I hated him. I hated the way he had me crawling back to him on my hands and knees every time he felt the need to use me again. I hated how he reeled innocent girls, and guys to their heart's fulfillment and demise. I hated the way he seduced me, the way he made me think he might maybe, just maybe like me more than another. I even hated his name; Jack. Some labeled him with the cliché title "Jack the Heart-Ripper".
I was the only one he could always come back to. I was the only one alive who unconditionally loved him. I was the only one who understood him. I was the only one who even knew who he was. He told me everything, from his father's beatings and yelling to his mother's drug abuse. They were so imperfect themselves, but expected him to be the definition of perfect. They would ingrain into his skin, line by line "IMPERFECT", every time he didn't meet their godly expectations – when he was six. And as he explained this to me, his neutral expression didn't budge. Not once.
I understood him. That's why I stayed, that's why I helped him. When ever he thought I even looked at anyone but him, no matter the gender, he would preform a routine. He swore to everyone he knew that he never physically hurt any of his girlfriends, so he would break up with me first. Then, he would punch me so it left a decent-sized bruise, make me ask him back out in a way he saw fit, and keep me by his side in chains he would attach to his belt. Every time we reached a "suitable" location, he would make me give him a blow job or seduce him by touching myself.
But those were just his worse qualities... I've seen him not stone-cold. I've seen him cry. His brother, Peter, was a good friend of mine, and he treated him like his own son. John didn't let his parents get to Peter's heart. He would do his little brother's work with his own, and when he became as strong as his father, he would brawl with him whenever he even raised his voice towards him. His father lost the tip of his finger because of him, and had to have stitches. He wouldn't admit where he got it from, though.
There came a day when he outmatched his father, inevitably. That's when he decided to threaten his father to give him some of the money he selfishly hoarded from dealing drugs to start a business of his own. He opened a shop where he sold weapons and sex toys. Some of them he made himself. That shop would still be up and running if it weren't for the terrible crime-rate here. Not because of a burglary, either.
His let his brother walk around town because he taught him how to use a pocket knife, but someone pick-pocketed him without him noticing. One night, on his way back to the shop where they lived, someone pulled him into an alley and raped him with a knife to his throat. He was born anemic, and the rapist obviously wasn't paying attention to how much pressure he put on the knife. He was found dead in the alleyway, the next morning. The rapist was never found.
I met John for the first time at Peter's funeral. He had rows of cuts on his arms, not even remotely healed. Some of them were still bleeding. But no one else saw him at the funeral. He was in the very back, crying silently. I'd never seen anybody look so miserable. I knew then that I wanted to do Peter one last favour – keep his brother alive.
And that's how it began. He hasn't shown an emotion since. The only time his monotonous expression isn't cruel or painful is during sex. It's no wonder he's so addicted to it. It's the only joy he can find in life, so he wants to try it in different ways with different people. It's natural.
He isn't as cruel as he looks. He has a heart, he just doesn't show it with his expression. You can tell by his actions. If you throw yourself a him, he'll treat you like a slut. But when I first confessed my love for him, he was honest. I'll take honesty over a lie that will gets your hopes up, any day. He told me to back out while the love was dim, telling me he could never love anybody. But he loved his brother, and I almost came to think he loved me, too. Because he tried to push me away whenever he thought he could hurt me. Whoever made up "Jack the Heart-Ripper" was a whore.
When he found out his kindness drew me in, he started treating me cruelly. But that drew me back to him, too. He was like my drug, tearing me apart and building me back together over and over again. Every time I revived, it felt better than the last. Whenever he treated me like shit, I told myself it was him just thinking he could never love and not wanting to hurt me.
But the most recent act of cruelty was just to much. He blindfolded me, took me on a drive, and tied me up on a sidewalk. Then he left me. I didn't even know it until I got raped by someone whom I couldn't even see their face, or their age. It was too small to be Jack's. I thought he was testing my patience, but he hated anyone who raped. He wouldn't let it happen if he was still there, because they all could potentially be the killer of his precious little brother. I was so upset I just let it happen. I didn't even care if I got an STD, or pregnant. I was too broken.
I forgot which side of me the street was, so I had to wait a car zoomed by to know where to wonder. It wasn't a commonly used street. As I stood up, slowly and blindly, I turned to the direction of whatever wasn't street. I was hoping it was a wall I could lean against – I had slight agoraphobia, or I didn't like the thought of being in the middle of nowhere. Feeling a wall of any sort would help me be grounded.
To my surprise, before I could reach any sort of building I felt someone down my miniskirt, and up my panties to my thigh. They weren't at all invasive. I figured they just didn't want to see my genitalia until I felt them take hold on my tied wrists, and saw something in between them on the rope. They were freeing me. "Who are you?" I asked, my voice coarse from hours of crying.
"Adam," the kind stranger told me in a slightly southern accent. He untied my blindfold and it took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the light. Who knew it was already past sunrise? I never was good at time. I figured it just felt like hours, and that it was just one or two. Then again, I didn't know when he took me out there, just that it was dark. It was possible that it was just before sunrise, which only takes half an hour or so. At least I thought so... I didn't pay those things any mind.
I tried to smile, but my muscles pushed it down to a frown. I tried to relax my face, and my tortured heart. "Thank you. How can I help you?"
His hair was long, blond, and curly, his eyes a greenish grey. He reminded me of Frodo, from Lord of the Rings, only more handsome. He looked shocked, like I was acting like no one he'd met before. Had he seen me get raped? And just stood there... Maybe that's why he was helping me, he felt bad for me.
"Who did this to you?" he managed to say. His face contorted in thick pity. It disgusted me, reminding me of how pathetic I was.
"I don't know," I answered honestly. He didn't specify who.
"And you're acting calmly?" he queried, honestly confused.
I shrugged. "Don't think about it." I was actually addressing him, but I'm sure it sounded like I meant I didn't think about it. How could I not, though?
Adam nodded slowly, still unsure but trying to be comforting. "Would you like some coffee? You seem exhausted."
I nodded, glad to have something else to plague my mind. I needed to grab everything I could get out of this stranger, and get him into bed. It would be nice to have anything but S&M, having been stuck with it for half a year. He did it because it was the one I liked the least.
"The nearest coffee shop is a couple blocks away," he pointed out as he led me to his car. He opened the door for me and closed it when I climbed inside. Then he made his way around the front to sit in the driver's seat. His car was small, but surprisingly clean. There were some crumbs here and there, and a couple of Christmas cards on the floor. The music was surprisingly popular, for someone so southern. I expected country, but got Britney Spears.
"So, what do you like?" he questioned.
I shrugged silently. I didn't know what he meant.
"Hobbies?" he asked again.
Worshiping "Master". "Nothing, really."
"So what do you do for fun?" He was surprisingly quick with his replies for someone who's approaching a new kind of person, I noted.
"Hang out with friends," I answer simply. But he made me give them up... I had nothing left because of him. I was nothing. Nothing but used...
"Okay, what do you do together?"
"I'm tired of answering questions."
The car was silent.
"Sorry, I was just curious." At this point, the car was put in park. "Anything you want to know about me?"
That was the original intent. But was I going to stick with it?
I was sick with sticking to anything, I decided. I stepped out of the car and kept on walking. A part of me was pulled back to him. He called after me. He was kind, something I needed. But not deserved. If he wanted me, he'd come crawling back to me like a worm. I refused to further acknowledge myself as a worm. I was going to change.
Over and over, I'd let him treat me like a toy, a doll. But that was no longer who I was. I left my old self behind. I was a new person; a new Amanda.