Curing Erica's Phobia Ch. 03

"Fucking A," she muttered, shaking her head, as he poured himself a cup of coffee. He turned sharply with a scowl, but didn't reprimand her. "What do you want from me?" she demanded, remaining in the doorway of the bedroom for retreat purposes. "I kept your secrets, what more do you want?"

"You don't know what my secrets are," he said, his Cheshire grin completely gone. "You ran away instead of hearing me out."

"Haven't you figured out by now? That's what I do. I run."

"Then why didn't you run from Juan?" he demanded, and that was the crux of it. She'd run from Eric, after he had made her feel things - without pain, without fear. But she hadn't run from Juan, who had filled her whole world with the belief that pleasure could only come out of pain. And suddenly, dark shadows enveloped her, memories she had buried so deep under layers and layers of denial, flooding up from below her feet, from a basement, from a dungeon of pain. Memories of so much pain. She staggered back, dropping the wine glass, felt arms enfold her, lift her, and she waited with resignation for the pain that she knew would follow, struggling for a breath, but sucking in only the dark, toxic shadow that surrounded her.

****

Erica awoke gasping. There were arms around her, a warm body against her. She flailed in panic, like a swimmer trying desperately to reach the surface of the water in time. She sobbed and struggled, but the arms only held her tighter. "Breathe," a soft voice said. "Slow and deep. You're safe. Just breathe out, so you can breathe in again. Tick, tock, tick, tock." Erica adopted the cadence, forcing herself to breathe out so that she could breathe in again, just as the voice instructed, just like her doctors had told her, just like she used to imagine her mother telling her, until she could no longer remember what her mother's voice had sounded like.

She realized that her eyes were closed, that it was memories she was seeing and not reality. She forced her eyes to open, but all she saw was a dark room with faint light coming through a distant doorway. The memories faded almost instantly against the onslaught of even that faint light. She looked around in panic, trying to figure out where she was. "Shh. You're safe." She looked for the source of the voice and finally recognized it as Eric that was speaking, holding her so tightly in his lap on the bed. "I'm going to turn the bedside light on," he warned. "Close your eyes for a moment." But she couldn't; she dreaded the return of the memories.

The light hurt her eyes, burned into her soul. He tightened his grip on her, pulling her head against his chest. She timed her breathing to his and found the rhythm soothing, relaxing ever so slightly. After a long moment, she said "I'm okay, now. You can let go."

"You won't be okay until you face your demons. Do you remember anything?"

"Pain," she replied, pulling away from him again, but not flailing in panic this time. He let her go. She climbed off the bed and stood, not sure what to do next. Her eyes found the clock, slowly focusing on the time. It was a little after one. Had she really slept that long, wrapped so tight in the arms of another person? She seldom slept when Juan was in bed with her, staring at the wall or ceiling until he moved away. And he had rarely spent the entire night with her, claiming he worked best in the early morning hours. Of course he did, across all those time zones, moving living, breathing human beings from one place to another against their will. She shuddered, realizing that Eric was watching her with concern. She tried to shake off the cobwebs and went into the bathroom. When she came back out, he was reentering the bedroom with a fresh cup of coffee.

"Feeling better?" he asked. She nodded, but without conviction. "Just so you know, you scared the hell out of me."

"Good," she replied, picking up the wine glass and gazing with dismay at the damp spot on the rug. At least it was white wine.

"We'll clean it up in the morning," Eric said. "Do you want more?"

She shrugged but held the glass out to him. He set his coffee down on a chest of drawers and took the glass to refill it. When he returned and handed it to her, his fingers brushed against hers, but she didn't seem to notice. "I suggest you try drinking this one," he said, the grin back. "You sit on that side of the bed and I'll sit way over here on this side, and we'll talk."

"Why," she said wearily.

"Something really intense happened to you. I have morbid curiosity demanding to know more. But that's just me. You, on the other hand, need to understand what it was. You can't just go around passing out when someone says something to you. Especially if there's no one there to catch you before you bang your head on the sidewalk." He put his hand against her elbow, pushing her ever so slightly toward the bed. Again, she didn't seem to flinch or even notice, though she remained obviously reluctant. He took her wine glass and set it on the night stand, then pulled the sheets back before she took the hint and crawled into the bed. She had her knees up, hugging them, her back against the headboard, so he settled for pulling the covers up to where they would be in easy reach. Then he retrieved his coffee and went to the far side of the bed, stretching out on top of the covers.

"I asked why you didn't run from Juan," he prompted. He could see every muscle in her body tense. "Stay with me, Erica," he said softly. "You said you remembered pain. Was it the pain that Juan caused?"

She was staring at the far wall, and he thought for a moment that she was lost in memories, but then she said, "Before Juan."

He waited a moment, then ventured a guess. "So the pain that Juan inflicted seemed familiar? Like pain you knew from before? Is that why you didn't run?"

She shook her head slightly, but it was more from confusion than as a negation. "I don't remember."

"You have to want to remember," he told her.

"Why would I want to remember pain?" she snapped, suddenly more animated. She took a big gulp of wine. He realized he'd lost the chance to help her remember, so he changed tack.

"Do you want to know why I had the whips and floggers?"

She shuddered. "To use on women?"

