Worth It (4 page)

“You’re such a dirty slut. You love my cock in your mouth. You love it when I fuck you like this. You…ah,” he groans. “Jesus Christ! Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pants with every surge forward.

His pace increases, going deeper, harder. I can’t hold back when a particularly brutal thrust triggers the reflexes I’ve been desperately trying to suppress, and bile crawls up my throat.

No, no, no!

“Jesus, fuck! What the fuck?” he shouts, pushing me backward roughly to stare down at his vomit-covered jeans.

“I’m sorry.” I scramble backward, my trembling body hitting the wall.

I’ve made him even angrier. I’m entering new territory now, and for the first time ever, I have the urge to flee. I fight it because it’ll only make him irate. I need to make him happy. I can’t lose him. I’m worthless without him.

“God, can’t you do anything right? You’re so fucking disgusting.” He slides down his jeans and boxers before stepping out of them.

He prowls toward me with shining, narrowed eyes. “You’re going to get it now.”

A tremor slices through me, and an overwhelming need to run pulses through my body. I rise to my feet while scenarios of escape scatter through my mind. I take a step toward the door, my eyes never leaving his. His eyes widen before his face hardens, and his jaw clenches. Then, his lips curl into a grin that I’ve come to know well. It can only be described as foreboding.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Savannah? You’re gonna run?” He chuckles ominously. “This is going to be fun.”

My body goes rigid, and I start panting as panic wipes away all other thoughts. My bare feet make a move of their own accord. I don’t want to lose him because I love him so completely, but my survival instinct kicks in as I lurch toward the door. He lunges after me just as fast and wraps his fist in my hair. A whimper escapes my lips, and my scalp stings with the sudden change in direction. He chucks me face down on the floor, and my cheekbone aches as he pins me down. He’s always careful not to leave bruises on my face, but I can already feel one forming.

“Don’t forget you asked for this. You are
my
Savannah, and I will always catch you if you run. You can’t escape me,” he rumbles dangerously as he presses deeper into me.

I close my eyes. My heart sinks as despair shoots through me, and tears roll down my cheeks. I know better. I don’t know why the thought of escape ever flew through my mind.

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Please,” I beg. I mean it with every ounce of my soul. I hate myself when I make him mad. I wish I weren’t so stupid. I wish I hadn’t tried to run.
Why can’t I do anything right?

He lifts off of me, but I don’t dare move. I deserve whatever is coming. He hoists my hips, so I try to make him happy by complying with him and lifting myself up on my hands. I let out a yelp when he whacks my ear with his palm.

“Keep your fat ass down,” he demands, his deep voice threatening.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. A soft sob escapes as I return my torso to the floor. I berate myself for screwing up and doing the wrong thing—again.
I’m so fucking stupid.

I snivel when he pushes my yoga pants and panties down to mid-thigh, exposing me to him.

“Shut”—he lays a hard smack on my ass—”up.”

Tears run down my face when I realize the situation I’m in—not just in this moment, but my life in general. I was drowning and miserable when I met him, and I thought he was a life raft, but his presence in my life has become a double-edged sword. My drowning is worse than ever when I can’t make him happy or when I make him mad. I hate myself when I can’t be prettier, skinnier, and better for him. When I can make him happy, life is better. I live for the tenderness and affection he gives me. His love is like a drug, and I never want to detox.

“Since this is out of commission…” he says in a deceptively sweet voice as he strokes the still tender flesh between my legs.

I choke back a sob.

“And apparently, your mouth is fucking useless…” His tone is more threatening. ”I guess it’s finally time to give this a ride,” he says, returning to his sickeningly sweet voice while his finger travels to my butt.

My gut clenches, and my breathing stops when I realize his intent.
I can’t do that.
If his usual area of entry burns while he gets his release, then this will tear me apart.

“No, Todd, please. Please, please don’t. I can’t,” I stammer desperately as my body starts shifting. My brain and body want to fight with everything I have, but the logical piece of me knows that fighting will only make him madder.

“Mmm, I love the struggle. Keep doing it. It only makes it better.”

He spits, and I feel it hit me, and even though I know it’s a mistake, my body takes over. I move to drop my knees, but he grasps my hips tightly with one hand, and he uses his forearm on my spine to hold me in place.

“Please,” I choke on the word, knowing it won’t make a difference.

I’m shaking, but he says nothing. He puts his knees on my calves, his weight making them ache. Removing a hand from my hip, he spreads the spit along my butt. I tremble fiercely as tears slip down my face. Shame floods through me, and my heart sags in my chest.

You fucking deserve this.

He’s still silent as he positions himself, and I do my best to prepare my mind and body for what is about to happen.

Nothing can prepare me.

A blood-curdling scream erupts from my lips when he slams into me. Buried inside me, he repeatedly hits my back with his fist.

Oh fucking God, it hurts so bad!

“You stupid fucking bitch, shut the fuck up.”

I thought I knew pain. But I didn’t. Emotionally, I’ve been through a lot. I lost hope when my chance to reconnect with Rick was gone. I lost my mother to depression. I have been on a roller coaster with Todd with our ups and downs. Physically, I had broken bones. I’ve been slapped and punched and kicked. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared me for the agonizing torture of having my body viciously torn apart from behind.

He finally relents from his beating, but then he begins another form of torment when he starts to move inside me. “Oh fuck, Savannah. Your ass is so fucking tight. At least you’re good for something,” he grunts as he pumps again and again and again.

