Vaughn hadn't read more than a paragraph or two before he'd had to close the journal. A cold fist squeezed his stomach as his grip on the binding turned his knuckles white. God. Oh god, something awful had happened to her.
In one miserable moment the meaning of it all crashed down on him. Someone had hurt her, sweet, strange Devan. And she'd had the terrible misfortune, after, of being trapped there with him, with all his ugly mistrust, his violence. He was terrified to open the notebook again, to face what she'd been through, to read, knowing the whole time what he'd done to her.
What a fucking coward. If she could survive it happening, he could damn well take reading about it. Willing his shaking hands to turn back the cover, Vaughn forced his stinging eyes over her slanting words. Sitting alone by the fire he read her story. Went for her ride.
Rage and pity welled up in him as he thought of the gentle, fragile girl he had come to care for as she was tormented, touched by that man, forced to confess her fantasies. How could anyone do it? Take someone so innocent, so shy, bare her body that way? Touch her, talk to her like that? Even though she'd escaped, still a virgin, and even though she had admitted her own confused excitement at being touched and watched, he felt she had been raped. Even worse, in spite of her own words suggesting that it had been some kind of liberation, he felt the tracing of her fantasies to her, her forced recitals, was in some ways a crueler violation. A rape of her mind.
But the whole time, as he burned with bitter anger another heat suffused his body. He didn't want to admit it. He tried to pretend it was just his rage. But the images she described prodded him with the stirrings of dark arousal. Her hem lifted to reveal the soft curve of her sex, its contours discernable through her panties, the kidnapper's gentle caresses of this girl who was a virgin to such caresses, her first climax. Her, blindfolded, masturbating to her own vivid fantasy before those aroused men. He felt like an asshole, a lascivious voyeur, wondering about those fantasies of hers when the point was what had been done to her.
When he got to what she had written about him, he stopped. Maybe she hadn't meant him to read it. He badly wanted to know as much as he could, what she'd been thinking about him, but maybe she'd forgotten that she'd written about their time together at the cabin when she gave him the journal to read. In the end his curiosity defeated his self-restraint with the rationalization that she'd intended the presentation of the journal as a message to him.
He read. He read how he'd scared her. How she'd thought, that night of his arrival, that he would rape her. Beat her. God, even kill her. It was the worst pain he'd ever felt, knowing that after all she'd been through he'd caused her fresh fear, made her feel overpowered and imprisoned once again. He felt sick. Even though he had deliberately threatened her with his size, with his strength, he almost couldn't believe he really had that awful power. His was such an odd life of isolation through solitude juxtaposed with isolation through population—he was, almost inevitably, either completely alone or surrounded by groups, sometimes mobs of people. With the exception of his wife, in the last few years he had seldom been alone with a woman. And, big as he was, one thing he'd never been accused of was being scary. But christ, the way he'd been with her...
After a while, when he'd tired of torturing himself with thoughts of all the ways he'd hurt her, he opened her journal again, and read on. Knowing he'd ruined it all, let himself feel the torment of a little joy as he read how she'd started to feel about him. He even laughed at himself a little, feeling silly that the tentative affection of a woman, barely more than a girl, could actually make his belly do that little flip. He'd been sure, for a long, long time now, that he was far too jaded to feel anything like this. But there they were. Butterflies. Like ninth grade or something.
And, god, she'd really been about to...give herself to him. The idea, so remote, so impossible now, instantly drove a painful ache into his groin. That he had been the source of strange new feelings for her, that he had been the object of her desire, that he had given her even a few moments of pleasure almost made him forget, for a moment, how completely he had ruined whatever had been unfolding between them. There was no vain spark of hope that there would be a reprise of their attempt at romance—at least none he did not snuff out immediately. He only hoped that his baseless, reckless brutality had not done harm to Devan's chances of happier romances in the future.
For hours he sat there by the fire, his mind jumping from thoughts of what he would say to Devan in the morning, to the erotic images indelibly transferred from the pages of her journal to his mind, to the imagined face of Conrad, to the images of all the ways he had hurt her, too. Punished her that day for imagined transgressions. He really had been about to rape her—not her in his mind, but the other woman, the woman he had believed she might be. Like those others. An intruder, a spy, a rapist. But he'd been an idiot. No. Worse. Deluded. Insane. It was her, Devan, that he had done that to.
