Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (45 page)

“Yes,” he says.

This makes so
much sense. When he was very young, he would’ve enjoyed his father’s attention
and many of the ‘games’ he and his father played. Yet as he got older and the
awareness and reality of his situation shifted, he would’ve had to break away
emotionally in order to keep his sanity. Extreme trauma, such as rape, torture
and threat of death can create instant dissociation. The mind always finds a
way to protect itself.

“What did you
do?” I ask in a low voice and swallow hard before continuing. “You know, back
when you saw yourself in the mirror and recognized something was wrong?”

The hint of an
idea niggles in the back of my mind, but I can’t quite grasp it.

People who
self-harm use pain as a safety valve. When emotional pressure becomes
unbearable, they will often hurt themselves in order to relieve building
tension. It gives them some semblance of control and distracts them from
unbearable emotional pain they can't control.

The idea
crystallizes and I bite back a gasp as a terrible thought strikes me. Grant has
never told me anything about his scars. I’ve always assumed that he was wounded
in the service of his country. I know he fought overseas—but maybe he wasn’t
scarred in battle.

Did Grant scar
himself? Did he ruin his neck and face intentionally, so he looked like the
monster he felt himself to be?

I try not to
react. On the outside, I hope to appear curious and interested, but on the
inside, I’m scared.

A deep sense of
dread fills me as I wait to learn the answer to my question.

“I hurt
myself today, to see if I still feel….”

 ― Nine
Inch Nails

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Grant's entire
body suddenly stiffens as he rolls onto his back and turns his head to face me.
A fiery spark appears in his eyes. He’s seriously pissed.

Is he angry
with me, or with himself?

“When I realized
I couldn’t
feel,
it freaked me out,” he says. “I experienced an
overwhelming compulsion to punch my fists through a wall—to somehow hurt myself
badly enough in order to feel…
something… anything
.”

I struggle to
remain calm. It’s difficult in the face of his rage, as well as with the
thought of Grant hurting himself so terribly he'd be forever scarred.

“Did you?” I
ask. “Punch a wall, I mean?”

“Sure, many
times. I don’t know whether I wanted to punish myself because I hated the
monster I felt I was, or if I just needed to
feel.
I also got into
fights. I drove recklessly, getting into accidents and totaling two cars. Dying
seemed… attractive—and pain?” His eyes are hard, his features intense. “Pain
was good.”

Propped up on
one elbow, I stare back at Grant.

I’m not afraid
he’ll hurt me, I trust him. Yet, adrenaline spikes in response to his anger,
elevating my heart rate and heating my skin. I consciously begin taking slow,
deep breaths, aware that I could easily slide into my own brand of crazy.

When people
around me are upset, I blame myself. Why should I feel responsible for other
people’s moods or unhappiness? I shouldn’t. Yet, I do. It’s as though
I’ve
screwed
up somehow. I expect them to point the finger at
me
… and I’m terrified
of confrontation.

See how insane I
am?

At least I’ve
gained enough insight over the years not to
immediately
jump on board
the crazy train on a one-way trip to guilt city.

Now, I force
myself to remain calm and wait to find out what's going on first. It's a step
in the right direction, considering how I used to panic instantly at the first
sign anything was wrong.

Luckily, Grant
doesn’t seem to notice my reaction. Although he's looking at me, he isn’t
really
seeing
me. In this moment, he's somewhere else. Is he back there
again, lost in his past?

Grant exhales
loudly. “Then I discovered alcohol, which helped me—I swear to God, it really
helped and I also joined the army. Somehow, despite my mad death wish, I
survived.”

“I’m glad you
did, Grant. I'm so glad you’re here with me now,” I whisper.

If I speak out
loud, my voice will crack. I doubt I can hide the raw emotion that’s welling up
within me. I feel as though I’ve been gutted.

The mere thought
of losing him breaks my heart. It kills me—absolutely kills me!

I suddenly feel
an overwhelming urge to cry.

I'm abruptly
aware of the tension leaving Grant’s body. He’s relaxing for the first time
since we lay down together. After opening up and sharing his past, he seems to
have snapped out of the chasm of darkness into which he’d descended.

He shifts his position
slightly so he can see me better. With a pillow under his head and me lying on
my side, propped up on one elbow, Grant's intense gaze is overwhelming.

A palpable
energy passes between us. Grant searches my face. I blink but can barely hold
back my tears.