"No. To remind myself that they were once used on me. To remind myself why I am doing what I am now, working vice. To remind myself, every fucking day, to stay in control of my anger." She looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. "Not at you," he hastened to add. "Even when you swear like a sailor," he said with his patented grin. He reached out and gently brushed hair from her cheek. Still she didn't flinch. "My father would beat me. And he'd beat my mother. And he'd beat his whores that he would parade through the house with such pride, right in front of my mother and us kids. My two oldest sisters disappeared when they turned fourteen. I never knew what happened to them, but I was there when he came for my younger sister. I was sixteen. I yelled at her to run, and then I beat my father to death. That was the first and last time that I lost control of my anger. I had replaced my fear with anger. I was full of myself, for maybe one whole hour. Then my mother sent me into hiding with a relative, and told the police that she had killed him. I was terrified that I was going to lose her, too. It worked out eventually, when they found out what scum he was, they dropped charges. But we never found my little sister. That's why I became a cop, hoping that some day, I might find my sisters.

"Erica, all I ever wanted was to show you that pleasure doesn't have to hurt. Even if that's all you've ever known before, that doesn't mean that's all there is. You're afraid that everyone that comes close to you is going to hurt you. But there's more to it than just that. I don't want to say what I suspect. I don't want my words to create your past. But it's really important that you try to remember, discover your past for yourself and then overcome it."

She was staring at the bedroom door. "You'd better hurry," she whispered

"What?" It was his turn to be confused.

She suddenly started pulling at the hem of her tank top. "Hurry. Your time is running out."

"Erica, stop." He reached out and grabbed her nearest wrist without giving it a thought, and realized only belatedly that she didn't flinch at all, and was looking at him quite calmly. "I don't have any condoms, and this really isn't the time or place." He looked at her with a puzzled frown.

She shrugged. "They're waiting."

"They?" he asked softly.

She looked toward the bedroom door. "They're waiting for me."

"Where are you? Whose waiting out there?"

"You'd better hurry." She tugged against his hold on her wrist, trying to pull her top off. "You'll lose your turn." She abruptly turned onto her hands and knees. "Hurry!" she whispered urgently. "I'll get in trouble. They'll tell Da. Please," she begged. Her breathing was edging to panic mode.

Eric stood suddenly and went to the bedroom door, shutting it firmly. "They're all gone. It's just you and me. Lay down now," he ordered in a deep, low voice.

She obeyed, but she looked at him tauntingly, her eyes shadowed by the table lamp behind her. "All night? You must have done one hell of a favor for Da," she teased.

"Is that your dad?" Eric asked quietly, kneeling beside the bed.

Erica leaned up on her elbow and looked at him with a furrowed brow. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of Da," he answered.

"Oh," she answered, laying back. "What would you like?"

"Just to talk for now." He reached over and pushed hair out of her eyes. Again, she didn't flinch or move away. But she glanced at the bedroom door. "We've got all night," he assured her.

"Oh, right," she agreed, but she didn't sound sure.

"Tell me about Da," he suggested.

She shuddered. "Are you sure he said you could have all night?"

"Where is he?"

Erica frowned. "Upstairs. He doesn't come down anymore. He says I'm too old."

"How old are you?" he asked softly.

"Um, fifteen, I think."

"Do you know where you are, Erica?"

"Why do you call me that?"

"I'm sorry. You remind me of an Erica. What's your name?"

"Everybody calls me Honey. Because of my hair and because I'm sweet," she said with an ingenuous smile. Eric flashed back to one time in the park, when he had called her honey just in passing, and she had blown up at him out of the blue.

"Do you know where you are, Honey?"

"Duh. Da's house."

"How long have you been here?"

"Since he found me and Mom." She curled in on herself. She had been looking at him openly, disarmingly, but now she wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Where is your mom now?"

"She left. Da said she never loved me. Not like he did. Not even when she made me run away from him."

"How old were you when he found you again?"

"Twelve." She sighed. "He was mad at me. He said I was almost too old to bother with. That I should have come back to him sooner, but I didn't know how," she said, looking at Eric with tears in her eyes.

"I know. It's okay, now. Do you know what city you're in?"

She smiled. "Las Vegas. Da told me if I was real good, he would take me out to a casino on my twenty-first birthday."

"How fun! Honey, does Da send men to see you?"

"Of course. He sent you. That's what you said." She looked at him with a suspicious frown.

"And he sends other men, too?"

"Yes," she answered cautiously.

"And these men touch you? Do things to you?"

"Yeah, like Da used to do. Before I got too old. But he said soon he would teach me a new way to please men."

"Oh?"

"He said it would hurt a little, but I would like it more."

Eric ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. "Honey, do you know someone named Juan?"

She shrugged. "Da talks about him. He calls him his European connection, but I don't know what that means."

"I have to leave for a few minutes. Do you think you could sleep, if it's nice and quiet?"

"You're not going to stay?" she asked with trepidation. "If Da finds out..."

"I'll be back," he assured her. "I'll just be right out there," he said, pointing at the bedroom door.

She nodded, though she didn't look sure at all. He brushed her hair back. "Try to sleep, okay?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, actually sounding sleepy.

Eric turned off the bedside light and stepped from the room, pulling his cell phone out. He stabbed at the screen. He watched her through the door as he muttered, "Answer the goddamn phone!"

Erica could catch glimpses of him pacing in the outer room, but he was speaking so quietly, she couldn't hear, until at the very end, when he said, "I don't care if it takes an act of god, get the goddamn records unsealed." Then it became very quiet, and she drifted. When he came back into the room and laid down behind her, pulling covers over her shoulder, she snuggled back against him as best she could. He had laid on top of the covers; she wished she could feel just him against her, but she sighed softly. He was one of the nicest men Da sent her. She hoped he came more often.