For my re-readers, this entire chapter is new, it was not in the previous edition. I thought this experience was too traumatizing to relive and write, but years later, I have changed my mind.

2k words

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(y/n)'s POV
(DV warning)
I despise the taste of blood; it's bitter, warm, and has a metallic tang that lingers on my tongue. It makes me feel nauseous, as if I'm swallowing shards of glass instead of the life force that once coursed through me. I spat out the taste as I lay on the floor, my heart racing, glancing up at Jackson, who loomed over me, his shadow swallowing me whole.

This time, I didn't fall. I braced myself against the cold, hard ground, but the impact of his fist against my mouth was so brutal that I feared a tooth might be loose. Maybe there is one, or even two, but the pain is nothing compared to the dread that fills my chest.

All I said to him was no. Just that. A single word that felt like a fragile barrier against the onslaught of his demands. He wanted me to sleep with him, and I had the nerve to say I was too tired from work, as if my exhaustion could shield me from his wrath.

I'm not allowed to refuse him, not for anything. The unspoken rules of our twisted relationship bind me tighter than any physical restraint. He could ask me to leap in front of a speeding train, and I'd be expected to do it. I would, too. The thought of the train hitting me, ending my life in a flash, is a seductive escape. I imagine the impact scattering me like mist, turning me into nothing. That's how I feel when I'm with Jackson anyway—like I'm nothing, a ghost haunting the edges of my own existence.

"Are you ready to change your mind?" he asks, his voice dripping with a sickly sweetness that makes my skin crawl. He leans down, brushing my hair away from my face, and I flinch at his touch, recoiling from the warmth that feels so wrong.

My body shakes, and I nod, whispering, "Ye-yes."

He grins, a twisted smile that sends a shiver down my spine, and in that moment, I imagine what it would be like to see him bleeding on the floor, wishing he were dead. I shouldn't enjoy it as much as I should, I'm not violent. I have never been violent.

"Good," he says, his voice low and smooth, like honey laced with poison. "I knew you'd come around." He straightens up, towering over me, and I can't help but feel small and insignificant.

I try to focus on the details of the room, anything to distract myself from the reality of my situation. The peeling paint on the walls, the flickering light bulb overhead that has needed to be changed for weeks, the way the shadows dance like specters in the corners. But no matter how hard I try, I can't escape—I will never escape.

"Get up," he commands, and I obey, pushing myself off the floor with trembling limbs. Each movement feels like a betrayal of my own will. "Now, let's go to bed."

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come. I can feel the bile rising in my throat, the taste of blood still lingering, a reminder of the violence that has become a part of my reality. I want to scream, to fight back, but the words die in my throat, choked by fear and despair. Instead, I nod again, a silent agreement to do what he wants, to make him happy even though it makes me sick.
(DV ends)

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I felt as if my mind was wrapped in fog, a thick, suffocating haze that dulled my senses and clouded my thoughts. Each step I took was heavy, as if I were wading through molasses, and the world around me seemed to stretch and distort, moving in slow motion. Sounds were muffled, like I was submerged underwater, and the chatter of colleagues and the hum of fluorescent lights felt distant and surreal.

Each step felt unsteady, as if the ground beneath me might give way at any moment. I didn't feel like myself and the world around me felt unreal, like a dream I couldn't wake up from. I was moving on autopilot, relying on my body's memory to guide me through the familiar halls of the office. Without that instinctive knowledge of where to go, I wouldn't have made it this far.

With my notebook clutched tightly in my hand, I left my office, the door swinging shut behind me, though I couldn't recall if I had even closed it properly. My mind was too foggy to register such details. I made my way to the session room where Anakin would be waiting.

I hadn't spoken a word since last night; it felt like my voice had vanished, stolen away by the weight of my silence and the trauma that clung to me like a second skin. I nodded at the guards who acknowledged me with a practiced indifference, and I managed a weak smile for the receptionist and any colleagues I passed by, though it felt more like a grimace than a genuine expression of warmth.

I was hesitant to meet anyone's gaze for too long, acutely aware of the bruises on my neck, barely concealed by the high collar of my turtleneck. They were ugly reminders of Jackson's twisted version of love. I worried that if I held someone's gaze for too long, they might see the truth etched on my skin—the swollen lip, the bruise on my cheekbone. I had tried to cover them with makeup, but my skills were lacking since I rarely wore it.