I ‘get’ him, I
really do. I completely understand where he’s coming from because I’ve been
there myself. My experience was different from his, but similar in many ways.

With his penetrating
gaze I feel as if he’s looking into my heart and soul. Is he aware of my
anguish? Does he see the pain I feel for him, reflected in my eyes?

His smoky
blue-grey eyes soften.

I can’t be an
objective therapist when he looks at me like that! I gasp, desperately trying
to keep it together. Shock and dismay fill me as the tears have been brimming
in my eyes begin to overflow.

Gently,
tenderly, he pulls my body onto his, so I’m resting against his warm chest.
“Renata,” he murmurs.

I can’t help
it—I cry even harder.

“It’s OK. It’s
OK,” he murmurs almost rhythmically in a calm, comforting tone as his big hands
glide over my back, gently stroking and calming me.

 “I’m sorry,” I
gasp.

“Shhh, shhh,
you’ve done nothing wrong. There’s no reason to be sorry,” he soothes.

I bury my face
into the curve of his neck and hold onto him tightly, letting the even beat of
his heart and the deep rumble of his voice calm me. In a minute, I’ll pull
myself together, but just now, I just need him to hold me like this.

I’m no longer
premenstrual, trapped at the monthly circus, juggling my emotions or walking on
the hormonal tightrope and trying not to fall off. I can’t use that as an
excuse, but damn it to hell, I’m an emotional wreck at the thought of losing
him.

I want him.

I need him!

I never want to
let him go.

Grant is
incredible. He’s so courageous! He's been to hell and back more than once. He's
served our country, overcome his addiction to alcohol, confronted his demons
and exposed his secrets, and his shame. Stubbornly and determinedly, he’s
working through the pain and torment of his past. He’s been in so much pain and
turmoil—so sad and so alone for such a long time.

I can’t stop
crying, but I allow myself to let go, as I absorb his strength and his caring
energy. It's so healing, so beautiful.

With all he’s
been through, he’s still thinking of me. He hates touching, yet he’s cuddling
and comforting
me.

I can’t help but
have a high regard for this brave and damaged man. He gives me strength. In the
midst of his own problems, he sets them aside, in order to
help me.

I admire him so
much.

I love him.

My tears ease
after a little while and I‘m finally able to stop taking the short hitching
breaths I’ve been struggling to stifle. I begin to appreciate that something important
is happening.

I can’t believe
it—
he’s actually cuddling!

Grant’s big,
solid body remains relaxed beneath mine. It reminds me of when he discovered he
could hold my hand and even kiss me.

It may only be
temporary, but for now it seems he’s broken through yet another one of his
barriers.

I wonder if I
should remain silent and stay right here, snuggling with him and letting him
continue to touch me. If I point it out, I risk ruining this perfect moment.

What would André
tell me to do?

I imagine asking
André for advice, and immediately hear his wise and playful tone of voice in my
head,
“Ma petite souris, trust yourself. The head—at times, it fails us—but
the heart? Ah! The heart sees what the mind cannot. Let your heart be your
guide and you will make the right choice.”

An image flashes
through my mind, a recent memory of us both eating graham crackers and chatting
at Grant’s kitchen table. He was upbeat at the time. What did he say? He
explained why he’d felt comfortable masturbating in front of me and making me
come. He was clarifying why he didn’t feel the need to run away.

“I wanted to
please you. It made everything we were doing seem good and clean and right
somehow,”
he’d told me.

The truth
suddenly hits me. Like the Greek scholar Archimedes, I do everything I can not
to cry out
Eureka!

That's it!
That's the similar element to that night. When Grant attempts intimacy, he hits
a wall. Then his innermost issues are triggered, holding him back.

However, Grant
was able to break through his own barriers by centering his attention on me.
This seems to be the key to his success, focusing on someone other than
himself.

This speaks
volumes about his generous nature and inner goodness.

I raise my head
and meet Grant’s gaze, aware I can’t tell him my revelation. It’s not up to a
counselor to tell a client what’s wrong with them. How could
anyone
know
such a personal truth?

A counselor can
ask, or direct a client to a fruitful area to look, but it’s not something they
should have fixed ideas upon or openly guess at. This kind of thing just
muddies the water.

Only the
exact
truth sets someone free.

Who can
know
their own personal truth? Only the individual concerned.

For all the
experience and knowledge a counselor can have, they are not the client. They
haven’t walked in his or her shoes. Every journey is unique. Even if they’ve
temporarily forgotten, no one can know the client as clearly as the client
knows themselves.

