Hold Me by W. Winters

Ella

There is purpose in suffering.Damon’s previous declaration has wreaked havoc on me since I woke up in the middle of the night and struggled to get back to sleep. With my eyes feeling heavy, the questions roll around in the back of my mind.

What the fuckpurpose is worth what I went through? The tragedies that so many people endure have purpose?

The question sticksto my tongue as Damon takes his seat on the patio chair across from where I’m lying.  In high-waisted jeans and a cream sweater, I don’t have to worry about covering anything from him.

“Enjoying the fire without me?” he jokes, leaning back in the chair.  The fire burns bright behind him.  Damon’s gotten back to his more casual, friendly banter with me. Any bit of tension or uncertainty since The Firm found out about Zander and I has subsided entirely.

But why would he tell me there is purpose in suffering? The more I think about it, the more it almost seems cruel. The question is still there, but I swallow it and answer, “It’s the perfect day for the fireplace out here, don’t you think?”

“There’s a nice chill out here, I’ll admit.”

What purpose could be worth this?  I’ve been thinking about it all day.  He said there was purpose in suffering, but what could possibly be worth the suffering that comes with loss?

“Something on your mind?” he questions and I run my teeth along my lower lip, considering him.

“Did Z send you out here to babysit me while he left?”

With a shake of his head, Damon crosses his ankle to his other knee.

“You look like a therapist, you know that?”  I point with a chipped nail and add, “Especially in a collared shirt under that sweater.”

“You sound like a patient avoiding meaningful conversation.”

I huff out a laugh and ask, “What’s it called when you keep thinking about the same thing over and over?”

“Obsessing?”

“No.” I’m quick to dismiss that suggestion.  “When it’s things that make you sad.”

He nods and says, “Ruminating.  Excessive thinking about negative feelings.”

Snapping my fingers, I point at him and say, “That’s the one.”

“What are you thinking about?” he questions but then corrects himself.  “What can’t you stop thinking about?”

I watch his foot tap on nothing in the air.

“Missing James,” I confess under my breath and I let my expression show the sadness I’ve been concealing as I add, “Don’t tell him.  Please.”

“Zander?”

Swallowing thickly, I nod.

“He knows that you miss him.  But I won't tell him anything in our conversations. It’s only between the two of us.”

“I can’t stop thinking about how if James had looked, even though he had the right-of-way, or if I’d seen it quicker and yelled.”

“That must feel heavy.”

I murmur without looking back at him, “Endless loop about my current suffering.”

“I have to be honest.” He waits for me to peek up at him before he tells me, “I’m not a fan of that loop of yours.”  He offers me a kind smile and raises his brow.

“That would make two of us.”

“But I’m happy that you’re talking about it.”

“I want it to stop,” I confess to him, not hearing whatever he’s just said. “How do you make it stop?”  The question reeks of desperation.

“Recognize that you are ruminating.  Acknowledging that it’s not productive.”

“I do that. When I go there, I realize it’s happening at least.”

“Good.  Good.”

“And then I’m angry that I’m thinking about it again and reliving it. I get so frustrated with myself … it doesn’t stop.”

“I need you to know that we are not our thoughts. Separate the feelings from the thoughts.”

“I thought you said there was purpose in suffering.”  The words race out of me, nearly sounding accusatory.

“The purpose of suffering is not to suffer.  The purpose is knowing why you feel that way and then what you can do, if you can do anything. In your case, you can’t.”

“I wish I could.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Help me make it stop,” I practically beg him, praying he can understand how much it still hurts. “Please.”

“Tell yourself it’s just a ball in a box.  The button was pushed.  Was there something that led to it or not?  If there’s nothing to do, nothing to control, let it go.”

“Okay.  Let it go.”

Damon makes a show of looking at his watch.  “Well, we dove right in, didn’t we?”

I let out a small laugh, laying back into the pillow.

“Do you know what triggered it?”

The bedroom.I don’t answer him, though.  “I think I’d rather talk about something else.”

“We can do that.”

My lips perk up into a soft smile.  “You’re easy to talk to, you know that?” Damon’s broad smile is comforting. I add, “And you have a beautiful smile.”

“Well, now you’re just buttering me up for something.”

I don’t say anything, I return my attention to the lone loose thread on the knee of my jeans. Just let it go.  Feel it and let it go.  The advice resonates but it’s too simple.  At this moment, I’m not sure how to feel about its simplicity.

