the lonely feeling this place caused me during the last twelve months. The sounds keep coming through the wall and door, and now I hear the unlocking click that will set me free. The door opens slowly with its usual squeak, which made me recognise my location this morning, and her figure appears at the doorframe, illuminated by the false yellow lights on the other room.

I watch her as she walks towards me. Her light brown hair is long enough to adorn her features, as it falls over her ears and eyes. Her gleaming blue eyes are crashing against mine like the ocean that meets the sand. Her graceful neck, arms and torso form her typically female body and those swaying hips make her come to me in a painful slow motion. If I wasn’t her slave, I could say she was gorgeous; I could even make true love with her. In my current situation, I just can’t love her, even as I watch her intently and agree that she looks handsome in her purple t-shirt, black pants and silver belt with tonnes of sharp details all around it, which make me want to forget how grazed my skin got from its cruel touch some time in the past.

Jessica hurts me even when she doesn’t touch me, because I just need to see her ridiculously gleaming orbs and her scarily evil smirk to go weak on my knees, hands, heart and mind. I have to surrender to her will, even when she smiles at me within her bipolar disease.

That is what’s happening now: she enters the room and walks towards me only to grab my hurt hand and kiss my knuckles gently. I know it’s her manic-depressive way of apologizing and I have to concede, or something may go wrong, with me or with Charlie. And for that I would never forgive my weak self.

“Come, my love, you’ve been alone for too long”, she tells me softly, knowing that I can break under her harsh words. She even helps me to get up and I remember that this has already happened sometimes: locking me in the Panic Room and coming home as sweet and cuddly as a puppy. This woman and her disease intrigue me.

“I missed you”, I tell her, only to soothe her even more, trying to avoid any change in her behaviour she may suffer within seconds. It doesn’t happen though; she just takes my hand in hers and pecks my lips as a response to my words.

“Thank you, Frankie”, she says as we resume our slow pace. “Are you hungry?” she asks me as we pass by the kitchen and I shake my head, telling her that my stomach was still comforted from the snacks, even that I’ve only eaten four in so many hours. It doesn’t matter anymore because she is being so careful that I know I will have a long and smooth night sleep.

In fact, we are heading towards the bedroom, our bedroom she calls it, and as soon as she pushes the door open, I can see the square shapes spread on the bed: photographs. She lets go of my hand and lets me walk to the bed, but I think I shouldn’t do it. I do not know what these pictures will show me, but I hear her lips parting into a smirk and I just feel that something will go wrong.

And now I finally see the photographs.

I don’t even need to grab any of them to see what they show me: they’re pictures of a funeral. I instantly feel the tears coming to my eyes, but I try my best to not let them fall; I close my eyes to retract those tears so that the silent predator behind me doesn’t see them. You can’t cry, you are strong, I tell myself inside my mind, though my heart is closed and insisting on not taking the orders. That’s when I see it: the picture Jessica wanted to show me the most; I know that because it is in the exact centre of the square shape all the pictures form on the bed, but that’s not the only reason for it. In that picture, I see Charlie.

I close my eyes and tell myself that it isn’t true, but when I open them it’s still there: the photograph that shows me the angelic face of my daughter, in the middle of so many other people, all dressed in black. I know what it means, I know what these shots on paper represent, and I can’t retract them anymore. The tears abandon my eyes in a stormy current and immediately drench my cheeks, as I keep staring at my daughter, who looks unhappy, in myex wife’s funeral. Lauren is gone forever and my heart dies with the vision of these photographs. Charlotte is so unhappy that my body system fails to let me breathe; I start hyperventilating, but still manage to avoid the sobs that ascend through my insides and hitch in my throat. Suddenly, I feel a pair of arms surrounding my middle and a pair of hands landing on my sides, anticipating a kiss on the back of my neck. In a reflexive move, I bluntly wipe away my tears with my coarse hands and simply stare at the photographs.

“You went there?” I ask her even that I already know the obvious answer to my own question.

“Yes, Frankie. I wanted to check on your daughter; she’s an orphan now, so I wanted to make sure she has a proper life with her new family”, Jessica tells me in a low and somehow comforting tone. It feels strangely soothing and her words caress my ears as she says them, but I don’t know if I trust her completely. After all, she has never been and will never be a stable woman: Jessica seems emotionally empty and mentally ill. I can’t trust her.

“Why did you lock me in that room again? You know I wanted to be there!” I say, a little too harshly and I regret it immediately, especially because Jessica takes her arms off my waist and turns me around to face her. I see that sick, obsessive gleam again and I shiver in my spot.

“You are mine now, Frankie”, she simply tells me, never breaking our eye contact, except when she leans in to peck and lick my inert lips. At the same time, I look down to the spot on the carpeted floor that still has the blood stains from my ripped-off nail of last night. I shiver again and she just speaks, “make love to me.”

