But yesterday…he broached my inner kingdom and invited his friends to break me.
They didn’t succeed.
But they did succeed in something else.
It kills me to admit this to you, No One…but I…I’ve been as brave as I can. I’ve held on for so long.
I’m tired.
When does living become the wrong choice and death the right one? When does taking your own life become wiser than letting someone else destroy it?
I don’t want to die because I’m weak.
I want to die because it’s the last thing I can do to win.
He wouldn’t have me anymore. I would take away his power.
Suicide could be the final rebellion and one act he couldn’t prevent.
Do you think taking my life would be weak? Do you believe I’ve withstood enough? Have I endured enough broken bones to prove my desire to keep living?
I’m a slave, No One.
A slave to his whims even while I curse his very creation.
He’s scarred me, ruined me, and now, he’s sharing me as if I’m worth nothing.
I’m worth everything.
And I’ve finally had enough.
DEAR NO ONE,
You’ve been there for me through every cut and concussion. You’ve listened to my nightmares, and held my hand while that bastard made me bleed.
So many times you’ve listened and hugged and been there. But did you ever think you’d have to listen for two years?
Two.
Years.
I’ve been with this awful monster two years.
I have nothing else to say. Nothing else to give.
Six months ago, I reached my limit. I shut down whatever was left inside and decided on death or delirium. Death if I could cheat his fun at hurting me. Delirium if couldn’t run to my grave.
But somehow…he knew.
One day, the knives in the kitchen were in the butcher block like always, tempting me closer and closer; the next, they’d vanished.
The curtain cords, the household tools, electrical appliances—anything that could’ve aided in my suicide magically disappeared.
He did it to keep me weak.
But it didn’t work. He reminded me that I’ve lasted this long. I can last longer. Why should I die? He’s the one who deserves to meet his maker and pay for all that he’s done.
And he will pay.
I’ll make sure of it.
It’s taken a long time but he doesn’t suspect me of treason anymore. I stopped outwardly fighting, I…obeyed. But not because he broke me.
Oh, no.
I obeyed because I’m smarter than him. I’m patient enough to bide the perfect time.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve become a master of sleeping while chained, breathing while bound, and living while beaten.
I’ve done things I’m proud of. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. But ultimately, none of it matters.
I felt things before, No One. I still believed in fantasies like hope and home and happiness. Now, all I believe in is numbness, the clinical assessment I manipulate my master with, and the ticking time bomb inside me that could detonate at any moment.
Gone is the vain teenager who thought she would rule the world. My bones do their best to tiptoe from my skinny flesh. My eyes vacant and cold. The hair-cut he gave me has grown back tattered as a rag doll.
I don’t care that he’s taken everything. There’s still one thing he’ll never have.
Two years without a word.
My voice is his holy grail and my ultimate fuck you. He will never earn it. Not that he’ll stop trying.
Nine months ago, Master A broke my leg just to hear me scream. He earned that one. I couldn’t stop it. And yes, you heard that right. I stopped calling him Alrik when he…you know what? It doesn’t matter.
All that matters is today is our anniversary.
Two years.
It will be our last anniversary.
That I promise you.
* * * * *
“GET ON YOUR fucking knees, Pim.”
My bruises bellowed, but I wouldn’t give him another reason to hit me. My kneecaps popped as I gingerly did as I was told.
Living in this house with him? It was perpetual purgatory.
I hated every damn second, but I hated waking up the most. At least asleep, I had some freedom. Free to be outside again. Laugh again. Run far, far away again.
He was a bored asshole with nothing better to do than torment me. He didn’t go to work. He didn’t have staff apart from a cleaning crew that came once a week and a chef delivery service at six p.m. every day. His funds were unlimited. He had the power to get away with everything.
In the beginning, I had no idea what made him tick or why he treated me so terribly. But two years was a long time, and I’d learned quickly. Every strike, every lash, every horrendous night spent beneath him gave me clues on how to survive.
Answering back was not an option. Running, screaming, disobeying—they all earned me more pain than I could stand.
But observation.
That was my arsenal.
At first, knowing his gait changed from smooth to choppy meant he’d rather whip me than fuck me didn’t help in the slightest. I couldn’t avoid whatever he had planned. It didn’t matter if his voice told me his mood or what torture recipes he plotted.