Saturday, July 12, 2014

No, Daddy, No: Part 1: The Demon at the Door

This is a piece that I developed over 2 semesters of college. The first incarnation was in a Noir Fiction workshop, consisting of perhaps 3 drafts. The second was in a Fiction workshop, with 4 more drafts. I'm a fantasy writer, but that wasn't allowed in my college classes, so I wrote things about BDSM, polyamory, and the redneck soap opera that is my brother's life. Many of my stories involved my friends and people I knew. This piece is very personal, and 7,600 words long, so it's going up in parts. There are many elements of my failed first relationship in this story, although all the horrifying shit is completely fictional. This was my attempt at catharsis. I hope you enjoy it. 

By the time she heard the knock on her door, Kate had a nice buzz going. Maybe more than a buzz.  She had long since abandoned the Solo cup on the table beside her in favor of the bottle of vodka now cradled in her lap.  Her limbs felt heavy and her brain was a little fuzzy. It took her a minute to figure out the knocking was not, in fact, coming from the Viking documentary she was watching and she looked at the clock on the VCR.  Who the hell was knocking on her door at one in the morning?

Rolling off of the cream leather couch, she pulled on a soft grey hoodie to make up for the bra tossed haphazardly on the top of the armchair sitting by the entry to the hallway.  Dodging the small towers of books she'd been sorting through earlier, she zigzagged into the kitchen to open the door, liquor bottle in hand.

"Katie?"

She slammed the door in Drake's face.  It wasn't much of an impact.  Trailer doors are notoriously flimsy pieces of shit.  They don't make much of a sound when thrown in people's faces, but that wasn't the point.

Even more to the point, what was he doing here?

"Katie? Please let me in."

She opened the door for a brief second to throw the restraining order she'd gotten last week in his face, and slammed it again.  She had been reluctant to get one.  She hadn't thought she'd need it and she didn't like dealing with law of any sort, but Deanna had been insistent for some reason, going so far as having her husband Jim drive Kate to the Crawford County courthouse to get it.  Kate wasn't sure why.  Surely Deanna knew that restraining orders were pointless, but Deanna had always been a bit of a mother hen with her. She'd been protecting Kate ever since Kate had begun harvesting tomatoes on Jim's farm back when she was a teenager.  Kate imagined the useless piece of paper fluttering ineffectually to the ground in front of him.

"Katie?"

"Fuck you! Go away!"

She looked at her bottle and took a swig.  It burned on the way down and she coughed. She didn't want him close to her; close enough to sap her willpower with the need to touch him.

"Katherine."  Drake's voice took a hard edge.  While not deep, his voice was still masculine and commanding enough that she felt compelled to open the door against her will.

She sat down in front of the door, hugging her knees.  She couldn't let him in.  If she blocked the door, maybe she wouldn't.

"Katie?" he said again, his voice a little softer.

"Go. Away." She spoke the words into her knees, so they came out a little muffled.

A tentative knock came from somewhere near her head this time. She looked at the spot and knocked back with the thick glass of the Barnett's vanilla vodka. The small wooden deck that sat outside her door creaked slightly as Drake moved.

"Baby?" he said, his voice coming from the spot where he'd knocked.  

Maybe it was curiosity that made her do it, maybe it was the liquor eating away at her judgment.  Maybe it was the fact that he'd only ever called her "baby" once in their almost two years together, but she stood up and opened the door.  She backed away from it as soon as she threw it open, clutching the neck of the bottle in her hand as her ass came up against the dishwasher.

Drake wasn't a very big man, only of about average height, but he had a big presence.  He was relatively fit, except for the small protrusion of his stomach that he could never get rid of.  He could have hidden that, but he had a penchant for wearing shirts that were too tight. The blue MMA t-shirt he wore now was definitely too tight, clinging to the muscle of his arms. His jeans sagged a little, held up by an old black belt embellished with three rows of silver pyramid studs. The sides of his head were buzzed, his jet black hair trimmed harshly across the top.  A couple of weeks' worth of beard covered his unwrinkled face.  The aggression emanated from him like heat from an oven. He was intimidating, he always had been.

He came toward her, his arms lifting like he wanted to hug her.

"Have a seat," said Kate, stepping to the side to avoid him. He dropped his arms, giving her a slow once-over before going the living room to the dirty grey armchair draped with a white blanket.  He stopped for a moment to move the bra before taking a seat.