You can’t give
someone else a truth about themselves—that’s for
them
to do. That’s why
it’s called
self-
realization.

Grant studies me
and the worry on his face lessens. I wipe my eyes with my forearm. His shirt is
wet from my tears. We smile at each other.

“Feel better
now?” he asks.

“Yes, thank
you,” I say. He has his arms wrapped around my waist. Awed, I say to him,
“You’re touching me.”

“Yes.”

He’s wearing an
expression I can’t interpret. My brows knit with concentration. What am I
missing?

“You seem
relaxed,” I say.

“I am.”

“So, do I need
to cry—for you to feel comfortable touching or cuddling with me?”

He arches one
eyebrow. “No,” he shakes his head and says with a chuckle, “but apparently it
helps.”

“Find one
person to trust—there need only be one. With them, share every shame, every
secret and listen to theirs… with love. Bare hearts and souls until there is
understanding. Of a certainty, such honest exposure is the first step toward
happiness.”

— André
Chevalier

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Grant’s lips
turn up in a smile as he shifts his body upward and settles himself back
against the headboard in a seated position. Putting both of his hands on my
waist, with natural ease and no sign of effort, he picks me up and lifts me
across his lap so I’m straddling him.

He’s so strong
and so male. I feel tiny and feminine in his hands.

Face to face
with him, I reach out and flatten my palms against his chest. I love the
intimacy and closeness of this position. It’s a shame we’re both fully clothed.
Grant’s big hands, warm against my waist, slide down to rest lightly on my
hips. He’s studying me with a peculiar expression on his face.

“What?” I say

“I no longer
have a death wish,” he assures me. “Especially now, with you in my life, I
can’t think like that anymore.”

“Aww, that’s
nice.” I adore the soothing comfort of his solid, masculine body under my
hands. “I was worried…” I say, nervously, “that maybe in a moment of despair,
you gave yourself those scars.”

“Oh.” Grant
smiles wryly, a glint of twisted humor behind his eyes.

He’s amused by
my mistake. This is another example of
it’s funny, but it isn’t.
Grant
and I seem to have a lot of those moments. I ignore this one.

“Will you tell
me how you were injured?” I ask. “How did you get those scars?

He inhales
deeply. “Do you have any dark and terrible secrets? Something you haven’t even
told André?”

My thumbnail
goes between my teeth where I begin to chew on it. After a few moments of
bracing myself for my confession, I let out a deep breath and say, “I have a
lot of terrible things I feel guilty or ashamed of, but there’s one main
thing—one secret that turns me inside out. It's almost impossible to accept or
to get past. It’s something I did again and again.”

His expression
is curious and concerned. “What is it? Will you tell me?”

I summon the
strength to face a horror from my past that haunts me. I hate going back there,
to that time and place. It's difficult to say it out loud. In a strange way,
doing so makes it feel too real.

“I remember the
first time my dad beat my mom really badly. I heard such strange sounds, thuds and
muffled screams. Mom was crying.  I went into the room and saw her covered with
blood—my dad had broken her nose.”

I pause to slow
my breathing. Grant’s eyes soften with understanding, but he says nothing,

Smart guy.

If he interrupts
me I don’t know if I can go on.

I clear my
throat. “I guess I was three or four—or possibly even younger. I was so upset
by what I saw that I freaked out. I can’t even explain the gripping fear that
held me. I screamed and screamed. To shut me up, my father slapped me so hard I
flew across the room. My right ear rang for days—but screaming worked. He
stopped hurting my mother.”

“Is your father
dead?” he asks, his voice a low growl and his expression intent. “Because if
he’s not, I’m going to kill him.”

Warmed and
strangely charmed by his statement, I laugh, perhaps a little too loudly. Not
because I imagine Grant will ever get the chance to kill my father, but hey,
it’s the thought that counts.

His jaw is taut.
My story has affected him. I think back to how he stood up for Danny when he
was bullied as a kid. I know Grant has many layers, but one part I'm sure of is
that he's a natural born protector. 

“No, my father’s
still alive,” I tell him. “Luckily for the population at large, he’s safely
locked up in jail. I don’t think they’ll ever let him out, but the Board has to
interview me whenever he’s up for parole. I think it’ll be years before I have
to worry about that.”

“Good.”

