My Beautiful Nightmare

I come to shrouded in a blanket of blackness, velvet curtains drawn. Immediately I sense I'm alone. He's gone. He has left me.

I sit up and reach my hand to my throat. I run my fingers over what feels like a jeweled choker. I fumble in the dark for a lamp on the bedside table. I untangle my naked body from the soft sheets and stagger to an antique dressing mirror. I catch my breath, unsure which shocks me more—my own image, stark naked with mascara smeared around my eyes, a shock of wild hair and my bald, swollen pussy—a ghost of the woman I was only the day before; or the most delicate, the most stunning diamond choker I've ever seen, falling against the base of my neck, just tight enough to threaten choking me. I lean into the mirror and focus on a fetching rose-shaped ruby at the center of the choker. Mariano has left behind his beauty, and I will cherish it, of course; but I already sense the unbearable presence of his absence suffocating me. I have no idea when I will hear from him again. Pulling back to take in the entirety of my image, I gaze at a changed woman, threatened by the uncertainty of her unknown.

The unbearable thought of pending pain once his touch wears off my skin drives me to the bar in the outer suite. I select the most expensive bottle of scotch and drink straight from it. The bitter burn crawls down my throat and distracts me from my yearning. I welcome it. Bottle in hand, I head back to bed, slip between the cool sheets and take another swig before snapping off the light. I sleep in Mariano's choker and nothing more for as long as possible.

****

I have lost myself. No longer do I exist without Mariano lingering in my mind, on my skin, in my heated dreams from which I awake in the night throbbing for him.

Although I have intentionally lost count of days, I know it has been months since we spent the night in the hotel. I have not removed his choker. I wear it on my morning walks, to tea with friends, at my interior design shop, when I practice yoga, bathe and meditate. I wear his choker on the rare occasion I go out for a night with girlfriends under the guise of hoping to "meet someone." I don't want to meet anyone but Mariano. I wear his choker when I drink alone in my flat at midnight, attempting to deaden the pain of his absence, which refuses to leave me.

One night I sip on a chocolaty cabernet while I prepare a lonely dinner. I am submerging my angst in the calming melancholy of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, when the doorbell tears me from my trance. My heart jumps to my throat. The doorman hasn't alerted me of a visitor. I hurry to the foyer, look through the peephole and see Mariano's driver. I open the door.

"Jacques," I greet him, "nice to see you again."

"Ms. Fortier, I've come with a delivery," Jacques tips his cap. He pulls an ivory envelope from a leather-bound folder and hands it to me. "Enjoy the rest of your evening," he departs without another word.

I sit on the sofa, flooded with emotion. I stare down at the envelope clutched in my shaky hands: the words The Spa embossed across the front, the border boasting a faint lace. My heart beats fast and hard. In order to slow it, I reach for my wine. The bold liquid soothes and empowers me. Anger and relief, yearning and fear, pulse in my temples. Each emotion fights to take over. Instead of allowing any of them to take charge, I sit back, knowing Mariano desires me. He has sent for me. If only for the moment, I hold the power.

How dare he leave me waiting like this? How dare he play with my heart, with my head, with my life? Who does he think he is? Who does he think I am?

I want him so much it hurts. I hate him. He left me in a swollen heap—torn up, raw and broken—in the poetic loneliness of that abandoned hotel suite, my bruised and bloodied heart still throbbing between my aching thighs. He let that door click behind him. He intentionally hurt me.

I reflect back to the hotel suite.

When I awoke from my drunken slumber, I opened the bathroom door. The scent of roses engulfed me—a murderous reminder of the night before. Mariano had left a scalding bubble bath running for me, partially unplugged, so the water remained hot, without overflowing. His attention to detail tortured me. Mad for the scent of roses, he had wanted me to douse my body in the milky water for him, so he could get off on the thought of me like that, wherever he may be; but I rebelled against him. I shut off the water and went back to sleep. I hardly moved from the bed for days, except to open the door for room service, or to use the bathroom, where I left the bathtub partially filled with milky water as a reminder of him and all he had left behind—unfinished, discarded. I refused to allow him to control me from afar. That bastard.

I drifted in and out of sleep on a constant brink of drunkenness for days. Velvety curtains drawn, blackness enveloped me. I handled myself in everyway possible, with my hands, with the ruby-rose vibrator he had left behind. I wanted to feel what he had felt when he pleasured me. Spasmodic chills woke me in the night, the sound of heavy breathing, even moaning, as Mariano entered my body and then left me again and again, in my dreams. All I could do was grab at myself, shove my knuckles into my pussy to keep him out, to keep him in.

That is how withdrawals debilitated me until, at last, I snapped—after the lust had turned to sex and the sex to sorrow and the sorrow to physical pain and the physical pain to numbness and the numbness to anger—the anger turned to a driving motivation to get up and tackle the world, tackle mankind, tackle man. I found a sense of strength in a desire for vengeance and I would emerge stronger and more deeply cracked, all at once.

I had always held a power I could exert over men, although I had never found the courage to use it, until Mariano gave it to me.

I did not shower until my last morning in the hotel. I wanted to keep him on my skin. I ordered lavish clothing from the shop down below and charged it to his room. I called for a car and emerged into the lobby, in black elegance, without a word to the concierge. I ducked into an awaiting car and left the scene of the crime behind.

I remained silent the whole way to my flat, behind dark glasses, beneath a wide-brimmed hat; I never made eye contact with Mariano's chauffer. The shame I had experienced when I first realized he had discarded me had finally evaporated, still I needed to conserve my energy for strengthening. Days had passed and time had begun to heal the heaving mess he had left behind. I needed to cultivate that healing.

