The Quality of Her Tears

I gave in to the nudging hand. We left.

We walked the marble corridors, my bare feet slapping the stone floor. Mist seemed to gather around me as he pushed me into a cab, telling the driver where to take us. All the way to the hotel I crouched in a corner, pulling the jacket tightly around me while my burning face pressed against the cold, damp window.

***

I hardly slept all night. On arrival I locked myself in the bathroom, shedding the tattered shirt. I sobbed as I sat on the toilet. My eyes scanned the white tiled walls. I felt as if imprisoned in an asylum, hugging my naked body, softly crying. Jean-Luc sold me. I had done everything right; given him all of me just because of our love. It hurt, it hurt so much and yet, how could I protest? For years I had been proud to be his perfect slave and this is what happened to slaves, wasn't it? Jean-Luc was happy to use me and right now he obviously needed me to be sold; I should be happy for him. If selling me was what satisfied him, who was I to disagree?

My mind knew, but my body shook in pain, fingers digging into my flesh. My eyes wandered yet again, but now with a purpose. I rose and opened the mirrored cupboard over the sink. No sleeping pills, no razor blades. I looked around; no rail, no rope – maybe the torn-up shirt? Or the belt of his bathrobe?

I broke down, scared by the awful thoughts crowding my mind – ashamed by what they meant. My lover sold me. That did not give me the right to take my life, did it? No, it didn't – he never gave his permission.

I fled the bathroom, finding Carl stretched out on the bed, clothes on, lights on. I bent over him. He seemed asleep; so vulnerable. But I couldn't. I turned around and crouched into the corner farthest away, pulling the bathrobe tightly around me.

Later I felt his embrace as he carried me to the bed, covering me with a warm blanket. Exhaustion must have knocked me out; the warmth dissolved my will to stay awake.

It must have been morning when I awoke. Carl tried to feed me toast and fresh fruit. I declined, but accepted a cup of hot tea. As I sipped, he couldn't keep from reminding me of how Jean-Luc sold me; that he didn't care for me. I threw the teacup against the wall. He was lying. I knew. He must be.

He tried to comfort me in his weak, disgusting way. I shook him off and tried to get back at him through my tears.

"What do you know about love, you little man?" I saw how it hurt him. When he came at me, I raised my hands in defense, but of course he'd never get violent. Then the phone rang. He took the call and left the room after inspecting the windows. Would I jump? Who knows? Why not?

I slipped out of bed and walked over to the windows. I checked out the altitude of our floor. Paris' busy traffic hummed deep down below. I tested the windows. Then I shrugged, chasing away the shiver that ran up and down my back. Once more I told myself I had no right to destroy what wasn't mine. Jean-Luc would come back and reclaim me; I was sure of that. He would never let go of me, would he? I loved him enough for the both of us. He knew that. He'd come for me. Maybe he was the visitor in the lobby? A new excitement invaded me. Of course! It must have been Jean-Luc who called.

I wrapped my fat, pregnant body in the big bathrobe again. The hotel room's door wasn't locked. I had no key, so I left a rolled-up towel to prevent it from falling closed. Then I rushed down the hallway and down two flights of stairs. I saw a mezzanine that gave out on the lobby down below. There was no one around, so I went to the railing.

Only when I got to the far end of it, did I see Carl's back. He sure was talking with someone, but a lamp blocked the person. From where I stood I couldn't hear their voices. Then the other man rose and yes, it was Jean-Luc.

Seeing him sent a thrill through my body. The mere sight of his angry face as he towered over Carl, reaching for his armpit caused goose bumps to rise on my skin; it made my knees buckle. I had to steady myself by grabbing the railing. Maybe I spoke out loud, maybe it was just a whisper, but the words were "kill him, shoot the asshole," and the mouth that produced them was mine. So was the hand that slipped inside my robe to tug at the ring through my right nipple. My other hand slid around my bloated belly to find the clit-ring at the top of my oozing cunt. I bent over, crouching around the ball of heat that overtook my body.

Just seeing Jean-Luc left my mind in a haze.

The hotel's employee had to clear his throat twice before I looked up. I was lost in the turmoil of my lust and had trouble focusing on his presence.