I look at her again and meet the same sweet gaze she sent me when she entered the Panic Room earlier today. I don’t know what to do now; I’ve ‘made love’ to her some times in the past and I managed to imagine that I was with Lauren, but now myex wife is gone forever and I know that I can’t pretend anymore. And that’s why I simply stand here, looking at Jessica, watching her eyes shine awkwardly, hearing her repeating the request and spreading small kisses and caresses on my face. I close my eyes at her touch, because it feels wrong yet so good; I’ve missed this kind of affection.

With my eyes closed, I am imagining that Lauren is here to say goodbye to me. I can see her blond hair, with those perfect curls of a cherub that make her look so adorable, while the un-blowing wind vibrates against it. I can see her wide, profound and love-filled eyes, two incredible orbs covered in such a soft green that it is an extension of the purest nature. I can see her plump and delicious pink lips that still feel so soft, as they touch all the sensitive spots in my neck and shoulders. I can see her gorgeous hands, of thin, long and patiently sculpted fingers, and her perfectly shaped nails, which she always adorns with a beautiful yet discreet pink nail-varnish. She’s so perfect, beautiful and real that I feel her arms sliding my t-shirt over my head, in such a devoted touch that I sigh with nothing but love in the air that abandons my lungs and smoothly plays with the tip of her small and oh-so cute nose. She’s so perfect, beautiful and real that I open my eyes and she’s still here, smiling at me, in her subtle yet happy way, as our gazes collide with love. Lauren is still here, my amazing and irreplaceable wife; she’s still here, not Jessica.

I feel my lips parting into a soft smile, responding toJessica Lauren’s gesture and I sigh again. As I complete the vision of my dreams, I take her hand and walk us over to the bed. I lie down softly on my back, though supporting my weight on my elbows, and watch asJessica Lauren slowly and lovingly takes her unique spot over my body. She straddles me carefully, as if afraid that she would hurt me, and kisses me on my lips. I cup one of her cheeks with my palm, which misses her soft skin so much, and start lowering us entirely on the bed. As we get to our loved horizontal position,Jessica Lauren lovingly on top of my needing body, our lips never abandon their favourite embrace of each other. They are moving by themselves, lost in their own world of love and peace, as I feel her hands slowly caressing my exposed skin, my torso.Jessica Lauren has always loved to touch my skin and I’ve always loved her warm strokes, as her long and patiently sculpted fingers roam across every tiny inch on my chest.

She is careful and loving like that, no matter how lustful her own body is. She is careful and loving like that, and I adore her in that exact perfection.Jessica Lauren’s lips abandon mine and I shudder at the loss of contact, as I miss her tongue sweetly rubbing against my own, but I know it’s not over yet. She starts kissing along my skin, insisting in carrying on with her caresses towards my middle, and her lips feel heavenly against it; I think I have died and gotten to Paradise.Jessica Lauren continues her kisses along my exposed skin and I feel her soft, blond hair touching me with love on each part of it. There’s never lust; only love, a true love that only we can share, and it’s not a dream: it’s happening, it’s real. She has to slow down her caresses as she gets to my waist, where she meets my lower part of the body. One of her gorgeous hands touches the already stirring skin around my navel and I shut my eyes closed at the faintness of that touch. I can feel her lovable energy consuming my soul and spreading all over my body, especially when she palms, as smoothly as she can, the weakest spot in me, exclusively weak underJessica Lauren’s touch. She keeps rubbing there, her divine hands gracing all the possible lines of my growing member, exclusively growing under her touch, and her lips meet mine again to yet another passionate kiss.

From there, our loving movements get coincident and warmer, as we undress each other to nothing more than our pure nudities. And it feels so right, it feels so perfect, to once more feelJessica Lauren’s skin against my entire bare body; I’d just implode of love at this moment, and I know she feels the same as she continuously professes her love to me, not only through her kissable lips or her lovable fingertips, but also through words.

“I love you, I love you, I love you…” she repeats, over and over again, as I turn us over as she beckons me to do.

“I love you, I love you, I love you…” she continues, over and over again, as I position myself between her now stark and always marvellous legs as she enlaces them around my middle.

“I love you, I love you, I love you…” she insists, over and over again, as I start pushing in to her warm and loving core.

I hear her moaning and sighing in pleasure and in love, as I begin thrusting slowly, trying to find her inner weakness. I already know its hidden location, in the upper part of the warm and desirous insides that now surround my love-filled member, and I try my best, with all my heart as well, to reach and hit that single spot, exactly after I respond in a whisper:

“I love you too, Lauren.”

I am now inwardly ready to thrust upwards and faster, to fulfil my and her loving hunger, but I feel her arms pushing me out of her and onto the floor. My naked body, my exposed flesh, hits the carpeted surface and I open my eyes to look at her:Lauren Jessica. It’s not Lauren anymore; it’s this manic-depressive, obsessive woman that stole me from the world one year ago, and she certainly doesn’t look happy.

