Freeing Lana (13 page)

“Do you think I’m a
whore?”

She was looking at the
floor again; she didn’t want to see the truth in his eyes if he lied to her.
Sure, she had no trouble accepting the fact that she really no longer had any
moral compass, except the one which pointed to the bedroom, and by definition,
perhaps she was a whore, but what was behind using the word? Could there ever
be a use for it, which didn’t depict judgment? She had no trouble accepting the
fact she was a bitch too, she could be the queen bitch when she wanted to, but
pity the motherfucker who called her one.

“It doesn’t really
matter, does it? Hell, I’m not even going to say it matters whether or not you
think you’re a whore, because that isn’t the issue either, now is it?”

“I guess not.”

“Your real question, if
I understand correctly, is why he called you that. Is that right?”

“Yea, that’s it,” she
resigned, knowing the problem wasn’t solved just yet, “but I can’t ask him.”

“Why
not?”

“I’m not sure if I want
to know the answer.”

Was it a test, a
‘reality check,’ or what? She didn’t know. Was he trying to show her she was
being silly, that she might need a bit more therapy, that her ordeal had
affected her in a negative manner worse than anyone may have thought? Or did he
really think she was a whore? She tried to tell herself maybe he was just new
to that kind of freedom and didn’t know how to handle it, that perhaps, he
might have even scared himself with everything, how far he took it, and if that
was the case, wouldn’t judging him for it make her a hypocrite of sorts? What
was the next move? She had no idea.

“Then perhaps the real
question is why not; what are you afraid of most?”

That
he won’t use the mask, perhaps?

No, she would be more
concerned about why he would use the mask as opposed to why not? It was not
more than two days earlier that she had wanted him to use the mask more than
anything, but now she wasn’t so sure. What was she afraid of? That was the
question, and she realized that she was probably more afraid of the answer.

“That’s the problem; I
don’t know.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

The talk with Tink had
helped her put some things into perspective, but at the same time it had her
head full of more questions than answers again. Her path to self realization
had been rocky recently, and she knew it wasn’t over, not yet. Too much energy
had been spent analyzing everyone around her, while ignoring the tougher
questions within. Sergio wasn’t the problem, and hell, if she wanted to be
perfectly honest with herself, neither was Daniel. But at the same time, she was
coming to understand that neither were they her salvation.

So,
by that logic, neither is Tink?

Yea, neither was Tink.
He had definitely proven to be wiser than she had given him credit for, as much
a poet as a warrior, but in the end, she knew she would have to be her own
hero, and the demons she battled were the ones inside her. True submission, she
had come to convince herself, was about strength, not weakness. But it wasn’t a
physical strength, she was learning. She could take a dick with the best of them,
that wasn’t it, but she couldn’t figure why she was still questioning herself.
What was it Johnny Depp said in one of those damn pirate movies? “The problem
isn’t the problem; the problem is how you deal with the problem.” Was that
right? She thought so, but did it really matter at this point, was she really
going to assign the role of her personal guru to Captain Jack Sparrow?

A quick pirate sex
fantasy was quickly brushed aside, after a casual glance of course, and she
tried to get back to the question at hand. What was she afraid of? And of
course, what if it had nothing to do with sex at all, would that change the
answers? She was starting to see why most notable philosophers seemed insane to
those around them; they just might be crazy if they had to deal with the same
questions she found herself facing.

One of the toughest,
she had to ask herself did however involve Sergio. What if he had been ‘being
himself’ all along, and what she had insisted he turn into, was just something
she had created?

“What if I’m the
monster?”

She surprised herself
that she had said it out loud, the sound of her own voice in the empty house,
eerily unsettling. Still, the question lingered in the air above her, staring
her in the face, accusing, judging. In an attempt to free herself from the
judgment of others, to erase any boundaries , any lines, had she actually tried
to become their judge, placing them within the boundaries of the world she had
deemed ‘without boundaries’? Maybe Daniel had fucked her up more than she had thought.
Maybe the thing he awakened inside of her had not been a free spirit at all,
but a…

…a monster?

A
monster.
Lana glanced at the clock on the wall
in the kitchen. It would be at least another hour and a half before Sergio got
home, assuming he would be coming home at all. What was she afraid of? She
intended to find out. She locked the front door and headed into the bedroom.
She retrieved the mask from under the dresser and climbed onto the bed,
propping herself up against the wall at the head of the bed.
Then,
hesitating only briefly, she pulled the black material over her head for the
first time since she had made it.

“What am I afraid of?”
she said from the darkness inside the mask.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX

 
“Well, this is something new.”

Sergio’s voice shook
her out of her thoughts. Shit, he had seen her with the mask over her head.
Time had gotten away from her and he had come in without her knowing it. She
pulled the mask off of her head quickly, scrambling to her feet as she tossed
it onto the dresser. But the look of disgust she expected wasn’t there, not
even close. He looked a bit curious, but he was smiling at her.

“You ok?”

It was quite a shift in
their normal conversations, her asking him this question, but she was concerned
about him, especially after the night before. She never wanted to hurt him, and
she knew all too well, he knew where she got the idea for the mask. He chuckled
lightly at her question, seemingly seeing the sincerity it held within it.

“I’m good,” he
answered. “Want a drink?”

“Several.”

His smiled broadened as
he took her hand and led her into the kitchen. His touch was soft; gentle. Lana
felt a calming reassurance in his touch, the smile on his face. They were going
to be ok, no matter where things ended up. She did love him, more than she
might have realized before this moment, and the last thing she wanted to do was
hurt him.