Already sick with shame, he was caught in a violent undercurrent of sudden grief. As quietly as he could he slipped outside to cry where he wouldn't wake her. He hated himself. He was poison. The things he'd done to her.
Behind him he heard the door open. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, then turned, found her standing in the doorway, framed in fluttering firelight.
"I couldn't sleep," she said simply.
Seeing her there, hearing her voice, his impulse to hold her overwhelmed him, but his guilt, te thought of her cringing at his touch held him back, frozen.
He was hardly capable of even wondering what she was doing there, near him again, just a couple short hours after he'd...assaulted her. All there was room for in his thoughts was the slow, painful reconciliation of this girl standing before him, this girl he knew, for whom he felt so many conflicting things, with whom he shared such a brief but intense history, with the girl in the journal. The girl who'd been abducted, molested, and—jesus, he had to fight back tears as he thought of it—almost brutally gang raped. That was who he'd been living uneasily with these last few days. That was who he'd held in his arms by the fire. That—he clenched his jaw and his fists against a whimper of useless regret—was who he'd chased down, dragged from the woods, wrestled to the bed, and...
"Mind if I stay with you a while?" she asked. "Would you rather be alone?"
Her voice was so soft he wasn't sure if he knew what she'd said because he'd heard it, or because he'd read her lips. He forced what he hoped was a gentle smile.. He didn't trust his voice to make a sound soft enough.
"No. No."
He stepped toward her, almost without thinking, then stopped. In this agonizing moment he felt his size more painfully than usual. Like a Cyclops in a small cave with a wood nymph. He didn't want to be towering over her with his bulk, didn't want to be looking down at her as she spoke. Farther and farther he backed away from her, their gaze leveling a little with each step, but never enough. She was watching him intently, and he was hoping she'd laugh derisively at his miserable awkwardness, show a little of the hate he deserved. But she only looked sad and nervous.
"I'm so sorry, Devan," was the best he could come up with.
"I know you are."
She said it so sweetly, so sincerely, in such a gentle voice, with such warmth in her eyes that he felt as though she were offering her sympathy, rather than accepting his. He took one little nervous step nearer to her.
"I wish there was something I could do," he said lamely, making some awkward, incomplete gesture.
She looked shy and sad as she smiled at him, then slowly came toward him, watching his face as she did. The thought of her coming near him made him happy and afraid at once. Maybe she read it in his face, maybe that was why she looked so unsure, why when she rested her head against his chest and put her arms around him, he could barely feel her there, as if her embrace were a timid question.
He put his arms around her, pulled her to him. Just to feel her pressing herself warmly to him, soft and trusting, soothed him, overwhelmed him with joy. This was all there could be, after what he'd done, but it was so much. To comfort her, to let her feel safe, to be her friend until she could get back home. It was so wonderful to hold her he didn't want to let go. But he began to feel guilty anxiety creeping in, and opened his arms. She went on, holding him tightly, and he wrapped his arms back around her. He was trembling. Or she was. Maybe it was both of them.
"Do you want to go inside? Where it's warm?"
"No, let's stay out here a little while. It feels good to be outside." She smiled sweetly.
It was a crisp but dry October night. When they finally let each other go, they sat down at the edge of the porch, their feet dangling.
"Devan..."
He didn't know what he could say. No words were up to everything he was thinking and feeling.
"You don't have to say anything, Vaughn. Especially...well...I hope..."
"What?"
"After I gave you the journal I was afraid..."
"You regret letting me read it."
"No, I...I wanted you to know...how I got here. And I wanted you to see that I really could understand some of what you'd been through. I guess, when I read your journal, I just couldn't believe how much the things you said you felt were like what I was feeling. I was so sad that it had happened to you, but it was such a comfort, thinking that maybe to one person..."
She turned to him, met his gaze.
"...to you, what I'd experienced, the way I'd been through it all, wasn't so strange. Does that make sense?"
"Yes."
"But, what I wrote at the end..." she was blushing and nervous, "I don't want you to think..."
He knew. God, she didn't have to say it. She couldn't want him, care for him now, after the things he'd done to her.
