As Free as a Caged Bird

The hot water streams down at a wonderful pressure on the top of my head. It massages the headache and tense nerves away, but it can't erase the memories that flash behind my eyes. I see the way they used to touch me. My eyes sting from tears, and I gladly let them fall; the salty water mixes with the water that falls from the shower head, leaving no evidence that I was crying other than the few quiet sobs that I couldn't hold back. My hands grip the cool tiles of the shower wall, helping me keep my balance.

I was finally happy, finally pleased with my life, and then the dark past comes back to haunt me and destroy all that I had come to build. I was no longer the "slut", the "whore", the "piece of ass" that any man who walked through those doors could use to his disposable. I paid my debt, in one of the worst ways possible, but I paid it. I got in there, and three years later, I was finally free.

I lied to him. I still have the nightmares, but they are more about what happened to me, than what he had done to me.

The feel of their hands on my thighs and hips was still fresh. No hot shower and expensive body wash could wash away the texture of their hands and the actions that those hands did. I still had the scars on my back from when I fought the men, when I refused to give in and be the "slut"; the "whore"; the "piece of ass" that I was to be to pay my debt.

At certain times in the day, I could feel the scars burn like they had just been made. I shivered, and goosebumps ran up my skin at the single thought of those men using me the way they did. The water was now scalding.

And then he came along. He saw my misery, saw the cry for help that my broken eyes held, and he helped me. He pulled me from those dirty hands and slimy lips, only to touch me with his own dirty hands; but he cared about me. I was no faceless "slut", or "whore", or "piece of ass". I was Becca. I was his Becca. I was Syn's Becca.

It repeats over and over again in my head.

For a year I hung off his arm, glad to finally be away from the random men that came for pleasure and left with empty pockets. I did feel sorry for the girls that were still stuck in the situation I had been in, but in a world like that you can only care for your own well being. I was reluctant with him, and he saw it, but he made me comfortable, he took his time to chisel down those walls. He took me apart, brick by brick.

I was a desperate poor soul looking to finally have a purpose. I didn't want to fall into the mundane task of being a man's sex toy, but I had. For two years that was what I had been, but he saved me like a knight in shining armor, coming to claim his damsel from the fire-breathing dragon. I no longer walked around the mansion in just my skin and a pair of heels and a black collar. I strutted through those fucking halls with clothes and his royal purple collar. He gave me gifts. He made me remind myself of the Becca I had been before I walked through those doors and signed the dotted line of three years.

But slowly, as my three years came to an end, he grew more distant. He went to other women, spent more time out of the mansion and on jobs. He wasn't the Brian that I remembered helping me get through the punishment of disobeying Shadows in front of his business partners. He wasn't the Brian that was there to hold my hand and wipe away my tears as they tore the scars even deeper into my skin.

I may be free from the walls of the mansion, but I'm still a caged bird, held back by the memories that happened within those walls.

I shiver again. More goosebumps rise on my skin, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. The water is cold, now. I sigh and stare at the wall of the shower; right at the tile between my hands that still grip the wall. The tile and I have come to be very close enemies. I've almost won this staring contest, and then I blink. Reality comes crashing back, along with the cold water hitting my still-red skin. I step out of the water, turning off the knob, and walk from the doorless bathroom.

My apartment is worse than the solitary confinement cells of the mansion, but the water pressure is good and the floors don't creak. This is what I've brought myself down to... living in a crack-addict's apartment, I think to myself as I walk down the short hall of my apartment and into my bedroom. I don't own much to my name. There's a bed bug-infested bed in the corner with thrift store sheets and a pillow, and a box of a week's worth of clothes that I need to take to the laundry mat down the street to clean.

There's a fridge that doesn't stay cold that holds a few bottles of water and a gallon of expired milk. I have an empty box of cereal sitting on the counter and a few over-ripped apples laying carelessly wherever they rolled after I put them down. It's a change from the Egyptian cotton sheets and fresh strawberries with cream at my disposal.

But I won't go back, I tell myself. I can't go back.

I walk up to the box and take out the only clean pile of clothes left. I stare at the thread-bare tee and baggy jeans. Miss Caroll and Elena have noticed that I wear the same things every week, but they haven't said anything and I'm glad. I don't get paid much at the salon. Just enough to pay the rent and buy a handful of groceries every two weeks. I've come down very far from where I once was, but this is what I have made of myself, and I'm forced to live with it.

"Do they hurt?"

I scream and jump, trying to cover my wet, naked body with the clothes as I stare at the dark figure leaning against the wall of my bedroom.