"Il-y a de problèmes, Madame?" he asked politely, wondering if I might have a problem. Then he asked if I maybe didn't feel well. Could he be of help?

I was suddenly aware of my hands fondling my naked body and started blushing. I stuttered a few words, closed my robe before turning and running up the stairs, back to the room – my hands still hugging my piercings to keep them from jingling. I closed the door behind me and fell on the bed, panting, moaning.

God, Jean-Luc, come and save me!

It wasn't Jean-Luc who entered the room, of course. It was the despicable twit and he looked smug – infuriatingly smug.

I lay on the bed, wrapping the robe around me. He stood over me, looking down.

"You know," he said, smiling. "It is so much easier now." I had no idea what he meant, but pulled the bathrobe tighter. It surprised me to see his fingers undo the buttons of his shirt. He wouldn't, would he? His bare chest looked good; he'd always looked good, I admitted. I guess I never really appreciated that when we were together.

His belt was soon gone; then his pants. He worked methodically – neat. His eyes never left mine. I pulled up my knees, protecting my belly as I balled up. He was naked.

"Get out of that robe," he said. No 'please,' not even a question. I didn't move. He grinned. Then he reached out, grabbing the fluffy fabric where I held it closed. He yanked and I felt the cotton slip from my fingers.

"A virgin reborn, are we?" he said, grimly laughing. "A pregnant virgin." My chest was exposed, and soon my fat belly, my thighs. I felt the piercings dig into my flesh from closing my legs so tightly.

The sting of the slap to my face surprised me. My God, he did learn fast. My legs fell open. He was between them in a flash, his hands around my throat, his hard cock splitting the jungle of piercings to find my cunt. I whined, muttering things about being pregnant and 'please be careful.' He just snickered.

His breath came hard as he started pumping. The wet folds of my inner cunt flesh yielded and soon his pelvis slapped into mine – hurting me with the metal jewelry that got in the way. Feeling his hands suffocate me ignited arousal. The sheer demonstration of power set me aflame. It was like a switch; no build-up at all.

He pummeled me; I was a rag doll. The bed rolled like a vessel at sea – groaning, bumping. And he cursed me. There was an endless stream of bitter accusations and insults – it was the raging storm to accompany the shipwreck.

"You whore," he hissed. "You dirty selfish bitch... cum sucking cock-whore, you... take this and this, you treacherous, back-stabbing monster... you..." It would have been amusing, way back in our silly marriage. But now it was scary as well as exciting. He aroused me, his fingers squeezing the air from my throat. Yes, I thought, yes... kill me, do it. And I sank. I sank like a wrecked ship, seeing the light darken, feeling life slip away. Yes, I thought. My body arched with the last remnants of power – and I felt his hot sperm splash inside me. Then – nothing.

He was gone when I came to. I wasn't dead. My throat ached, so did my back, my pregnant belly and my cunt. A steady downpour of water sounded from where the bathroom was. I curled up, slipping between the sheets, hugging myself. I felt empty.

"He begged me not to fuck you, you know?" Carl was at the bedside, still dripping from the shower. My eyes hardly focused.

"He begged me," Carl repeated, almost crowing. "The big Casanova begged me to leave you alone, but I didn't. You are mine, Mia, and he knows it."

God, how I hated the bragging worm. I turned my head away, pressing it into the pillow. But he grabbed my shoulder, pushing his face into mine.

"He was here, you know?" he went on. "Right here in the lobby, and he begged for you. Imagine: the big master begging for his toy. How the mighty have fallen." He laughed. It sounded awful. I closed my eyes.

"Look at me!" he cried. I tried to dig my face into the pillow again, but he yanked it away, pulling me up to him. God, he'd become strong, overnight. His eyes were hard, different. Then he pushed me back on the bed and turned away. Looking out of the window, he started talking.

"Papa wants me dead," he said. "Maybe a few more jobs and then he'll have me killed. He doesn't care what happens to you either; you are just another has been, a cheap, pregnant whore." I shivered at the 'has been. He went on.

"Jean-Luc is a different story," he said with a grimace. "He loves you, you know." He chuckled. "Looove, isn't it rich?" I said nothing, waiting.

