The liars

 

His face was unmovable.

She turned away.  Her trembling lip was a dead giveaway. Don’t let it show, Jackie.  He’ll never come back.

It was a strange kind of sting.  His silence.  His lack of response.  She had never seen him so cold. 

Still, what was she expecting? He could not object to the men that she saw.  He knew the terms.  But Mr. Bane?  At least he might say something!  Anything. He knew the way that Bane was.  His meanness, his appetites.

She thought back to the months that she and James had known each other. The way he had made her feel, the things he had taught her and brought out in her. She felt like a secret that he had learned; showed him things that she wanted only him to know.

Then a terror gripped her by the throat and made her weak with shame: what if her imagination had gotten the better of her?  What if none of this was real? Fabricated. Interpreted. Misunderstood.

What if he felt nothing for her?

This is what the Mistress warned her of, wasn’t it?  Believing she was special, thinking he was different.

Stupid girl!

He had brought out the best in her and she had done nothing for him; at least nothing ultimately good.  Not the way he had done for her.  He had taught her what was better; helped her to grow and how to do for herself.  To save money and plan.  He had given her things to be proud of, a hope for future.

Of course she loved him.  She adored him. He had been warm and kind, done all of the wonderful things.

But what had she done for him but taught him to crave the more carnal parts of himself.  Become a slave to his weekly visits to find release. 

He had freed her of this bondage of sin illuminating a long-forgotten hope.  In exchange she had called him into her pit, making him subject to the life she had known.

 Why would he care for her?  She had done no good for him! 

Their affections were not proportionate.

This love was unrequited.

It wasn’t real.

She had imagined everything!

 And that explained his response when he heard that Mr. Bane would be coming to see her.  He did not feel the same. He didn't care because he didn't love her back...not the way that she loved him; devoted and raw, rife with respect and admiration, proud of him and all he knew, grateful for the way he shared.

She sat at her boudoir mirror and pretended to care about brushing her hair.  But inside, her chest throbbed for holding in tears.  She could feel the blood pumping in her chest, and the throbbing rhythm of her heart in her ears. She needed him to leave.  She would not be able to hold it for much longer.  Her countenance would soon betray her. 

“Could you go a few minutes early, James? I have to prepare for my next.”

A look washed over his face which she had never seen before.  She studied his expression hard, to find some clue of care or disappointment, a give that might suggest he did care, and he might really love her after all.  But he was stoic.  He rose without even putting on his tie, which she normally did for him, half dressed with kisses and hugs.   He closed the door quietly and she heard his footsteps down the hall.  And like a waterfall she collapsed to the floor. She lost control of herself completely and gasped for breath.

She felt like what she had been all along but now she knew it; a stupid, sad, pitiful whore that nobody gave a second thought to once they were finished with the curiosity of her.

And in the four minutes between James and her next; there on the floor, hapless and ugly, she wept and she wept and she wept.