Distorted Memories Two

Sophia POV

My eyes blinked repeatedly as a wave of pain coursed through my body, as if sharp blades were piercing my skin without mercy. However, the worst pain was in my head. Fragments of disconnected memories mixed, strange names echoed in my mind, forming a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts.

With great effort, I forced myself to get up. My body protested with every movement, but I knew I couldn't afford to stay still. Time wouldn't wait for me, and neither would he. I should have already prepared breakfast, and the punishment for my failure would come, inevitably. However, if lunch was perfect, maybe he would show some clemency. Maybe the pain would be less.

I dragged myself to the closet, each step a reminder of my fragile state. I chose a white dress with long sleeves, the fabric covering every inch of my marked skin. The neckline was modest, and the skirt extended to my feet. I made sure to arrange my hair in a side braid, resting over my right shoulder, exactly as he had taught me to wear it. Small details that made all the difference.

When I finished preparing, I went to the kitchen. Every corner of that place was familiar to me, as I knew it like the back of my hand. Every recipe, every spice, every preference of his was etched in my memory like an unbreakable code. The routine was clear and unalterable. Each day of the week had a specific menu, and any mistake, no matter how small, could have severe consequences.

My attention turned to the refrigerator. My heart raced as I searched for the message. There was always something there, a silent warning about what to expect from the day. If the handwriting was slanted, it meant his anger was boiling beneath the surface, and I would need to be extremely careful. If a heart was drawn, even if simply, it meant that, somehow, he had understood the situation and, hopefully, the punishment wouldn't be as severe.

But this time, there was nothing.

The emptiness of that space where my sentence usually resided hit me like a punch to the stomach. A shiver ran down my spine, and my hands began to tremble uncontrollably. The silence seemed to weigh on me, crushing my breath. My heart pounded against my chest, and fear crawled through my veins, cold and relentless.

‘What will my punishment be?’ I thought.

The uncertainty was terrifying. I leaned my body against the refrigerator and, slowly, slid down to the floor, hugging my own arms as if I could protect myself from the inevitable. I clenched my hands together, trying to find some trace of strength, trying to calm the storm inside me. I took a deep breath, but the air seemed insufficient. The unknown was my greatest nightmare, and at that moment, I knew nothing good would come from that silence.

Once again, I forced myself to get up. My hands still trembled, but I carefully opened the refrigerator, analyzing its contents. Everything was exactly in place, no ingredient out of order. I took a few deep breaths, trying to control the tremor, as I knew that any slip-up, any waste of food, would not go unnoticed. He always knew.

I began to take out the ingredients, lining them up on the counter by the sink. Today was the day for rice, beans, a medium-rare steak covered with barbecue sauce, sautéed potatoes, and a mixed salad. The kitchen routine, even imposed by him, somehow calmed me. The simple act of cooking brought a familiar sensation, a brief remnant of control over something, however small.

As I started preparing the food, my nervousness began to subside. My movements became firmer and more calculated. Even after all the lessons he had given me, I still enjoyed cooking. There was something comforting in the precision of the cuts, in the rhythmic cadence of preparation. And, above all, I knew that if everything was perfect, I would receive a reward.

I preferred a gift a thousand times over a punishment. It was that thought that guided each of my gestures, making them exact, impeccable. I couldn't make a mistake. There would be no room for failure.

The longer I stayed in the kitchen, the calmer I became, until finally, all of lunch was ready, except for setting the table. The portions had been made exactly as he liked, a smaller plate for me and a larger one for him, the ceramic dishes with gold details on the edges, the cutlery and glasses must be placed as if in a five-star restaurant.

As soon as I finished, my eyes fell on the dress I was wearing. Small stains marked the fabric, nothing alarming, but enough to make it unsuitable to present myself to him. I sighed, knowing I couldn't see him like this.

I went back to the bedroom and opened the closet again. My fingers slid over the fabric of the clothes until they found another white dress, almost identical to the one I was wearing. It was simple, without adornments, but clean and impeccable, as he required. I quickly changed, adjusting the dress to fall gently over my body.

I walked to the center of the bedroom. I couldn't wait for him in the living room, where anyone could see me. This bedroom was the only space where only he had access. Here, I belonged to him, and no one else.

With a final adjustment of the dress, I knelt carefully, maintaining an impeccable posture. My knees sank into the soft carpet while my buttocks rested on my heels. I lowered my head, feeling the weight of the silence around me, and turned my hands down, delicately supporting them on my thighs.

This was the position he had taught me. A symbol of absolute surrender, of unrestricted submission. Thus, I would wait, ready to attend to any desire or order of his.

It didn't take long before I heard the door opening, but the smell I sensed wasn't pleasant, as it should have been. On the contrary, it was something rotten, something that reminded me of meat full of maggots, and instinctively, I raised my face and saw his face.

He was there, standing before me like a threatening shadow, wrapped in a cloak of arrogance and coldness. The black leather jacket molded his body like a second skin, reinforcing his imposing and controlling presence. The well-fitted vest, the impeccable tie, everything about him exuded a calculated precision, as if every detail was chosen to intimidate.

His eyes, dark and icy, pierced the environment, laden with something dark and insurmountable. There was not a trace of softness in his face, only the hardness sculpted in the perfect cruelty of his expression. He didn't need to speak to make it clear that he considered himself the owner of the space and everything around it.

A wave of repulsion and fear coursed through my body, and I fell back, trying to distance myself from him and that smell of death, and I averted my gaze from him, wanting to find some way out. I soon realized that behind him, there was another woman.