“Have a seat,” he told
her as they passed the table, “I’ll get them.”

She slid into the chair
and watched him as he got the glasses. She expected him to pull the bourbon out
of the cabinet next to the one with the glasses, but he surprised her by
getting the wine instead. He wasn’t much of a wine drinker, though he seemed to
enjoy it with certain meals she cooked. He pulled the cork, and after placing a
glass in front of her, started to pour.

“Say when.”

“After
a couple of these?”

He laughed as he pulled
his chair around the corner of the table and sat beside her, not right up
against her, but
close
enough to touch. He filled his
own glass before setting the bottle between them on the table. He tilted his
glass toward her, and she met it halfway with her own, a wordless toast to
something, anything.
Perhaps everything.
There was a
strange understanding between them in this moment, but it was unclear just
exactly what it might be. Whatever it was, she knew they would get through it,
happy, if not completely unscathed.

“You can get your
smokes if you like,” he said, catching her a bit off guard. Apparently, her
cleaning attempts after Tink’s visits weren’t as good as
she had thought. She couldn’t help but wonder how long he had known. But it
really didn’t matter anyway. She didn’t have a pack, she rarely did, and for
the most part, she didn’t want one.

“Nah,
thinking about giving them up anyway.”

“Yea, shit’ll kill ya.”

They shared another
laugh at this, both of them knowing the real conversation was still hanging
just over their heads, just out of reach, out of sight. Neither dared to look
up, but at the same time, it seemed neither of them was going to step out from
underneath it either. When it did fall, one of them, if not both, was going to
get hurt, and neither wanted to be the one to pull the lever. But it had to be
done. After he poured them another glass of wine each, Lana knew it was going
to have to be her. She wanted to start with ‘forgive me for what I am about to
do,’ but inside, she guessed he already knew that too.

“Seriously, Serg, you
ok?” she finally managed, already knowing the answer, but unable to start it
any other way.

“Yea, I am. I’m just a
bit scared. You know?”

She did know, all too
well. He knew everything was about to change, and he dreaded it, but he also
knew it had to change, because they had, both of them. The girl he had fallen
in love with no longer existed, perhaps she never did. He could see that now,
just as she could now see he would never be able to live with who she was, what
she needed. It would kill him to try.

“Last night was…” she
started, not really sure if she could finish the line.

“Last night was
painful,” he finished.

“Yea, but that’s not
what I meant.”

“I know; I meant it was
painful for me.”

“What do you mean?”

She knew what he meant,
to some degree anyway, but she wanted to be sure. She needed him to say it for
her, and for him. It wasn’t him in bed with her the night before; it was what
he thought she wanted him to be, what she thought she wanted him to be, but it
wasn’t really him.

“I didn’t like who I
was,” he said, staring at his glass. She wanted to see his eyes at this moment,
but feared if she stopped him, he’d never get started again. So she waited, and
let him take all the time her needed. “Hell, I haven’t liked this from the
start, this whole slave, submission thing. I just figured you needed it, some
sort of, and don’t get mad, but some kind of shock therapy or something, to
help you get over everything that happened. But that’s not it, is it?”

It wasn’t an easy
question. It was, but then again, it wasn’t, not really. It had been a catalyst
of sorts, a jumping off point, but it hadn’t been to get over anything, but
rather more to experiment with the change it has caused in her. She wasn’t
trying to fix herself; she was trying more to understand herself. But he wasn’t
waiting for an answer.

“I always thought I
loved you enough to do anything you needed, anything you wanted,” he continued.
“And I do love you, probably more than you know, but it has been tearing me up
in side, wondering if every time I got out the paddle, if you were wishing I
was him, if you were wishing you weren’t you. It fucking hurt like hell to act
disappointed, knowing damn well that most of the time you did it on purpose, so
I would be disappointed, so I’d hurt you.”

He was looking at her
now, and a part of her wished he wasn’t. It wasn’t anger in his eyes, though
his voice had risen from time to time; it was pain. Trying to create her new
image, her life, she had been destroying him. And she could see it now. It
hadn’t been just the last few days; it had been all along. She wanted to tell
him she was sorry, that she never meant to hurt him, but he wasn’t finished; he
had more to get out, and if not now, it might never get out. So she sat there,
tears starting to flow from her eyes, burning her cheeks, hurting more than
anything had ever hurt in the bedroom.

“I love you Lana, more
than anything,” he continued, the tears forming I his own eyes now. “But I
can’t hurt you like that. I can’t pretend to be disappointed in you anymore,
because I’m not; I never have been.”

“Even now?” she asked,
no longer concerned that he might stop talking, realizing he had been stronger
all along than she had given him credit for.

“Especially not now,”
he said, his voice quivering under the strain of the words, “especially not
now. I’m not disappointed in you; I’m disappointed in me. I know you need more
from me than I can give you, someone stronger, someone who loves you enough to
put your needs before his own, Christ.”

His hands collapsed
against his face as he said the last line, and he sobbed openly now. Lana
wanted so badly to reach for him, to hold and comfort him, but she knew she
couldn’t. He wouldn’t let her, not now. She cried with him, hurting for him and
wanting to hate herself for his tears. He thought he was the selfish one in all
this? He got himself together enough to continue, wiping his face with the back
of his hand before continuing.

“Last night was just so
painful. The more I hurt you, the more you liked it. I got so angry, so fucking
angry, at you, at me, at everything. And then…”