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I awoke around mid-day. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I played through what had happened last night, and what in all-mighty fuck it could have meant. The sex was intense, passionate, emotional. It was a release of pent up energy and angst brought on by the vampire opening up to me. It probably didn’t mean a god damned thing. Still, I didn’t know where I stood anymore, with Owen. Had our relationship changed?
When I finally sat up, the room, at least, had changed. The armoire stood open and I stared at it, not quite sure that my mind was not playing tricks on me. Clothes were overflowing from it: heaps of silk and satin, lots of lace and exquisite colors. My eyes could not turn away from them.
I got up and went to the armoire, my fingers stroking the garments lovingly. They were all incredibly expensive, the perfect cut and exquisite fabrics gave that away. When I had first arrived in Hollywood I had been wearing designer labels head-to-toe. The clothes I had worn then had names screaming from their back pockets, or across the chest. I wore them until a producer told me that wealthy people never wore such garish things because it showed a lack of good taste. Very wealthy people wore clothes that were incredibly expensive due to the cost of the workmanship and materials, not the cost of the giant letters emblazoned on them. By wearing those clothes I was marking myself as a rube.
I had learned to scour the thrift shops and consignment stores, looking not at names of designers on the outside of the clothes but the things that most people never thought to look for. I had a small amount of incredibly good stuff that was pre-owned but I had never held a brand new dress by Versace in my hands before. Alongside the fine clothes were some equally quality comfy clothes; organic cotton singlets, yoga pants and merino hoodies. How strange.
There was a heavy white envelope on the dresser. I opened it and pulled out the equally heavy and expensive stationary within. A man’s strong, back-slanting handwriting met my eyes and I traced the letters with one finger, knowing it could only be Owen’s.
These are for you. Over the years I have developed a taste for the luxuries of life. I can most certainly afford the finest of things, and I have been remiss in not providing you with clothing and other necessities. I ask your forgiveness for that oversight. Immortality has also taught me the value of comfort, so I hope you will find some comfort in this selection. The emerald green and gold dress is the one I would like to see you in at dinner. Please be ready at exactly nine pm. This will be a formal dining occasion.
I read the words twice and then found the gown he had referred to in his note. It was a marvelous confection of dark green silk that I knew would cling like a second skin. The top was a corset type thing, woven through with metallic gold thread. The laces tied tightly on the back but closer inspection revealed a tiny and nearly invisible zipper on the right side that would make it easy for me to dress myself.
I went a little crazy pawing through things. There were not just outer garments but undergarments as well, lacy bra and panty sets, sheer stockings, and even shoes of all different heel types and styles. I hugged a swimsuit to my body and danced around a bit wildly in a burst of exhilarated joy.
All the clothes were just my size and for an hour or so I delighted in trying them on, preening, and primping and caught up in the excitement of it all. I mostly tried on the dresses, which made up the bulk of the clothing. I wanted to put some new panties on since my only other pair had been torn to smithereens, but had no idea how I was meant to do that with a chain around my ankle. But the gowns alone were so gorgeous I felt like a little girl playing dress-up and it was fun until reality crashed in.
I had not succeeded in making Owen see me as human. I had simply succeeded in earning the status of a spoiled little pet, a comical little pooch, or... I shuddered, remembering Loretta calling me Meow Kitty. It had been true though, in a way. I was no more cared for than one of those little dogs toted around in a specially designed purse. I was just a thing to him, still a prisoner. A prisoner with comforts, but no less a possession.
Happiness deflated as completely as if it had been a leaky balloon. I crumpled back onto the bed and stared at the heaps of gorgeous things, feeling my humanity slipping away. What hurt the worst was that I cared about him despite him being a vampire. It was the human-ness he had been displaying lately that made me care about him. Yet he seemed determined to turn me into a mere object, a prettily dressed and plated meal, a pet who would eventually give her life for his.
The chain was a hateful but visible reminder of how little I should trust him. I was no better off than a cute little Chihuahua that was dressed in a funny suit then tethered out in the yard so it did not run for the road.
The darkness grew more complete but I did not reach for the light. Depression weighed me down so much that I literally sagged into the mattress. I had always picked the worst guys to fall for but this really took the whole enchilada. How could I have fallen for him and how did I put a screeching halt to it before he killed me? Before I let him kill me?
With my head tilted back at that angle, a reflection of light behind the side table caught my eye. I looked again, my heart doing little jumping jacks when I realized what I saw.
Loretta’s cleaver.
It lay hidden under the bedside table, only a thin wedge of its handle showing. She must have dropped it there before going feral and chasing me to her death. I dropped to my knees carefully and picked it up. It was real and solid in my hands. A giggle, born of hysteria, bubbled out of my mouth.
I tested the edge with my thumb, a thin drop of blood pearled up on my flesh and I caught my breath at the enormity of the possibilities.
I could hack my way through the chain or try to hack out the section of bedpost that the chain was attached to. If it came to it, could I cut my foot off to free my ankle of the chain? Or could I just kill Owen when he came to have dinner, stick the cleaver into his neck and cut his bloodsucking head right off his shoulders?
That last thought made me go cold. Could I do that to him? No. I didn’t think I could. I wanted to hate him, to think of him that way but the truth was some part of him was human. I had seen it with my own eyes. I could not kill a person.
I set to work on the bed, figuring I might need my foot at some later point in my life. Half an hour later I stared at the barely splintered post in disbelief wondering if I really did need my foot. It would have been easier and likely less messy to simply chop it off. The post was solid as a rock, ugly gouges and deep scars marred it but it still held.
I attacked it again, grunting and trembling with exertion. There was a strange groan and hunk of wood fell away. It was all taking too long. I could sense the hours slipping away. I could almost feel the night, and Owen, approaching. I hit the post with the cleaver again with renewed vigor only to have the cleaver fall apart in my hands. The blade fell to the mattress and I stared down at the useless handle, wondering if this were all some cosmic joke.
The sky was warming outside, turning from blue to syrupy orange, dipping into night.
I tossed the handle and blade to the floor and lay on my back. I used both feet like a battering ram, kicking, even though it sent waves of pain through my feet and legs. The post creaked and then it toppled down, almost braining me in the process.
I sat up, tugging the chain at my ankle. The chain swung useless against the bed and I shouted out, “Yes!”
The cuff was still locked firmly around my ankle, and the long length of chain attached to it, so I had to scoop it up and carry it. I was still wearing a shirt from my earlier dress up, but no pants. But there was no time for pants. Daylight had almost gone.
I didn’t stop to do anything. I ran down the stairs, pelting for the front door. I could see it right in front of me and I reached it, opened it and fled out into the front lawn and the strong final rays of sunlight.
I had one foot out the door when an arm snaked around my middle and yanked me off my feet. All my air whooshed out of my diaphragm and I fought, flailing and kicking, beating at the hands that were tangled around my chest.
A soft, hissing sizzle filled my ears and I choked on the smoky fumes clouding my eyes.
Owen cursed, but didn’t let me go.
I was dragged back into the house.
“Let me go. Please, just let me go!” I howled and kicked out at his shins.
Owen turned me around to face him. His face showed signs of ash and burns, but healed before my eyes.
I had been so close. With freedom so near within reach, every fiber of me yearned for it. But at the same time, I felt at home within his arms. Confused, appalled, and at home. A rough sob tore out my throat and I started weeping loudly.
He dropped his forehead onto mine, still holding me tight, arms wrapped fully around me. “You can’t leave, Strawberry. You can’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”