And he came, at least twice a week, sometimes more. The nurses adored him, saying behind their hands how devoted he was. He would sit with her in the common room a few minutes, then take her hand and lead her back to her room. It was a stark white room with nothing in it to use in attempting suicide-nothing sharp, no belts.
He had furnished it for her, she’d heard once, with the advice of Dr. Beadermeyer. It was a metal bed covered with fake wood, fake so that it wouldn’t splinter so she could stick a fragment through her own heart. Not that such a thing would ever occur to her, but he talked about it and laughed, saying as he cupped her face in his hand that he would take care of her for a very long time.
Then he’d strip off her clothes and make her lie on her back on the bed. He would walk around the bed, looking at her, talking to her about his day, his work, about the woman he was currently sleeping with. Then he’d unzip his trousers and show her himself, tell her how lucky she was to get to see him, that he would let her touch him but he didn’t quite trust her yet.
He’d touch her all over. He’d rub himself. Just before he came, he’d hit her at least once, usually in the ribs.
Once when his head was thrown back in his orgasm, she saw through the fog in her eyes that there were two people at the window opening in the door, staring at them, talking even as they looked. She’d tried to push him away, but it hadn’t worked. She had so little strength. He’d finished, then leaned down, seen the hatred in her eyes, and struck her face. It was the only time he had ever hit her in the face.
She remembered once how he’d turned her onto her belly, pulling her back toward him and how he’d said that maybe one day he’d let her have him, let her feel him going into her, deep, and it would hurt because he was big, didn’t she agree? But no, she didn’t deserve him yet. And who cared? They had years ahead of them, years to do all sorts of things. And he’d told her about when he finally allowed his mistresses to have him and what they did to please him.
She hadn’t said anything. He’d struck her for that, with his belt, on her buttocks. He hadn’t stopped for a very long time. She remembered screaming, begging, screaming some more, trying to wriggle away from him, but he’d held her down. He hadn’t stopped.
It was five a.m. when Quinlan was jerked out of a deep sleep by her scream, loud, piercing, so filled with pain and helplessness that he couldn’t bear it. He was at her side in an instant, pulling her against him, trying to soothe her, saying anything that came to mind, just talking and talking to bring her out of the dreadful nightmare.
“God, it hurt so much, but he didn’t care, he just kept hitting and hitting, holding me down so I couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. I screamed and screamed, but nobody cared, nobody came, but I know those faces were looking in the window and they loved it. Oh, God, no, make it stop. STOP IT!”
So it was a nightmare about her time in that sanitarium-at least that’s what it sounded like. It sounded sadistic and sexual. What the hell was going on here?
His hand was busy in her hair, stroking up and down her back, talking to her, talking, talking.
Her horrible gasping breaths slowed. She hiccupped.
She leaned back, wiping her hand across her nose. She closed her eyes a moment, then began to tremble.
“No, Sally, just stop it. I’m here, it’s all right. Just relax against me, that’s it. Just breathe real slow. Good, that’s just fine.” He stroked her back, felt the shivering slowly ease. God, what had she dreamed? A memory distorted by the unconscious could be hideous.
“What did he do to you?” He spoke slowly, softly against her temple. “You can tell me. It’ll make it go away faster if you talk about it.”