It Should Have Been Like This (The Revised Version)

Chapter 38: The Weight of Scars

I keep a smile plastered on my face as I slowly drag the zipper down the back of my dress, peeling it off my shoulders and letting it pool at my feet. I'm left standing in just my underwear, but that doesn't last long. With a few deft movements, I unclasp my bra, push the straps off, and toss it aside.

The look of horror that washes over his face when he sees my once smooth, unblemished stomach now covered in scars is deeply satisfying. "Can you see?" I ask, my voice dripping with a mixture of anger and resignation. "This is what I've been hiding under my clothes. See these?"

I turn around, exposing the angry red welts and lash marks across my back. "I got these when I willingly participated to be the sex slave of a wealthy psychopath. He doesn't sleep with the women, but he derives pleasure from their pain and the sight of their blood. All I had to do was take whips on my body and cry like there's no tomorrow, and I get the complete money to start Zayne's treatment."

I point to a particularly nasty-looking scar just below my left buttock. "See this? It didn't heal like the others. My back and this one are the only physical reminders of that night. And of course, the one I have in my head."

Turning back around, I gesture to the angry red claw marks across my chest. "This was from the man that raped me. You see, I had to do a late-night shift to get money to pay for Serenity's drugs. Boy, was he rough. I got infected with a disease, but I cured it anyway."

I continue, pointing out the various scars and marks that litter my body — the one from the "dominant man," the one that "almost ripped my anus apart," the surgical scar from the operation to remove Serenity and Zayne, the stab wounds from when I was mugged and beaten.

Through it all, I maintain my unsettling smile, daring him to look away, to deny the horrific ordeals I've endured in order to provide for my family. "Still alive, no biggie," I say, the light in my eyes betraying the depths of my trauma and the sheer force of will that has kept me going.

As I pointed out the rest of the scars on my body, my voice took on a sardonic, almost mocking tone. "A girl caught me with her boyfriend, and she came with her brothers, so they beat the shit out of me. But I didn't fight back, because I knew I could use that excuse to demand more money from my client."

I purposefully avoided mentioning the man with the disturbing foot fetish, not wanting to dwell on the depths of the depravity I had endured. "Thank goodness I met a kind woman who helped me with herbs, or I would feel worse right now." I paused, the grim set of my mouth betraying the true emotions. "Don't worry, after no sexual torture for four years, and the herbs and treatment I've been taking, I'm as good as new," I finished, the sarcastic grin still plastered on my face.

I desperately wanted him to feel the weight of what he had done to me, to see the scars and bruises and be consumed by the guilt and remorse I knew he should feel. But when a single tear rolled down his cheek, I was instantly taken aback, my anger and bitterness replaced by a profound sense of shock and numbness.

Rominic staggered backward until his back hit the wall, his hand rising to cover his mouth as he blinked rapidly, fighting to hold back the tears. I simply stared at him, my jaw dropped, my eyes wide with disbelief. I didn't know how to react, the weight of the situation utterly overwhelming me.

Unable to face him any longer, I quietly turned and stepped into the shower, shutting the glass door behind me. I cranked the water temperature up, letting the scalding steam scorch my skin, hoping the physical pain would distract me from the emotional turmoil raging within. I knew that if I allowed myself to cry alongside him, I would inevitably forgive him, and he didn't deserve that, not after what he'd put me through. The tears I held back burned like acid, my body aching to release the anguish I had endured for so long.