In The Midnight Of His Heart
By AL BRUNO III
September 11, 1993
Ropes, instead of handcuffs now secured her wrists to the bedposts. Her head ached and her every pulsebeat was a groaning misery, Angie tested her bonds only to find that she had been expertly tied. Either that or she was getting weaker. Last night was an unpleasant blur; she remembered getting sick, choking, John pounding on her back and a pathetic escape attempt. The details were lost to her but in the end it didn’t matter because she was right back where she’d started. At least her captor had cleaned her up and changed the sheets before tying her back down.
And as for her captor- did he expect her to be grateful because he had snatched her from sexual slavery only to make her a prisoner all over again? Did he think it wasn’t so bad if she spread her legs for just him instead of a cast of thousands? That’s was what this was all about wasn’t it? Even though he buried it under a mound of altruistic bullshit Angie could see what it was the old man really wanted. It was all there in the way that he looked at her, in the way that all men had been looking at her since she was thirteen years old.
It amazed her, this affect she had on men. She was no prize really, not then and certainly not now. Nevertheless there had always been something about her, something that drove men- be they complete strangers or first cousins- to pursue her; but all those pursuits ended with conquest and abandonment. Their desire quenched, they always moved on, as if a fuck was all she was good for. It was enough to make her wonder if she’d been earmarked for whoredom since birth. Marriage. Kids. All those dreams seemed hopelessly childish in retrospect, foolish ideas from a foolish girl.
Shifting as much as her bonds would allow, Angie raised herself and called for him. The thump of a cane on the floorboards signaled that he was coming along like a good little jailer. Watching him enter the room, she felt a twinge of worry at how haggard he looked; he was shaky on his feet and moved like his every muscle was sore. His beard and hair were starting to grow back, the pale white fuzz a startling contrast to the bite mark on his face.
For a moment Angie wondered how he’d gotten that bite mark, then she remembered. She actually felt an apology forming on her lips but choked it back by reminding herself how screwed she’d be if the bastard died while she was still tied up.
Lucifer bounded in after John, scooting onto the bed. He crawled into the crook of her legs and began purring happily.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Do you need to relieve yourself?” he pointed to the dented bedpan sitting on the dresser.
He raised a hand, “If this is about last night, I’m not angry with you. You weren’t yourself.”
“If you think I’m going to fuck you when this is all over you better think again.”
He shook his head, “No. I want don’t want anything like that.”
“You’re doing all this out of love?”
“Yes.” he hung his cane from the bedpost and began massaging her arms and shoulders, “I’ve loved you ever since the day I saw you.”
“This can’t work between us, even under the best of circumstances. You have to know that.”
“I only know what I feel.” his stomach growled loudly as he spoke, “And when I’m with you I feel good.”
“What do you think? That we’re going to run off and live happily ever after?”
He frowned “I don’t know what the future holds.”
“John, I don’t love you. You’re just someone I waited on, another face in the crowd.” For some reason she was having trouble making the words come out.
He looked her in the eye, “You’re only talking like that because you’re scared, you’re sick and you’re angry.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that I don’t love you John and keeping me a prisoner in your house isn’t going to change that. Killing in my name isn’t going to change that.”
“I only know what I feel.”
Angie sighed heavily, “You don’t even know me. You don’t know anything about me. How can you love me if you don’t even know me?”