Salome (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sweetsalome) wrote2008-08-29 09:04 pm
sweetsalome) wrote2008-08-29 09:04 pm
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Homecoming [![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
powered_otaku]
He had silently entered his own house the night before, when no one was there to greet him, to make a fuss over him. Standing in the front foyer, he looked around slowly, not a thing out of place, the great walls and ceiling as silent as a tomb. Like a giant cat he had stalked through the house, making sure everything was as it should be. A massive shadow, gliding over chairs and carpets, all seeing, all knowing. The shadow beast settled himself in one of the massive high back chairs in the living room, glass of scotch in hand he listened, he waited. He waited a long time before this, there was nothing wrong with waiting a little more.
Salome thought she had been wrong. Maybe he wasn't coming home that day, or maybe he had just decided that it wasn't worth it and just left town. Maybe Santa was real and this year she would finally get that pony she always wanted for Christmas.
There's nothing wrong with being wrong, just expect the consequences of not being right.
He called her into his office, summoned her, as if some sort of employee, if she was nothing but a serf on his estate. She sat in one of the big high backed chairs across from his desk, the one with the slippery leather that squeaked every time she moved or shifted. Palms wet, heart racing, two works away from a panic attack as he fixed her with those eyes of his, eyes she had only seen from behind the safety of bullet proof glass. There was a high likelihood that she was going to either die or throw up on his Persian rug.
She did neither.
He spoke to her softly, asking how she had been, how Jonba was and how her summer had gone at her grandparents. The more they talked, the more she relaxed, until she was left only slightly weary, her palms now dry. Maybe she had made a mistake, there was no threat here, just a man she had missed while he had been gone. Someone who had changed when no one thought he could.
He asked her for a hug.
Standing up, she walked to him and lent forward to give him a gentle hug around his shoulders. For a moment that was enough, but when she started to pull away, he grabbed her by the hips and yanked her down into his lap. Despite the struggle, despite the fight she didn't do any damage, except smack her foot against the desk drawers.
Fool me once, shame on you, fool me two hundred times. . . Maybe I might be asking for it.
"I heard you've been bad," he whispers into her ear, hand at the back of her neck, holding her still like some wild animal.
"I heard that you've been telling lies about me," his fingers tightened, applying more pressure.
"I even heard you found a play thing, and he believes you. How long do you think that's going to last?" With his free hand, he reaches for the ring on her left hand and twirls the band around slowly.
"How long before he gets tired of you? Before you come crying back to me because he doesn't love you any more. . ." He stands up with her and starts to move to the door, dragging her along as she struggles in his grip.
She doesn't fight as hard as she could have, she knows that if she did it would hurt, a lot. She doesn't want to get hurt, she doesn't have the defenses for it any more. This needs to be over, this pain, this humiliation, this feeling of being so filthy and disgusting that she can't even look at herself in the mirror. Somewhere, between the study and the bedroom, she takes over, and mercifully, Salome doesn't feel a thing.
She picks up the phone and she sends the text message after a shower. There is no need to delay the inevitable any longer.
Salome thought she had been wrong. Maybe he wasn't coming home that day, or maybe he had just decided that it wasn't worth it and just left town. Maybe Santa was real and this year she would finally get that pony she always wanted for Christmas.
There's nothing wrong with being wrong, just expect the consequences of not being right.
He called her into his office, summoned her, as if some sort of employee, if she was nothing but a serf on his estate. She sat in one of the big high backed chairs across from his desk, the one with the slippery leather that squeaked every time she moved or shifted. Palms wet, heart racing, two works away from a panic attack as he fixed her with those eyes of his, eyes she had only seen from behind the safety of bullet proof glass. There was a high likelihood that she was going to either die or throw up on his Persian rug.
She did neither.
He spoke to her softly, asking how she had been, how Jonba was and how her summer had gone at her grandparents. The more they talked, the more she relaxed, until she was left only slightly weary, her palms now dry. Maybe she had made a mistake, there was no threat here, just a man she had missed while he had been gone. Someone who had changed when no one thought he could.
He asked her for a hug.
Standing up, she walked to him and lent forward to give him a gentle hug around his shoulders. For a moment that was enough, but when she started to pull away, he grabbed her by the hips and yanked her down into his lap. Despite the struggle, despite the fight she didn't do any damage, except smack her foot against the desk drawers.
Fool me once, shame on you, fool me two hundred times. . . Maybe I might be asking for it.
"I heard you've been bad," he whispers into her ear, hand at the back of her neck, holding her still like some wild animal.
"I heard that you've been telling lies about me," his fingers tightened, applying more pressure.
"I even heard you found a play thing, and he believes you. How long do you think that's going to last?" With his free hand, he reaches for the ring on her left hand and twirls the band around slowly.
"How long before he gets tired of you? Before you come crying back to me because he doesn't love you any more. . ." He stands up with her and starts to move to the door, dragging her along as she struggles in his grip.
She doesn't fight as hard as she could have, she knows that if she did it would hurt, a lot. She doesn't want to get hurt, she doesn't have the defenses for it any more. This needs to be over, this pain, this humiliation, this feeling of being so filthy and disgusting that she can't even look at herself in the mirror. Somewhere, between the study and the bedroom, she takes over, and mercifully, Salome doesn't feel a thing.
She picks up the phone and she sends the text message after a shower. There is no need to delay the inevitable any longer.
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