"What are you doin' here?" Her words were a little slurred.  She took another small drink from the bottle because she didn't know what else to do.

He frowned at her slightly, looking at the bottle and back at her face.

"I was in town, and I wanted to see you."

Kate snorted. "Didn't wanna see me before."

"That was then."

"And this is now? You run outta money, or somethin'?" She took a step toward the bar, swaying a little. She caught the edge of it to steady herself.

His brow furrowed. "Are you drunk?"

"Screw you." Kate dug a shot glass out of the cabinet and shakily slammed it onto the bar.

"Watch yourself, Katherine." There was that voice again, the same one he'd used to try to get her to open the door.  It pissed her off.

She sat the bottle down slowly, trying to calm herself.  His dark brown, almost black, eyes were hard.  "Keep your orders to yourself, thank you very much. You ain't got no claim on me."

Drake shot off the chair and slapped his hands on the bar, glaring at her, his face inches away from hers, daring her to press harder.  His breath smelled like beer.  "I got more claim than anybody else."

Kate snatched up the bottle to screw the cap back on and slammed it back down on the bar.  It wobbled as she almost missed the edge of the bar.  "You took off like a little chicken shit to some state you never been to. Oh, wait, but that's where that crack whore lives, ain't it? The one who's been threatenin' to turn you in for foolin' around with that sixteen year old a couple years ago?"

"I'm gonna tell you one last time, bitch.  Watch yourself."

She tucked a lock of dark blonde hair behind her ear, the buzz crashing into a roar.  "And I'm gonna tell you one time only…jackass…call me a bitch again, and you can get the hell outta my house."

He smacked her hard on the cheek.  Kate blinked at the sting, surprised by the slap.  It was a decent little pop, well-aimed.  Pain bloomed in her face, tingling as it faded.

"I don't think you get it.  You're my slave, remember? Slaves don't get to call the shots."  His words were soft and very deliberate.

"I'm not your slave anymore," she said, backing out of striking range.

Drake rounded the bar, eyes darting about like he was searching for something.

"Where is your collar?"

Kate snorted. "I tossed it into one of Deanna's trash barrels on burnin' day."

He whirled around and backhanded her.  She hit the floor hard, the impact vibrating up her spine.  No, he wasn't a big man, but he'd always packed one hell of a wallop.  The headache was instantaneous, echoing from her cheek and jaw to throb through her muddled brain.  Oh, God, she was in trouble.  He'd never hit her like that before.

She huddled there on the floor, clutching her head, trying to clear her mind enough to move.  She heard the click of the door lock sliding into place and the hiss and jingle of a belt being pulled. She scrambled away, crawling toward her bedroom.  His steps pounded hollowly on the trailer floor. She crawled faster.  Oh, God, where was her cell phone?

He planted a foot in the small of her back and stomped her into the imitation hardwood.

"Where do you think you're goin'?"

She tried to get up, but the cheap cloth rugs lining the path to her room didn't give her enough traction.  The woven brown striped mat slipped from under her hands. Her face smacked the floor and the headache intensified. She was too dizzy and in too much pain to be bothered by the smug chuckle coming from the man looming over her.  He grabbed the hood of her sweatshirt and slid her back out of the tiny hallway into the kitchen proper.

Pinning her down with his weight, he went to work yanking off her clothes.  He shoved the black yoga pants down and off her feet, never letting go of the belt as it clanked against the floor.  The hoodie and t-shirt were gone soon after—the t-shirt in pieces—tossed away under the rolling chairs at the poker table by the door.

Three rows of metal studs crashed into her thighs.  She screamed.  Pain roiled through her, making every bit of her legs throb.  It was an abrupt, sharp pain that stole her wits and left her with nothing but the urge to cry.  She remembered this pain well. Had she been standing, she would have collapsed.  It landed again.  Her thoughts disappeared.  There was nothing but the sound of her own voice falling down around her.  She couldn't move.  All she could do was make that awful, awful sound as the metal and leather fell again and again.

"Who are you?" He asked, his reeking breath hot on her ear.

"Your s-slut," she said, continuing the ritual he'd started two years ago.

"And?"

"Y-your slave," she said, the words barely intelligible through the wracking sobs.

"Are you gonna obey?"

"Yes."

He snatched a fistful of her hair and pulled.  "Yes what, bitch?"

"Yes, Daddy."


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