“If you don’t want to talk about James, maybe we can talk about Zander?” Damon suggests.

“What about him?”

“Have your other relationships been similar?  Romantically or sexually?”

“As in, have I had other Doms in my life?”

Damon nods.

“Only one.  My husband.  But it wasn’t the same.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shift again, feeling colder as the breeze sweeps my hair in front of my face.  “I … feel uncomfortable comparing the two of them.”

“Remember that it’s okay to be uncomfortable.  There are no good or bad emotions.  Only comfortable and uncomfortable, and there’s nothing wrong with either.”

“I don’t want to talk about him right now.”

“I understand.  Let’s go back a bit, shall we?”

Nodding, I clear my throat.  “Okay.”

“Back on the topic of sex, sexual empowerment, is that what you called it?” He references a conversation we had the other day.

“Yes.”

“You said something about having all the money in the world, but you choose to use your platform for sexual empowerment.”

“My social media following.”  Yesterday and the day before, I went on little rants mostly. Apparently Damon wants to hear more of my “I am woman, hear me roar” movement.

“That’s right.”

“How far back did you go when you looked through my social media posts?” I question him nearly comically, although it doesn’t reflect in my expression or tone.

“To the beginning, skimming,” he admits which is shocking. “I wanted to make sure I understood what you meant about using your platform for empowering women and sex positivity.”

“Being called a whore and slut for years will do it, I guess.” Those types of comments started the moment I wore my first bikini … I think I was fourteen. I know my dad was still alive, so I was young, just posing with friends at the beach.

“I did notice when you got engaged so did the amount of overt expression in your posts.”

“I like posting things that make women more comfortable with their bodies and sexuality. I always have but I had to be careful.  I didn’t want to sound bitchy or judgy … I just wanted women to know it was okay to want sex.  To have sex.  To wear what they want and to say no if they didn’t want to do something. That it didn’t make them “less than” to want some activities.”

“Was your mother an active role or voice in that subject?”

My snort is exceptionally unladylike. “No.  No, not at all.  I don’t remember much about my mother except …”

“Except what?”

“Fighting.”

A cool breeze blows by and I emphasize, “They were always yelling.”

“You were young when your mother died, but you remember them fighting?”

“There are very few memories I have of her,” I tell him and moments flash in my mind. “In nearly all of them, she was fighting with my father.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened with your mother?”

“You know what happened.” My blood chills and the sun starts to set, dimming the natural light far too quickly.

“Are their deaths, the trial, their fighting something you think about often?”

Staring blankly at him, I wish I could speak as easily as I just have when talking about my upbringing.

“Do you remember how you felt during those harder times?”  Suddenly the topic of sex no longer seems important.  Damon watches me like he’s gotten to something he’d like to dig up.

The screaming is what I remember most.  I’d wake up from them screaming at each other.  “Scared, angry … like any child would be.” With another breeze blowing, I brush my hair from out of my face and cross my arms.

“Guarded?” Damon pokes fun and I tsk him. “It’s just cold.” My heart does a little tap in my chest that’s uneven. Yes. This conversation makes me very guarded and I wonder if Damon saw posts or comments that he shouldn’t have. Kam said they were all removed.

“Did it ever get physical?”

“Yes.” I nod, my throat going tight and dry. “I can still remember the sound of him slapping her so hard she fell to the ground.”

The tapping in my chest continues, intensifying and quickening when he asks, “Do you remember how old you were?”

“I had to be in middle school.”

“I imagine that was difficult.”

Enough. Enough. We’re not supposed to be talking about this.“I don’t see how any of this relates to anything at all.”

“Conflict resolution is a learned behavior.  How did you learn to handle your emotions when you were dealt such severe ones at a young age?  You just told me you know that you’re ruminating, but don’t know how to stop.  You’ve told me a number of stories where you struggle with your emotions.”

“I think that’s normal.”

“Just because it’s normal doesn’t mean it’s healthy.  I want to help you, so tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“What happened when they fought?’

With a deep breath in, I answer him, “That’s something I haven’t thought about in a while.”  He starts to say something, but I cut him off. “You know how we started this conversation with ruminating?  I used to stay up at night, thinking about their fights and if I could change anything.”

“And how did you cope with those feelings?” he questions and the events play in my head. Kelly, Trish and Kam … the plan. Uncovering the truth and then covering it all back up. How did I cope? I did something I shouldn’t have.

“I think we should go inside,” I whisper.