“What is your name?” I asked through gritted teeth. “Your full name.”
She stumbled and whispered. “Rose. Rose Wellington.”
I felt as if the air was literally siphoned out of my entire body. I pushed against the wall to ensure I didn’t fall over. Wellington. Mr. Wellington. I hadn’t heard that name in twenty years except for the one or two times my mother whispered it to me in threats. To keep my mouth shut. For selfish reasons. For reasons relating to her greedy little wallet. To feed her drinking and gambling problems. Jennifer and I never even dared to utter his name.
She put her hand against my cheek. “William. I love you. I love you, do you hear me?”
“Love?” I removed her hand from my cheek and began to laugh again. “Lying is love? Deceiving a man for months is love? Asking questions about my mother as if you cared when you were only trying to get information out of me, is love?” I felt bile rising up in my throat. “How, Victoria? Excuse me, I mean Rose. How did you fake your virginity? Tell me. How? How did you know where to find me? Had you been following me? Spying on me? Seeing where I ate? Got my coffee? And your job? Your apartment? All lies? Do tell. I’d love to hear where you learned your deceitful, lying tactics. You have got to be fucking kidding me…”
“No!” she cried. “It wasn’t like that. I really did lose my job and apartment. I…”
“Shut up, Rose. I don’t even care to know. You are leaving and our contract is over. You need to be out of my house before sunrise tomorrow. I never want to see you again. Ever. Do you understand me? I am rich. You know this. The things I could do to you…but I won’t. I never would. But don’t ever let me see you again. Or it will be the biggest regret of your life.”
“Don’t you dare say that silly word again. Do. Not! ”
“William,” she sobbed on her knees. “When you asked me out that night for my twenty-fifth birthday, I thought we would date. I thought I could get close to you and give them what they wanted and finally have some revenge and closure for my family for all those years ago. I thought my life could finally fall into place. I had no idea what I was getting into. I had no idea you would want what you did, a contract, a personal assistant. I had no idea you would be you. I expected the monster they said you were…I never expected to find myself in this whole mess…that I would learn…”
I cut her off. “Stop, whatever your fucking name is. Just stop. I. Don’t. Want. To. Hear. Another. Fucking. Utterance. Out. Of. Your. Lying. Little. Mouth.”
“William, please,” she continued boldly, even with my rising anger. “I expected the monster you say you are. You are not a monster. I fell in love with you. I wanted to lose my virginity to you. None of that is a lie. None of it. I didn’t know I would discover who I am, what I want. I wasn’t supposed to like you. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you! I didn’t know what to do. I know you didn’t do it! I just know you didn’t. I’m sorry. I was at rock bottom when they found me. I had nothing. And you weren’t anyone to me then. Now. Now, you are everything.”
“I don’t believe a word that comes out of that pretty, little lying mouth. I have no idea who you really are. I have no idea. But guess what, Rose? I don’t care. Call them back.”
“William—what do you mean? Please. Believe me. I was wrong. I realize this now.”
“What?” she whispered.
“You want a confession? You want all that money they promised you? Just like that money my mother wanted all those years ago. Well. No problem, I’ll give you a confession. And then. I never want to see your deceitful fucking face again.”
“William. No,” she begged through choked sobs. “No. Please.”
“I am a monster, Rose. And I’m about to tell exactly why.”
Author Bio
“To write is to descend, excavate, to go underground.”—Anais Nin.
In my own writing, which I can’t describe as anything but a “trance-like compulsion,” I like to explore the darker nature of relationships, those riddled with the reality of insecurities and human folly. I am drawn to expose the vulnerability, emotional turmoil, and occasional pain that can come from losing oneself in the heat of passion.
I hold a degree in English literature and my writing comes from some hidden, unrecognizable place, very different from the reality of my waking world, though I am learning that writing is a manifestation of elements of autobiography, both consciously and subconsciously. I am inspired by the passionate philosophies espoused in the writings of E.E. Cummings and Anais Nin and believe that all writing should be about “feeling first.”