Paper Trails

35.

"Keep a place for me..."
~ Self Control, Frank Ocean

*****

As a prostitute, some things were expected of me. Submission, for one. When it came to older men, they had a thing for control. They liked having a pretty little girl under them who would nod her head and say yes daddy whenever they barked an order. Many times I'd been asked to play certain roles—the dirty student, the naughty stepdaughter, whatever—and each time, it was expected that I would submit to them. It was normal. I'm the prostitute, my job is to please the customer. So I did what they asked (and if my performance was good enough, I'd get a little extra in tips) and I tried not to complain.

Submission became easy. Second nature, almost. I submitted to Chris plenty of times, because at the end of the day he was all I had.

I submitted to Niccolò, too.

Except it was different. It didn't take much convincing or conniving. A few threats and suddenly, I was his bitch. I fought back more with Chris, but it's possible it was because I strongly believed he wouldn't kill me.

Niccolò was different. There were no feelings. I was nothing but the whore who managed to steal from his brother. That is what he saw, and that is what would make putting a gun to my head and pulling the trigger so easy.

The only thing I couldn't understand was why wouldn't he? Niccolò knew that to hurt me, he had to hurt the person I loved. He had to hurt Tyler. But physical pain would have been just ad effective.

A human being could only take so much before they break. There is only so much willpower and when they've reached their limit...that would be it. We're selfish beings. We'd do anything to stop our own sufferings, eventually.

It's not that he couldn't. Niccolò was more than capable of torture. I saw what he did to Chris.

You look at a person and you see a person. But if you stare hard enough, their persona slips. There's a teeny tiny crack in the front they've put up and it's just enough for you to see what's behind the pretty, perfect face.

What was behind Niccolò's face terrified me.

Maybe because it was his face. There's no hidden monster, no inner demon. Just him. He didn't have monsters. He was the monster. And he knew it. He knew exactly what he was capable of. He knew exactly how to get what he wanted.

So why hadn't he harmed me? Why is it that the only physical pain I'd endured from him was the slap I'd received after attacking Erina?

That wasn't to say I felt comfortable enough to believe he wouldn't harm me.

I'm just curious as to why he's held back for so long.

There was anger in him. I could see it and feel it every time he buried himself inside me.

How could one person control all that anger?

"Jesus," Milan muttered, leaning over my shoulder. "You a writer now?"

I crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the fireplace, all while glaring at her. The paper burned quickly enough, turning my words to grey and ash. "You don't know how to mind your fucking business."