Home > Make Me Forget(15)

Make Me Forget(15)
Author: Anna Brooks

About six months ago, my mother became ill and was diagnosed with breast cancer. I really didn't think I could take anymore at that point, but her doctor has been very helpful. She’s not doing well at all, and because the cancer was discovered so late, she’s on hospice. Dr. Danvers, or Todd, has helped with her medical bills and comes over every Friday to check on her. She lives in her room and has no desire to fight her disease. We’re keeping her comfortable until her body finally decides to let go, like her mind and heart already have.

I tried so hard to get her to help, but when a grown woman refuses any kind of treatment or assistance, my hands were tied. So I did the best I could, and until Todd came along, I was alone. My family knows she’s sick, and they’ve been down to visit, but they have no clue the kind of life I’ve lived since my dad passed.

Todd’s been staying longer every week, and what started with a hug and kiss on the cheek has progressed to more… much more. At first, I was hesitant, but the longer I’m with him, I find he takes my mind off my pitiful life.

He’s aggressive, and there’s a part of me that’s scared of him, but I don’t think he’d ever hurt me. I haven’t slept with him yet, but I think it’ll happen tonight. He’s getting impatient. Since I don’t want him to leave me, too, I figure it’s the least I can do.

After checking on my mom, he comes back down to the couch and has that look on his face. The one where I know he’s going to start telling me what to do. His head tilts, and he sucks his cheeks in.

“Was there someone out there?” I ask still leaning on the front door.

“I don’t think so, why?”

“I thought I saw someone pull away.”

“Nope. Didn’t see anyone.”

Looking out the small square of glass, I sigh.

Todd’s angry voice makes my spine stiff. “He’s not coming for you. If he wants you, he knows where you live. How long has it been, Charlotte? Hmm?”

I don't answer. Too long.

“He knows where you live.”

This is true. He does. I changed my number and deleted all my social media stuff after my dad died. People came out of the woodwork to tell me stories about him. I didn’t want stories. I wanted him back. But Travis has been here. He knows where I am.

“He doesn’t want you.” He makes sure all the blinds are shut and stands in front of me.

“Undo my belt.” I turn and reach for it, but he grabs my hair. “With your mouth.” I nod, and he tugs harder. “What?” he asks.

“Yes, sir,” I reply and grab the leather between my teeth. Once I have it off, spit is dripping from my mouth, and I look at him for approval.

“Good girl,” he says, rubbing my cheek. “Now use your hands to pull my pants down.” I do what he says, and when I’ve followed all of his instructions to remove our clothes, I’m on my knees in front of him.

“Get up and put your hands behind your back.” He uses his belt to secure them together and gives me a shove so I fall back on the couch. He takes a condom out of his pocket and rolls it on. “I hate using these things. I’m going to start you on the shot.” When I open my mouth to protest, he ‘tsks’ me and shakes his finger. “What’s the rule?”

“No talking,” I whisper, mad at myself for forgetting.

“Right. And since you can’t seem to follow directions, I’ll just have to put something in your mouth to keep it quiet.” He reaches down and grabs my underwear, twirling the purple cotton. “This will do. Open up.” He scrunches it in a ball and shoves it in my mouth.

I gag and push them out a little with my tongue.

“God. You’re fucking amazing. So pretty.” His eyes are predatory, and the tips of his curly blond hair almost touch them.

When his hands roam over my body, I try to enjoy it. He manages to get me aroused, but nothing can prepare me for the brutality in which he fucks me. Fast, hard, and long. I mentally check out, and tears brim my eyes when he slaps my butt. When Travis used to do that, it was gentle, playful. When Todd does it, it’s the opposite. It hurts.

By the time he’s done, I’m sore and exhausted. He goes to the bathroom to clean up and brings me back a glass of water and a washcloth. I numbly spread my legs while he runs the cloth between them to wash me. I grab the blanket off the couch and ask if he’ll stay with me. I want someone to hold me. I don’t want to feel so fucking alone anymore.

“I can’t. I have to get back to the hospital. Maybe next week.”

I curl up and fight the tears. He’s lying. He doesn’t have to go back to work. He’s going home, to his wife.

 

Present

Why did I move back here again? I turn up the heat in my car and grip the steering wheel with gloved hands. Stupid Midwest. It hasn’t stopped snowing for two days straight. Because I’m a procrastinator, and apparently a glutton for punishment, I’m out driving in this crap. I have zero groceries in my house, and Meara is coming over for her birthday tomorrow. Since she’s the only one who knows I’m back, I can’t go out to celebrate with her.

Not only do I need to get food, but I have to get her a present, too. I’m contemplating what to get her — either new body jewelry for one of her many piercings or shoes. I saw these ballet flats that had sparkly skulls on them the other day. She’d love those. Meara is into the whole rock chick look. She has every reason to be, seeing how Liam’s a drummer.

I press on the brake as I approach the oncoming stoplight, but my car has other plans. “Shit, shit, shit,” I chant, stomping harder. A horn is blaring, and I look to my left — a snowplow is headed directly at me. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing harder on the brake, as if it will help me stop, and wait for the inevitable. The intense sound deafens me before the impact. The airbag explodes in my face, and I’m jumbled around like somebody is shaking me in a snow globe. Ironic, considering it looks like one outside.

After what feels like an eternity, but is really less than a minute, my car stills, and I open my eyes enough to see through them. I push the now deflating airbag out of my face and look around. My front windshield is missing, and what was once the passenger side of my car is now entwined with a tree.

The scene is almost identical to what I saw when we came upon my sister’s accident. Except in her case, it was the driver’s side that meshed with the tree.

My mind finally breaks through the fog, and people are yelling, running toward me. “Are you okay? Can you move? Be careful!”

As I wiggle my toes and squeeze my hands, I answer, “Umm, yeah. I’m okay.” I try to open the door, but it won’t budge. “Here, let me help you. Be careful.” A man stands on the hood of my car and helps pull me through the now empty windshield frame.

I jump down and walk a few feet away, rejecting any attempts to help me further. I’m not intentionally acting like a bitch, but the memories have taken over, and I feel like I’m in a dream. Looking around, I see a lot of people running around and three cars crushed like mine. The plow truck appears to be intact, and the driver’s side door is open. Hopefully, he got out okay.

People keep talking to me, but I can’t focus right now. I cannot believe I walked away from that. Looking behind me, I expect to see drops of blood, but the only thing aside from footprints is pure white snow. I sit on the hill, wrap my arms around my knees, and pull my hood over my head, trying to keep warm. The snow slowly starts to pile up around me.

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