"We made a deal over you," he then said. "At least, he thinks I believe him. All I have is his word. He says he'll convince his father and his buddies that they should leave me alone after I do this one trick for them – and hand you back over to him, of course." His eyes were on me when he said that. His lips were drawn down, bitter.

"They'll kill me anyway," he said, shrugging. The white light washed around his contours, making it hard to see his expression. Then he stepped closer and I saw his eyes were moist.

"You'll help them murder me, won't you, Mia?" he said matter-of-factly. "But I guess you don't care." I lifted a hand in futile protest; then let it drop again. I guess he was right; I never cared. Why should I? I wasn't responsible. I was a toy, a cog, ­a nothing. A real man saves himself.

His face hardened. He reached for his shirt.

"Go shower," he said. "I bought you clothes."

Carl.

I don't know if the darkness that swallowed me should be called sleep or unconsciousness, but when I came out of it I felt stiff and cold, lying on top of the hotel bed in only my shirt and slacks. My headache had gone. The lights were still on and when I rose on my elbows, I saw Mia crouching in a far corner of the room – huddling inside a fluffy bathrobe. I slid off the bed, hearing my joints creak as I rose to my feet.

She didn't really sleep, but she didn't respond either, when I picked her up and carried her to the bed, covering her with a blanket. I found another blanket and stretched myself out on the second bed.

Sleep came, reluctantly.

***

Okay, in good stories you're entitled to a hero. Never mind if he is an accountant or a mechanic, the writer can always get him to rise to the occasion. He can make him an amateur boxing champion or even a retired marine and have him save the day by punishing the villains. Problem in my case is that I am not a figment of anyone's imagination. I am me: an average individual of flesh and blood trained to be an expert of the arts, but not the martial kind. I was brought up to respect people; I was taught not to drive while drunk and how to eat with a fork and a knife. I was never in the army or the navy. I did run a mediocre half marathon, once or twice a year; I could hit a decent ball on a tennis court and play an acceptable round of golf.

Being gloriously pissed off didn't automatically turn me into a fighting machine, I'm afraid. Nor did it make me stupid. Adrenalin ran amok in my body, but I was still the same man who'd never in his life been threatened with a gun. I never had reason to harm anyone – and wasn't prepared to defend myself against attacks I never expected.

There was one thing different now, though: I had no longer a choice in the matter. I had to fight and survive, however unskilled, untrained and uncouth I might prove to be. And above all, I needed a break.

I was already awake and out of bed when Mia woke up. She just shirked herself up against the headboard, pulling sheets and blankets with her. Her eyes stood wide open in the silvery white frame of her messed up hair. I wished her a good morning, but she ignored me. She also refused the fresh croissant I handed her, but she took the tea.

"You hate me, don't you?" I asked her. She just looked; then took a sip.

"Your lover dumped you, you know?" I went on, watching her reactions closely. "I guess he never really cared for you." She still didn't respond, but I saw tears rise from her eyes and leak down her cheeks. Ah, her tears... I sat down on the bed.

"I suppose you still love him," I went on. "You must love him a lot." The tea traced a perfect arc through the air, following the china cup as it smashed into the opposite wall. The pillow muffled her sobbing as she burrowed her face into it. The bed shook. I reached for her shoulder, but she angrily shook my hand off.

I waited for her to stop crying. When she didn't, I rose and went for the bathroom. Her obvious grief for the French bastard stung me – silly me. When I almost reached the bathroom's door, I heard her voice, choking with tears.

"You are a fucking liar!" she sobbed. "He loves me; he always has. He always will! What do you know about anything anyway? You know nothing. He loves me. He's a real man and he truly loves me!" I turned around. She had dropped the sheets, displaying her pierced pregnant tits that sagged on the balloon of her bloated belly. Her face was scrunched up by pure hatred, flushed with red blotches. "What do you know about love, you pitiful little man?"

It hurts a lot to hear that from the woman you've unconditionally loved for years, more than you loved yourself. But hey, what was there to expect? I had only myself to blame.

I walked to the bed. She instinctively shrunk back, hands shielding her face. It felt like another insult. She knew I had never and would never touch her violently. Maybe I should have, I thought bitterly.

That was when the room's phone rang. It was the concierge, informing me there was someone in the lobby asking for me.