"Who's there!" I yell, keeping the clothes as close to my body as I can.

He steps out from the shadow that casts against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Do they hurt?"

"What are you doing here? How did you find me?" I hurry to put the clothes on, not taking my eyes off of him.

"I followed you, Becca. I had to make you listen to me." He steps closer. There's no where for me to go. I stand still by the box of dirty clothes. "Do they hurt?"

"Does what hurt?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest to try and hide the fact that I have gone braless. Even though he has seen me in nothing but a smile and a pair of heels, I don't feel comfortable with my body after what happened. Not around him, at least.

"The scars," he simply says, and those two words make sharp, hot rips run across my back. I wince and drop my arms, trying to find a comfortable position to stand in so that pain doesn't become too much. When I close my eyes and open them again, feeling the pain lessen, only slightly, he's standing in front of me, his face bare of emotion.

I can see the bags under his eyes and the stubble that cover his chin. His eyes are a deep brown, the color of the chocolate strawberries he used to feed me on Saturday nights. Those thoughts make me wince, along with the pain coming from my back. His hands are cautious as they touch my skin. I'm took distracted to notice his hands as the burning on my back grows and grows. And then, I feel his calloused, trigger-pulling fingers touch the scars from under my shirt.

The sigh of relief that passes through my lips makes him smile slightly. His fingers trace each one, overlapping the deeper, older scars that don't seem to hurt as much as the newer ones.

"I'm so sorry," he tells me again, but I'm too distracted by the pain-relief that I don't fully hear the words. After his fingers have traced each scar, each scar that he watched as they tore into my back, his hands press against the small of my back as he presses me closely to his chest. His nose nuzzles into my wet blonde hair.

There's a few minutes of silence between us. The pain-relief wears off, and while the scars don't hurt, I realize the compromising position I've gotten myself into with him. Subtly, I shift my body to pull away from him, but he notices and goes to wrap his arms fully around my waist. I don't fight him because I have no more strength to fight him back, with.

"Come back with me," he whispers in a desperate attempt to make me go back to the place I swore I'd never set foot in. I'm out of tears to cry, but my throat burns still.

"I can't," I tell him, and this time, I do pull back.

"Why not?" he asks me, his voice still soft. His fingers run through the wet strands of my hair, looking at the blonde tone of them. I've been waiting for him to say something about it.

"I just can't," I strain to get out. I take a step back, and his fingers let go of my hair. He stares at me now. I can see the leashed anger in his eyes. He's trying to stay calm, but his patience is wearing thin.

"Say my name," he commands me. I sigh and go to open my mouth, but he interrupts me. "Say my name, Becca."

My lips press in a thin line. "Syn," I say, but the anger in his eyes flares and I know that's not what he meant. His hands grip my biceps, and he pushes me against the dirty wall of my bedroom. His face is barely an inch from mine. I can feel his hot, sweet breath on my face.

"No, Becca. Say my name."

My throat closes up and my eyes squeeze shut. I shake my head, and I can feel the muscles in his fingers flex as he grips my arms tighter and slams me against the wall.

"Say my fucking name!" he yells at me, and while I have no tears, I sob, dropping my head to my chest. I'm a broken song bird, out of songs. The anger is still there, but he tries to calm down for my sake. "Why can't you say my name, Becca? You've screamed it in ecstasy hundreds of times. Just two syllables. Please, Becca, say my name. Just once. I have to hear you say it one more time."

"I can't," I choke out, the sobs rack through my chest as my head falls against his shoulder. We're both desperate now. His hands fall from my arms. Slowly, he steps back. My eyes never look up at him. They burn, along with my throat, and it's my heart that hurts this time, instead of my chest.

Brian doesn't say a goodbye as he steps away. He simply stands there as I slide down the wall, my legs curling up as my knees are hugged to my chest. I'm not sure of when he left. I'm not sure of when I fell asleep, either. The sound of boots thudding on the dirty wood floor, though, is what wakes me up.

I lift my head from my knees and feel the crick in my neck from the awkward way I fell asleep. A man dressed fully in black steps into my room. I stumble to stand, my legs stiff from being bent all night. I try to run for the cell phone that my brother gave me, but two strong hands grab me and hold me down. Another wraps a piece of black cloth around my head, impairing my vision. And then, a cloth with the sweetly sickening smell of chloroform is pressed to my mouth and nose. I fight to free my mouth, but after taking a large breath of the chemical, I'm easily knocked unconscious.

Brian!