The wait began.

I hate him for the wait more than any of his other cruelties. Now months have passed. Somehow I've survived. Sitting on my couch with The Spa envelope in my hand, I look down at it once more, uncros my legs and stand. I walk to the bookshelf and slide out my journal—its pages are filled with my deepest thoughts, desires and fantasies from over the past fourteen months, since Mariano appeared in my life. I open it to the last page of writing. I stick the envelope between the pages and return the journal to its shelf. I pick up my wine and carry it to the record player. I return the needle to the start of Moonlight Sonata, head back to my kitchen and resume cooking, with a lighter heart.

Weeks pass. I lose count. I refuse to dwell in Mariano's captivity. Life returns to some semblance of normalcy. I have a choice for the first time in what feels like forever. I am fueled by it. My fantasies, too, take on a new fervor. Mariano fades into the background. Now a mere voyeur in my sexual scenarios, he watches, angry and helpless as strange men fuck me in shadowy alleys, public restrooms, trains. I glare at Mariano, as I enclose my warm mouth around the head of a foreigner's penis, working it with my tongue while I stroke his shaft until he releases down my throat. I lick my lips, sneer at Mariano, driving him mad, furthering my empowerment.

One night I return late to my flat. Having been out with girlfriends for gourmet martinis, I am high and haughty. Girl talk puts me in this mood, although I've never breathed a word about Mariano to my friends. He is my secret. I have no desire to share him. I invented a lavish tale about an exotic stranger who spotted me in a café and stared at me for an hour, before dropping a box on the table in front of me, stating, "You're the first beauty I've seen worthy of this," before disappearing into the crowded street. In the box, of course, had lain the choker. Mariano has turned me into a liar. I cannot speak of him, even when I feel my secret will explode inside me.

Now I take my journal from the shelf and cradle it in my hands, my most precious belonging. A mysterious object burns my mind from between the pages, all day and night long. What's inside the envelope? Is it an invitation? What pleasures does it offer? What pain? Is Mariano aware weeks have passed since he sent it? Has he been counting the days? Does he care, at all? Will I see him soon?

Today has been an extreme obsession day. I can't keep him out of my mind no matter how hard I try. When I ordered that second martini, I knew I was setting the stage for what was to come this evening. Drink helps dissolve my protective armor. I can take the ache no more. The moment is quiet except for a slight buzzing near my temples from the martinis. I have been good. I had been re-virginized and now it's okay to behave a little bit badly. This time I will remain in control. I have earned the reward of what's inside the envelope.

I pour myself a glass of wine and carry it with my journal to my bedroom. I slip into a black satin robe and head to the bathroom. I draw a scalding French rose bubble bath. My journal and wine wait on the side of the tub. I glance at my image in the mirror and drop my robe to the floor. I feel strong.

I light candles, dim the light and lower myself into the water. It scalds my skin. I relish the sting. It reminds me of him and relieves me of his pain, all at once. I lean back, take deep breaths and brace myself for what is to come. I sip my wine and slide the ivory envelope from the journal. It weighs heavy in my hands. I fondle it, smell it and inhale a faint scent of lavender, a refreshing change from the rose. I open the envelope and withdraw a small, ivory card. I feel his essence on the card. I open it and find a phone number in bold black type, the only hint of information, other than the words 'The Spa' printed on the outside of the envelope.

I sink down low in the bubbles, loathing Mariano for exerting his control over me again. If I am to gain knowledge of what he has in mind for us, I will have to dial the phone number. I will have to follow his instructions. I am tempted to hold the card to the candle's flame and let it burn to ashes, but I know I won't do that. I'm dying to touch him, to be touched by him. The only influence I have over the situation is to dial the damn number.

I power on the Jacuzzi jets, lean back against the tub and fall into deep meditation. Inhalation, exhalation, conscious thought falls away. I see an image of myself standing at a defining crossroads. I allow myself to submerge deeper than my desire down to my core intuition. I have been in captivity fourteen months. Before dialing that phone number, I must tap into exactly who I wish to be, as a woman, with regard to men, from this point forward. The time has come to make a conscious choice instead of waiting for life, for Mariano, to tell me how to feel, which way to go.

After a half-hour meditation in the rumbling, steaming bubbles, I step into a black satin robe and head to my bedroom. Feeling like a new woman, centered and charged by my own power, I sit on my bed. Steam lingers on my skin. I pluck the ivory card from my pocket; pick up the telephone and dial.

The phone rings twice. A fairy-like voice answers, "Good evening, Ms. Fortier, we've been waiting for your call."

I glance at the clock on my bedside table: it's nearly midnight. Thrown off by the feminine voice, with, perhaps, a pang of jealousy, I feign confidence.

"Good evening, who's this?"

"This is Collette. I'll be taking care of you for Mr. De Mora."

"Taking care of me?"

"Yes, the sooner the better. I know he's anxious."

I'm confused by circumstance, but I like hearing Mariano is anxious.

"Have I reached The Spa?" I ask. "Is this a treatment Mariano has booked for me?"

"I have no more information for you," Collette replies. "A car will arrive for you tomorrow at 6pm. We look forward to your arrival, Farah."

The line goes dead. I fume. I want to be excited by the intrigue of this mysterious appointment, but this motherfucker has toyed with me too much, kept me waiting too long. I have reached my boiling point. Even the part of me that desires him—counting the minutes until I'll feel him on me, in me, around me—is angered by his games.

I snap off the light and will myself into a deep sleep.

To be continued ...