“I know. I know.” He holds his hand up. “I’m just callously illustrating a point, Christian. You’re an angry man, and you have every reason to be. I’m not going to rehash all that right now—you’re obviously suffering, and the whole point of these sessions is to move you to a place where you are more accepting and comfortable with yourself.” He pauses. “This girl…”
“Anastasia,” I mutter petulantly.
“Anastasia. She’s obviously had a profound effect on you. Her leaving has triggered your abandonment issues and your PTSD. She clearly means much more to you than you’re willing to admit to yourself.”
I take a sharp breath. Is that why this is so painful? Because she means more, so much more?
“You need to focus on where you want to be,” Flynn continues. “And it sounds to me like you want to be with this girl. You miss her. Do you want to be with her?”
Be with Ana?
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Then you have to focus on that goal. This goes back to what I’ve been banging on about for our last few sessions—the SFBT. If she’s in love with you, as she told you she is, she must be suffering, too. So I repeat my question: have you considered a more conventional relationship with this girl?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s never occurred to me that I could.”
“Well if she’s not prepared to be your submissive, you can’t play the role of dominant.”
I glare at him. It’s not a role—it’s who I am. And from nowhere, I recall an earlier e-mail to Anastasia. My words: What I think you fail to realize is that in Dom/sub relationships it is the sub who has all the power. That’s you. I’ll repeat this—you are the one with all the power. Not I. If she doesn’t want to do this…then neither can I.
Hope stirs in my chest.
Could I?
Could I have a vanilla relationship with Anastasia?
My scalp prickles.
Fuck. Possibly.
If I could, would she want me back?
“Christian, you have demonstrated that you are an extraordinarily capable person, in spite of your problems. You’re a rare individual. Once you focus on a goal, you drive ahead and achieve it—usually surpassing all your own expectations. Listening to you today, it’s clear you were focused on getting Anastasia to where you wanted her to be, but you didn’t take into account her inexperience or her feelings. It seems to me that you’ve been so focused on reaching your goal that you missed the journey that you were taking together.”
The last month flashes before me: her tripping into my office, her acute embarrassment at Clayton’s, her witty, snarky e-mails, her smart mouth…her giggle…her quiet fortitude and defiance, her courage—and it occurs to me that I have enjoyed every single minute. Every infuriating, distracting, humorous, sensual, carnal second of her—yes, I have. We’ve been on an extraordinary journey, both of us—well, I certainly have.
My thoughts take a darker turn.
She doesn’t know the depths of my depravity, the darkness in my soul, the monster beneath—maybe I should leave her alone.
I’m not worthy of her. She can’t love me.
But even as I think the words, I know that I don’t have the strength to stay away from her…if she’ll have me.
Flynn summons my attention. “Christian, think about it. Our time is up now. I want to see you in a few days and talk through some of the other issues you mentioned. I’ll have Janet call Andrea and arrange an appointment.” He stands, and I know it’s time to leave.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” I tell him.
“I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t. Just a few days, Christian. We have so much more to talk about.” He shakes my hand and gives me a reassuring smile, and I leave with a small blossom of hope.
STANDING ON THE BALCONY, I survey Seattle at night. Up here I’m at one remove, away from it all. What did she call it?
My ivory tower.
Normally I find it peaceful—but lately my peace of mind has been shattered by a certain blue-eyed young woman.
“Have you thought about trying a relationship her way?” Flynn’s words taunt me, suggesting so many possibilities.
Could I win her back? The thought terrifies me.
I take a sip of my cognac. Why would she want me back? Could I ever be what she wants me to be? I won’t let go of my hope. I need to find a way.
I need her.
Something startles me—a movement, a shadow at the periphery of my vision. I frown. What the…? I turn toward the shadow, but find nothing. I’m seeing things now. I slug the cognac and head back into the living room.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 8, 2011
Mommy! Mommy! Mommy is asleep on the floor. She has been asleep for a long time. I shake her. She doesn’t wake up. I call her. She doesn’t wake up. He isn’t here and still Mommy doesn’t wake up.
I am thirsty. In the kitchen I pull a chair to the sink and I have a drink. The water splashes over my sweater. My sweater is dirty. Mommy is still asleep. Mommy, wake up! She lies still. She is cold. I fetch my blankie and I cover Mommy and I lie down on the sticky green rug beside her.
My tummy hurts. It is hungry, but Mommy is still asleep. I have two toy cars. One red. One yellow. My green car is gone. They race by the floor where Mommy is sleeping. I think Mommy is sick. I search for something to eat. In the icebox I find peas. They are cold. I eat them slowly. They make my tummy hurt. I sleep beside Mommy. The peas are gone. In the icebox is something. It smells funny. I lick it and my tongue sticks. I eat it slowly. It tastes nasty. I drink some water. I play with my cars and I sleep beside Mommy. Mommy is so cold and she won’t wake up. The door crashes open. I cover Mommy with my blankie. Fuck. What the fuck happened here? Oh, the crazy fucked-up bitch. Shit. Fuck. Get out of my way, you little shit. He kicks me and I hit my head on the floor. My head hurts. He calls somebody and he goes. He locks the door. I lay down beside Mommy. My head hurts. The lady policeman is here. No. No. No. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. I stay by Mommy. No. Stay away from me. The lady policeman has my blankie and she grabs me. I scream. Mommy. Mommy. The words are gone. I can’t say the words. Mommy can’t hear me. I have no words.