I can’t do anything. I’m pinned, conflicted, and broken. He’s never done anything this drastic, but I’ve never made him this angry. My body is throbbing so much that my mind is scrambling to find a way out. I try to focus on the times when I’m good, when I make him happy, when he tells me I’m beautiful, that he loves me, that I’m special. I try to focus on his kisses when they’re passionate and when he tells me I’m his forever. Those moments mean everything to me. Nothing helps as he continues his pounding and thrusting and grunting.

God, I hope I never make him this mad again.

It feels like hours, days, years before he finally finds his release and collapses on top of me. His breathing is hard for a few minutes. My brain is so scrambled that I simply lie still, making laborious breathy noises. After a moment of relief from his pounding, he pulls out of me, and I wince, but I knowingly keep my mouth shut.

My body dissolves into him when he kisses the top of my head and wraps his arms around me while we lie on the floor. Even though my body is raw, his arms have become my sanctuary, my haven. This moment, this feeling of being loved, is what I thrive on, what I live for, and only he can give it to me.

Thank God he forgave me!

“I’m sorry I hit you so hard, Savannah. I just got so angry when you screamed. You know you can’t do that,” he murmurs tenderly against my hair. He places another soft kiss where his words just graced me. “You know I love you, baby, right?”

“I know you do. I love you, too, and it’s okay, I understand. I shouldn’t have screamed like that. I’m sorry I made you so mad,” I whisper, the sincere regret obvious in my tone.

“I forgive you.”

His arms tighten around me, and just like always, his actions, his forgiveness soothe me, and I sigh. I know I’m going to have to tell one whopper of a story to explain the marks he no doubt left behind by his beating. I’m in pain, but his love is a salve to my ravaged life. I need him. I need his kisses, his kind words, and his love. I crave them.

I crave him like the drug addict I’ve become.

He’s gone.

For three straight days after school, I’ve called his house and stopped by the convenience store where he works. He hasn’t called, and I couldn’t find him anywhere. Three days have gone by where I’ve wondered what I did wrong.

With a foggy mind, I click the End button on the phone.

He’s gone, Anna. I’m sorry. He moved out,
his aunt’s voice echoes in my head.

He’s gone. He just left. I wasn’t even worthy of a good-bye.

What the fuck did I do?

Sitting on the couch with my head in my hands, I think back on every single moment I can recall, trying to figure out where I went wrong. My cheekbone still sports the fading bruise that I got when I tripped—or so I’ve told everyone. I can’t let anyone know what actually happened.

What the fuck do I do?

My solace has left. My distraction from reality is gone. My drug supply is used up.

I’m more lost than I’ve ever been, and tears prick my eyes when I realize I’m alone
again
. Only this time, I don’t have the guy who means everything to me. My breathing starts to come in quick pants, and my palms start sweating. I have nothing, no one to ease the pain of worthlessness. I’ve been discarded again.

You have friends
,
a frantic voice whispers in my head.

Yes, I have them. They have helped with distractions while at school and on the occasions when Todd would let me hang out with them, but on some level, I’ve kept them at arm’s length. While friendship is wonderful, it cannot ease the searing, debilitating mourning and anxiety seeping through my veins. I thought I had finally found someone who loved me, and I did everything I could to keep him. I needed him, and I tried so hard to make him happy so that he would love me forever.

I failed again.

My chest heaves rapidly as I struggle to breathe.

Oh fuck, what am I going to do?

A knock at the door startles me, so I rise from the couch and creep toward the door.

Is it him? Is he here?
My heart pounds hard in my chest, and tears of hope sting my eyes.

When I reach the door and pull it open, my heart drops, and I burst into tears. The only thing that keeps me standing is a small sliver of faith that the box sitting in front of my door is from him. Reaching down to pick it up, I see immediately that it’s from my grandmother, and I dimly register that it’s likely my birthday present. My legs give way, and I slide to the floor. I clutch the box to have something to hold on to while I crumble. I can’t hold it anymore, and my body convulses as I sob.

He’s never coming back.

I gave him everything, absolutely everything, every single broken piece of me, and he tossed them into the sewer like a piece of shit—like
I’m
a piece of shit.

What the fuck is so wrong with me that I can be tossed away so carelessly? He just left, vanished.

I sob harder and harder with the feeling of worthlessness. I have nothing, and no one loves me. I’m falling deeper and deeper into a hole of blackness, and I hate it. Throwing my head back, I scream. I’m crying out for someone to save me from my drowning, but no one’s here. The empty house matches my soul. My frustrated, broken heart wants relief. It wants something to take away this horrible ache in my heart.

When I look down at the package and see
Savannah
Matuszak,
I lose it because only Todd calls me that. To everyone else, I’ve always been Anna. I loved it when he called me
his Savannah
, but now, I hate that name, and I never want to hear it again. I can’t stand to look at the reminder of my worthlessness, so with another screech, I toss the box across the room, and it hits the bookshelf. One of the many box cutters my dad brings home from work tumbles from the shelf, and it skitters across the floor until it lands a few feet from me.

I freeze.

I’m sucked into another place and time. I’m back in eighth grade, and I’m sitting at my desk while taking notes for health class.

“People who self-harm are looking for relief from their pain,” my teacher had said.

Relief from their pain.

As I come back to reality, my heart rate picks up as a thought occurs to me.
I can take away my pain.
My palms start sweating because it’s not a good idea. I know it’s not. Someone could see the marks and ask questions that I don’t want to answer, don’t want to talk about. I don’t want anyone to know how damaged and worthless I am. I don’t want to talk about how and why I’m so shattered, but the idea is wiggling and worming into my brain, and it is growing stronger.