I watch her as she dresses her underwear, and then the t-shirt I had removed from her body only moments ago. I’m just watching, because I don’t know how to react; I was making love to Lauren, but it was Jessica’s body. I should have never closed my eyes the first time; I should have been reluctant in my movements and unwilling in my thrusts, but no. I had to ruin the current peace in the house. Now I feel ridiculous, dim-witted, angry at myself, for having acted like a fool boy with an impossible crush on someone famous. I acted wrong and my present feelings of sadness prove it.

Now she screams; Jessica screams as I’ve never heard her scream before, while her hands, not gorgeous anymore as they’re not Lauren’s, scatter furiously the photographs to the floor. The bed is big enough, and we have been lying there with the pictures of Lauren’s funeral at the end of this bed. It hurts me and hits me like a thousand hammers of Thor banging in the skies, especially now as I watch Jessica walking back to where I am.

I don’t know what’s coming next, as she always manages to surprise me with her wicked, obsessive ways of hurting me and all my fears crash down on me. I was such a foolish boy in that bed! Now I regret it, so deeply and intensely, that I let my tears fall for Jessica’s eyes to see. And she’s coming, she’s getting closer to me, with her evil smirk and her hateful gaze on her face; she’s getting closer to me and she stops moving when she’s hovering above my curled-up and tiny-as-never frame. I can feel my fears crashing down on me, but I look up at her, or the consequences will be worse than what I am expecting. I look up at her and meet her hateful gaze.

There; she slaps me; once, twice, three times and I can only receive the now angry caresses. I mentioned Lauren and now she knows that I don’t love her truthfully. She slaps me again and grabs my hair, pulling at it and making me cry out in pain. She pulls more harshly at my hair, and I swear that I can hear and feel some locks of it being ripped forcefully from my head. I know that I must not cry and so I silence my tears, as Jessica forces me to crawl over to the spot in the bedroom where the pictures are scattered all over the floor, the same carpeted surface that met my blood yesterday and will definitely meet it again tonight.

Jessica stops me and pushes my head to the floor, making me whimper as my face hits the hard surface, over two random photographs. She’s forcing my head down, as if she wants to crash it right here and now, and I have to release a slight yet loud yelp. She lifts my head furiously and her eyes are level with mine: “What did you call me?”

I don’t answer because I know that she’s gonna beat me up again either way. I don’t answer and she slaps me with her free hand, once, twice, and it hurts like a punch: “What the fuck did you call me, Frank?!”

She repeats the question and slaps me again, before pushing my head onto the floor again. I don’t answer, but I whimper; I have to whimper because today the pain is unbearable, as there is acrid anger and hatred in each of her movements. I don’t answer, but tears fall freely down my cheeks and onto the floor, and I have to close my eyes for brief seconds to catch a breath and remain alive. I now think that dying wouldn’t be so bad actually…

I feel her grip on my hair loosening and I think that it’s gonna evolve to the routine of my last year. She’s gonna beat me up, but it’s gonna be smooth, not with all this anger, I think, but my mind is too fast. It is because it made me think of such a thing about Jessica and thus this obsessive woman surprises me once again: she steps on my right little finger with her foot, and when the bandaged skin is crushed against the carpet, I remember what I don’t have there: my nail. I shout crazily in pain, and cry out the answer to her previous question.

“Lauren! I called you Lauren! I’m sorry!” I scream, yearning for her manic-depressive side to disappear for now, but it just doesn’t. Jessica actually lets go of my handicapped finger, but her grip on my hair only worsens and she presses me harder against the ground.

“Say that again, Frankie; admit that you’re guilty”, she orders, and I immediately obey. I repeat my answer, insisting on telling her that I am sorry, and for some moments, it gets better. Her grasp on my hair loosens once again.

However, it’s not over yet; this obsessive, bipolar woman is not finished with her hatred and anger. Jessica slaps me and punches me, on my face and on my stomach; reflexively, I try to curl my body into a new ball, but once more she prevents me from doing it. She lets go of my hair and forces my body to a full stretched position again, before attacking me harshly and repeatedly with her hands, fists and elbows, as she’s kneeling in front of me. For what seems like long moments, the torture doesn’t end and I feel my skin ripping from the hits. Although Jessica persists in beating me up like another bullied kid at school, I can feel her slowing down the slaps, the punches and the kicks gradually until they come to a full stop. I do not sigh in relief and do not cry in pain either, but the silent tears keep dropping, and the inner fears keep crashing down on me. They continue endlessly.

When she stops, I have a chance to breathe again, at least consciously, and I feel her getting up. I breathe in and then out, before opening my eyes and watching her as she walks closer to the bed again, closer to the spot of my stupid and childish mistake, closer to the pile of our clothes. I freeze when I realize what she’s looking for. I don’t need to follow the movement of her hands; I just have to glance that look on her face as she smirks evilly, obsessively and manic-depressively at me. At this moment, as the object lingers on her hands and I watch her as she now moves closer to me, closer to her obsession, closer to “the perfect one for her heart, the man of her life, the one in her fate”. At this moment, begging does not seem enough to save me.

“Please, don’t… no, not the”, I gulp. I gulp and I wince, before stuttering my final word, “b-belt.”