"It's alright, Devan. I understand." He spoke softly, smiled gently, being a friend to her, hiding his feeling of loss.
She looked at him, uncertain.
"You wrote those things before...things are different now."
She nodded her head, her eyes welling with tears. Why did she look so sad? He thought she'd be relieved.
"I know I've been...unpredictable, Devan. But you're safe here, with me. I promise, I swear I won't hurt you."
"I know."
"You're shivering. Let's go inside."
"You go ahead. I'm going to stay out here a while."
She sounded so sad, He wished he knew what to say to stop her pain. But he didn't. He stood and went inside. He went to his room and pulled the heavy wool blanked from the end of the bed, and took it with him back to the porch. She was standing now, her back to the door, gazing into the darkness at invisible woods. She turned to him when she heard his tread on the planks.
"Here, keep warm."
He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, pulling it close around her. Even that, just feeling her back, her arms under the blanket as he cloaked her made him ache for her, just to hold her, stay near her, feel her. He brushed a strand of hair back from her face. She was looking up at him with an expression of such...openness. Such a wave of tenderness washed over him that, before thought could intervene, he bent and kissed her softly on the lips. He went hot and limp with shame and regret the moment their lips parted. What had he just said to her? He'd promised she was safe with him, and already, a moment later he was pushing himself on her.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know..."
He was backing away. Staring up into his eyes she reached out and clutched his shirt, halting him. He imagined that she was pleading with her eyes, begging him to tell her.
"I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."
"Why?"
He'd barely heard her, she'd said it so softly.
"Why?"
"You said you shouldn't have. Why?"
She looked like maybe she was going to cry. Fuck. When was he going to stop hurting her? But she still had a fistful of his shirt in her hand, and her question, so timid, so soft, somehow sounded like a challenge.
"I...after what I did..."
"Forget what you did."
"Forget? God, Devan, I must seem like a monster to you. To be touched, kissed by me, it must be..."
"Vaughn. If I didn't trust you, if I didn't..." she blushed and her eyes turned away toward the woods, "...care for you..." the words came out as if they were awkward substitutes for something else, and then she met his eyes again, "I wouldn't have told you I'd read your journal. And I wouldn't have shown you mine."
He thought he knew what she meant. Conrad's words, recorded by her, echoed in his head. More protective of her diary than her body. She'd opened her secret to him. His transgression was forgiven, and his touch, his kisses were...not repellent. Maybe welcome. Desired? His imagination couldn't go that far. He said what he thought she'd want to hear.,
"Please, don't worry, Devan, I don't want anything from you, except to be your friend."
Her eyes were sad, but she smiled as she nodded.
"Alright," she said, after a moment, "let's go inside."
They sat side by side on the sofa, sharing the blanket, sticking their feet out toward the fire now and then.
"I hope you know," she began quietly after a long silence between them, "that I would never, won't ever...tell anyone those things about you."
"I know."
"Even though it's helped me, knowing it, I'd go back, if I could, and unlearn your secrets. I hate that I violated your privacy, that what I did gives you something to be anxious about."
He was silent for a while, and she grew tense. Finally he turned to face her, and gave her a small but genuine smile.
"I was going to say that it's alright, that I don't mind. But that's a lie. I don't want to lie to you. It's hard, having you know that about me. Not because I think you'll tell anyone. I don't think that. It's just hard, you knowing. But at the same time, I'm glad, if it helps you. I feel bad, Devan, that you've got no one to talk to but me, after what's happened to you. I wish I could get you to your friends, home, where you'd feel safe."
"I don't think I have a friend I'd tell about that."
"No. I didn't."
"I don't think anyone could understand. Except maybe you."
"God, Devan. I can't imagine how scared you must have been, how awful it must have been for you."
"Why? Why do you think it was worse for me?"
"Because...you're so...young." It wasn't quite what he meant.
"Yeah. Maybe...maybe it would have been easier if I'd lived just a little before he took me. That's the..."
"What?"
"Nothing. Never mind."
"Devan." He caught her gaze, took her hand. "Don't tell me anything you don't want to. But say anything you feel like saying. I want to be here for you, be your friend."