I wake breathing hard, taking huge gulps of air, checking my surroundings. Oh, thank God—I’m in my bed. Slowly the fear recedes. I’m twenty-seven, not four. This shit has to stop.
“Anastasia,” I mutter petulantly.
“Anastasia. She’s obviously had a profound effect on you. Her leaving has triggered your abandonment issues and your PTSD. She clearly means much more to you than you’re willing to admit to yourself.”
I take a sharp breath. Is that why this is so painful? Because she means more, so much more?
“You need to focus on where you want to be,” Flynn continues. “And it sounds to me like you want to be with this girl. You miss her. Do you want to be with her?”
Be with Ana?
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Then you have to focus on that goal. This goes back to what I’ve been banging on about for our last few sessions—the SFBT. If she’s in love with you, as she told you she is, she must be suffering, too. So I repeat my question: have you considered a more conventional relationship with this girl?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s never occurred to me that I could.”
“Well if she’s not prepared to be your submissive, you can’t play the role of dominant.”
I glare at him. It’s not a role—it’s who I am. And from nowhere, I recall an earlier e-mail to Anastasia. My words: What I think you fail to realize is that in Dom/sub relationships it is the sub who has all the power. That’s you. I’ll repeat this—you are the one with all the power. Not I. If she doesn’t want to do this…then neither can I.
Hope stirs in my chest.
Could I?
Could I have a vanilla relationship with Anastasia?
My scalp prickles.
Fuck. Possibly.
If I could, would she want me back?
“Christian, you have demonstrated that you are an extraordinarily capable person, in spite of your problems. You’re a rare individual. Once you focus on a goal, you drive ahead and achieve it—usually surpassing all your own expectations. Listening to you today, it’s clear you were focused on getting Anastasia to where you wanted her to be, but you didn’t take into account her inexperience or her feelings. It seems to me that you’ve been so focused on reaching your goal that you missed the journey that you were taking together.”
The last month flashes before me: her tripping into my office, her acute embarrassment at Clayton’s, her witty, snarky e-mails, her smart mouth…her giggle…her quiet fortitude and defiance, her courage—and it occurs to me that I have enjoyed every single minute. Every infuriating, distracting, humorous, sensual, carnal second of her—yes, I have. We’ve been on an extraordinary journey, both of us—well, I certainly have.
My thoughts take a darker turn.
She doesn’t know the depths of my depravity, the darkness in my soul, the monster beneath—maybe I should leave her alone.
I’m not worthy of her. She can’t love me.
But even as I think the words, I know that I don’t have the strength to stay away from her…if she’ll have me.
Flynn summons my attention. “Christian, think about it. Our time is up now. I want to see you in a few days and talk through some of the other issues you mentioned. I’ll have Janet call Andrea and arrange an appointment.” He stands, and I know it’s time to leave.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” I tell him.
“I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t. Just a few days, Christian. We have so much more to talk about.” He shakes my hand and gives me a reassuring smile, and I leave with a small blossom of hope.
STANDING ON THE BALCONY, I survey Seattle at night. Up here I’m at one remove, away from it all. What did she call it?
My ivory tower.
Normally I find it peaceful—but lately my peace of mind has been shattered by a certain blue-eyed young woman.
“Have you thought about trying a relationship her way?” Flynn’s words taunt me, suggesting so many possibilities.
Could I win her back? The thought terrifies me.
I take a sip of my cognac. Why would she want me back? Could I ever be what she wants me to be? I won’t let go of my hope. I need to find a way.
I need her.
Something startles me—a movement, a shadow at the periphery of my vision. I frown. What the…? I turn toward the shadow, but find nothing. I’m seeing things now. I slug the cognac and head back into the living room.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 8, 2011
Mommy! Mommy! Mommy is asleep on the floor. She has been asleep for a long time. I shake her. She doesn’t wake up. I call her. She doesn’t wake up. He isn’t here and still Mommy doesn’t wake up.
I am thirsty. In the kitchen I pull a chair to the sink and I have a drink. The water splashes over my sweater. My sweater is dirty. Mommy is still asleep. Mommy, wake up! She lies still. She is cold. I fetch my blankie and I cover Mommy and I lie down on the sticky green rug beside her.
My tummy hurts. It is hungry, but Mommy is still asleep. I have two toy cars. One red. One yellow. My green car is gone. They race by the floor where Mommy is sleeping. I think Mommy is sick. I search for something to eat. In the icebox I find peas. They are cold. I eat them slowly. They make my tummy hurt. I sleep beside Mommy. The peas are gone. In the icebox is something. It smells funny. I lick it and my tongue sticks. I eat it slowly. It tastes nasty. I drink some water. I play with my cars and I sleep beside Mommy. Mommy is so cold and she won’t wake up. The door crashes open. I cover Mommy with my blankie. Fuck. What the fuck happened here? Oh, the crazy fucked-up bitch. Shit. Fuck. Get out of my way, you little shit. He kicks me and I hit my head on the floor. My head hurts. He calls somebody and he goes. He locks the door. I lay down beside Mommy. My head hurts. The lady policeman is here. No. No. No. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. I stay by Mommy. No. Stay away from me. The lady policeman has my blankie and she grabs me. I scream. Mommy. Mommy. The words are gone. I can’t say the words. Mommy can’t hear me. I have no words.
I wake breathing hard, taking huge gulps of air, checking my surroundings. Oh, thank God—I’m in my bed. Slowly the fear recedes. I’m twenty-seven, not four. This shit has to stop.