“I agree.
Anyway, about my greatest shame.” I chew my thumbnail right down to the quick.
“I don’t know if I’ve told André about this or not. The thing is, from the
first time I screamed, I learned all I had to do to stop my mother from being
beaten was to scream. But I also knew he’d stop hurting her and instead hurt
me, do you see?”

“Of course,”
Grant says.

“My father
must've beaten my mother a thousand times,” I muse, gnawing on what’s left of
my thumbnail. “But I only stopped him that one time. I'd always run and hide. I
learned to be silent, never making a peep—I'd do anything I could to save my own
skin. I was afraid of him and afraid of being hit. He terrified me. I mean, no
matter what I did or didn't do, I wasn't safe from his wrath. My father hit me
anyway, but I’ve never had a single brave bone in my body—that’s what I’m most
ashamed of.”

Grant shakes his
head.

“Studies show
childhood trauma leads to a brain that’s wired for fear. Do you know what André
says about that?”

“No, what does
he say?”

“Une
absurdité totale—
utter nonsense.
”
I grin. “The truth is, the studies
are correct. André refuses to agree with research that, as he says,
makes
victims feel justified in their decision to give up!
”

We both laugh
out loud, because I’ve managed to perfectly enact André’s accent and
mannerisms.

“That’s an
amazing André impersonation,” Grant marvels.

“Thank you,” I
say with a shrug. “I’ve watched him for many years. André doesn’t agree with
even
valid
excuses to fail,” I add. He maintains that, ‘
With time?
With effort? All can be conquered.’
Yet, for me, mind-numbing fear and
anxiety has ruled my life.”

Grant’s eyes
widen. “I had no idea! You hide it well. To me you seem so…
fearless
.”

“You think I’m
fearless?” I say, grinning ear to ear.

He smiles. “You
are in the bedroom—a place where I’m particularly spineless.”

“You’re not
spineless, you just need practice,” I say. “Wow. I don’t know if I’ll get over
that in the near future! Grant thinks I’m fearless! Grant thinks I’m fearless!”
I happily sing out loud.

His eyes soften.
“You’re fearless with me.”

“That’s easy,” I
say. “I have nothing to be afraid of with you. You may make my pulse pound and
my breath speed so I pant as if running a marathon, but I’m not afraid with
you.” I waggle my eyebrows at him.” You make me feel something else entirely.”

We stare at each
other stupidly as sensual electricity zings between us.

“I’m pretty good
with people one on one,” I explain, “but strangers and groups can still send me
into a panic. It’s humiliating to be like this. You can have no concept of the
courage it takes for me to leave my apartment in the morning.”

“I know you
climb into that little black box.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “Is that why
you have it?”

“Lord, yes,” I
say. “There’s a long story about my attraction to small, dark places,” I say
with a laugh. “I’ll explain it to you sometime.”

“I’ve never been
aware of how debilitating your fear must be,” he says.

I snort. “Years
of practice. I learned to fit in, I guess.” I shrug. “The only other time I
ever stood up to my father was when he had Timmy in his hands during a rage.
Despite my pounding heart and my limbs frozen with fear, I forced myself to run
and throw myself on him. I was so desperate to protect my brother. I couldn’t
save Timmy, you know? But at least I tried.”

“I’m so sorry,”
Grant says, exhaling a deep breath. He looks as pained as I feel.

“If I hadn’t at
least tried,” I confide in him, “I couldn’t have lived with myself. You of all
people would understand that strange longing for numbness or death. Those kinds
of thoughts used to plague me whenever I felt low. Sometimes dying seemed like
what I deserved, but I definitely couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t
at least
tried
to save Timmy. Does that make any sense to you?”

“It makes
perfect sense,” he says, pulling a stray lock of hair away from my face and
tucking it behind my ear. “I’ve had my share of those kinds of thoughts too,”
Grant admits calmly. “Sometimes I think that’s what suicide is—when you believe
you’re no good, so you decide to throw yourself away. As if you’re doing the
universe a favor by taking out the trash.”

I grin at this
ridiculous, yet spot on statement. “I don’t know if either of us would have
gone through with it, but both of us have seriously considered suicide. What a
screwed up pair we are!”

“Yeah, we’re
pretty special.”

“Now, I showed
you mine, it's only fair you show me yours. Will you please tell me how you got
your scars?”

Grant briefly
closes his eyes. “I’ve never told a soul.”

“Will you tell
me?”

His eyes meet
mine. “Yes.”