"I've just been such a loner all my life, and even more so with guys. With men." She blushed. "I mean..." she looked at him, as if to gauge whether she should really go on, "I'm not a prude. I guess you can tell that, by what I wrote, the fantasies. But I've just never really been close to men. You know, I grew up with my mom, and my friends have always been girls. Women. So, when he took me, when I was with him, it was just...I feel like he was the first man I ever really knew." She gave him a nervous, searching look. "That's strange, isn't it?"
Vaughn nodded his head in understanding.
"I feel like I should hate him. But I don't. I don't know why."
"He never really hurt you. Physically, I mean."
"No."
"And he...gave you a lot of pleasure."
She blushed and nodded.
"He played to your fantasies."
"Yes."
"He didn't want you to hate him. He wanted you to love him."
"Maybe. Yes."
"Do you?" he asked, very softly.
She stared at him, startled. Then frightened. Then she calmed.
"No. I don't." She was looking at him, showing him with her eyes that she was telling the truth. "But he's...touched me...changed me."
"Are you...glad?"
"Sometimes."
He nodded, calm, understanding. She was looking at him strangely, hovering on the edge of something.
"What?" he asked softly with a gentle smile and patient eyes.
"With you..."
He saw that she felt shy, talking about whatever she felt about him. He touched her hand.
"With me?"
"I've never...wanted someone real before. To actually experience something, instead of...imagining. Maybe...I think it's because of what happened, that I'm...I don't know how to put it...being real."
Because he wanted to, and so she would know that she could go on, he took her hand in his. Her words, [I]being real[/I], echoed in his mind. Present tense.
"And that makes me glad. But..." with her free hand she tentatively touched his arm, "...I think—I mean, I know—it's because of what happened, too, that I got so scared with you last night. I'm scared I'll never...be okay with being touched."
She wasn't crying, but she looked so sad. Afraid. Slowly, carefully, he put his arms around her. She pressed herself against him, soft and trusting.
"Devan. It's so soon. Only days. You'll need time. But you'll be alright. And the other night, you know, I didn't realize. I went too fast. It was too much." After a pause he went on in an even softer voice. "Someday, when you're ready to be with someone, talk to him, so he'll know to be slow, to be gentle with you."
She pulled away. Looked at him. So nervous.
"You know."
Her eyes probed him. Looking at her now he knew, he was certain, she wanted him to kiss her again. Quivering with his effort to restrain himself, to give her the gentlest possible kiss, he touched his lips to hers. Her mouth, her whole body responded, asking for a deeper kiss. He gave it to her. Her pulse rushed under his palms as they pressed her delicate neck. He wanted to encircle her in his arms, pull her trembling body to his, feel the length of her against him, but he resisted his urge, determined not to frighten her this time. Her urgent seeking kiss, her rapid breath, her tiny moans tested his restraint. Feeling he would be overwhelmed by his desire, succumb to his urge to press himself against her, to take more from this encounter than her kiss, he ended it, leaving her panting.
"Devan." He whispered, bowing his head against hers. "It's so hard. I don't know what you want."
"This," she whispered back.
"I thought...you mentioned your journal, what you'd written about us, like you'd changed your mind. And I was sure, after what I'd done..."
"No," she said emphatically. Then, softly, with less certainty, "I just...I wrote those things...how I felt about you. I didn't want you to feel...obliged. I don't know. I'm...I'm sorry...I'm not the person you thought I was."
"What do you mean?"
"My...the way I am. The way I was with Conrad. The things I wrote before..."
He pulled back so he could look at her.
"You're not different from who I thought you were. We just barely know each other, we're just learning about each other."
"I'm so...strange."
"Maybe."
He caressed her cheek, smiling at her affectionately.
"Maybe that's what I like about you."
They put their arms around one another, nuzzled in close together. They were like that for a long time. The sun was coming up.
They both dozed, woke, heard the sleepy breathing of the other, dozed again. Finally they both fell into deep sleep, curled up together under the blanket before the dying fire as daylight slowly filled the room.
O O O O O
The following afternoon they woke and had breakfast together. Later they sat before the fire, she on the sofa, he in the armchair, and read, now and then sharing interesting passages with one another, or setting their books aside to chat for a while in soft tones. With a couple hours of daylight left they went walking in the woods.
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