A guard greeted me as I approached the door to the session room. "Good morning, Doctor," he said, his voice warm. I took a moment to focus on him through the haze of my thoughts. "Are you alright?" he asked, concern evident in his tone.

I nodded, barely managing a whisper of affirmation as I slipped past him and opened the door. Anakin was already there, looking like he had just arrived, as the guards were finishing up cuffing him to the table.

Once they were done, they walked away, each offering a brief greeting as they left, and I returned their nods. I settled into my chair, the creaking sound echoing loud and making me flinch, it was piercing compared to how silent everything seemed moments ago.

"You look—" Anakin started, and I slowly met his gaze. His words faltered, "Defeated."

I turned my attention back to my notebook in front of me. "I—I don't think I can do this today," I admitted, my voice rough, as if my vocal cords have been sanded down to almost nothing.

"What happened to you?" he asked, but I remained silent. He began to hum softly to himself before continuing, "Alright, you don't have to talk if you don't want to. I'll do the talking."

I nodded, opening my notebook with a thud against the metal table. It is my job after-all, I can't just not do it because I don't have the energy. I'd feel better soon enough, I feel this way for awhile after turning into his personal punching bag. Then I recover and it's as if nothing happened. Then, the cycle soon repeats.

"You won't need that for now, sweetheart. Just look at me," he said, his tone gentle and filled with concern, unlike the demanding tone of Jackson. I felt as if I had a choice, and I wouldn't be punished for saying no. So, I decided to look at him, because I wanted to. "There those pretty eyes are," he said.

I wanted to tell him to stop with the flattery, that his teasing was inappropriate. But today, I didn't feel like talking or fighting, so I thought letting him have his moment wouldn't hurt.

He tilted his head, studying me closely. I could tell he saw the swollen lip and the bruise on my cheek that wasn't usually there. "Close your eyes," he urged. I frowned, unsure of why he wanted me to do that. "Please. I promise it will help. If you just follow my instructions for a few minutes, not only will you feel better, but I'll share a few little details with you about my foster father." There wasn't much known about him. After his parents were murdered, he entered the foster care system—many believed it was a simple break-in that led to their deaths, unaware that he was involved until years later. Soon after, he seemed to vanish from the world for years before reappearing as he is now.

I took a deep breath through my nose, weighing my options, and finally, my curiosity won. I closed my eyes.

"Imagine your home, standing on the porch and staring at your door." He started, and I could see the black door in front of me, framed by white walls. "Now, step through it," he instructed. I followed his command. "Make your way to the living room, but be quiet; you don't want him to hear you. He's sitting on the couch, his back turned, lost in a sitcom. His laughter makes your stomach hurt." It truly did. "Look at your hands; you're gripping something. It's the cord that usually hangs from the window shades." I noticed the white string, stained with a drop of blood from a year ago when I was pushed against the wall. Hard enough to bleed. "Now, creep up behind him, as silent as a mouse. When you reach him, take that cord and wrap it around his neck—be swift, he's stronger than you." Against my will, my mind obeyed. I encircled the cord around his neck and pulled tight. "Don't let go until he stops moving. Watch him struggle, see him fight for his miserable life." I observed, feeling a twisted satisfaction as his face turned red, then blue, until finally—he lay still, his eyes locked on mine, empty of life and devoid of a soul; if he ever had one. "Now, open your eyes."

I opened my eyes and it was as if I had been transported back to this very room. Our eyes locked, and he wore a smile that seemed to say he was proud of me.

"Do you feel better?" he asked, leaning in closer, trying to bridge the distance between us.

Did I? I shouldn't. I'm not someone who resorts to violence; I've never wished harm on anyone or anything. I cry if I accidentally step on a snail, and feel sad watching a bird fly alone and if I see an elderly eating at a restaurant without any company. I have compassion, I have love, I have empathy—but I can't ignore that the fantasy had mended a small part of me, at least a little. "I don't know," I replied, striving to be honest.

"You can still be a good person and feel anger and resentment," he said, as if he could read my mind. "Especially towards someone who truly deserves it."

I swallowed hard and glanced down at my notebook before flipping to a fresh page. "I don't think I want to be the subject of our conversation anymore," I said softly, realizing I had found my voice again. "You mentioned you'd tell me about your foster father—"

"Sweetheart," he interrupted, "I just did."

I blinked in surprise as I put it together. That fantasy, it wasn't just a fantasy after all.

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