"Did he give a name?" I asked.

"Uhm... Monsieur... Maynard," the concierge said. "Monsieur Jean-Luc Maynard. He says he wants a word with you." My heart jumped.

"Is he alone?" I asked.

"Oui, Monsieur. Do you want to see him?" I didn't answer for a few seconds, thinking.

"I'll be down," I then said. "Tell him I'll be down in a few minutes." I returned the phone to its cradle, turning towards Mia who had pulled up the sheets again.

"I'm going to see someone down in the lobby," I said. "I won't be long. Don't go away." I knew I could not lock the room on the inside. I just hoped she would stay. I also hoped she would not try and hurt herself. Before leaving I checked the windows and the doors to the small balcony. They were as old-fashioned as the hotel and had keys that I took with me. Five floors is quite high enough.

Jean-Luc Maynard looked definitely pale, giving his Mediterranean skin a greenish hue. He wore the same light, linen suit he'd worn yesterday, but it looked wrinkled now, as did his shirt. That and his unshaven cheeks gave him a tired look – fashionable maybe, but rather ghostly.

We stood in awkward silence for a bit. I wondered why he was here, having a few explanations I did not dare consider. He wouldn't have come to kill me – not here. Besides, it would spoil their plans and might cost Papa too much money. But there are quite a few stages between being happily healthy and being killed – and none of them seemed agreeable. I invited him to sit down in one of the niches. He cleared his throat – twice.

"I have come to apologize," he then said, trying to keep his eyes steady. "The threat with the gun was uncalled for." I nodded. Of course it was not what he was here for.

"Just sorry for the gun?" I asked. "You know, asshole, that a better man than me would have pounded you to a pulp by now." Yes, a better man, I thought, but a stupider man. Maynard's eyes widened. He didn't look really frightened, though. He knew I wouldn't try to hurt him, just as I knew he wouldn't kill me. I went on.

"You fucked Mia before she ran to me. You brainwashed her and turned her into a sick slut. She told me you did. She also told me she tried to run away from you by marrying me. But she is a liar, isn't she? There is more to it, much more." I studied his response; there was none.

"What about the false reports?" I asked. "What's the connection? There is a connection, isn't there?" He shrugged.

"She loves me," he said. "I guess I love her. What can I do?"

The sudden twist startled me. I watched him before responding.

"Love?" I asked, using a whiff of sarcastic incredulity. "You call that love?" I guess that hurt him. A dark scowl flushed his face. His hand went to his armpit, but he hesitated. It was easy to see how a number of thoughts went through his mind, each separated by indecision.

"I have to see her," he then said. "Take me to her." I chuckled.

"Now who's pussy whipped here?" I asked. "Tough guy has a weak spot." He looked angry.

"Take me to her!" he repeated, rising from his chair. I kept sitting.

"No," I said. "Why should I? Do I owe you anything? She's mine, remember – you yourself gave her to me." This time his hand really went inside his jacket.

"And don't shoot me," I went on. "Papa won't like it."

"Fuck Papa," he said, but his hand reappeared – empty.

"Interesting," I said, suppressing the tremor in my voice. "Do I understand that there might be a – difference of opinion in the family?" He sat back down.

"None of your business."

"Oh, but it must be, Maynard," I said. "Or else, what am I doing here?" It looked as if a huge mass of puffed up air suddenly left his body. He sagged in his chair, looking every way but mine.

"Okay," he said. "She is mine. I invested in her. She may carry my child. Anyway, I can't stand seeing her with you – you of all people." My eyebrows rose at that.

"You didn't seem to have trouble with that when you had her marry me?" I said, guessing the one guess that had been on my mind since I woke that morning. He didn't seem to hear what I said.

"Oh, come on!" he said, throwing his hands up. "You know what I mean – you, the fucked over wimp ending up having my woman? Fucking impossible!" I grinned. So the marriage had been a set-up. What about the reports? Fuck the conniving bastards. I'll get back at you, Maynard. But not now.

"You've quite the little ego," I said, savoring how my contempt hit him. "Now I wonder what the slut might be worth to you." His eyes widened.

"Negotiations?" he asked. "In your dreams, Lundgren. In your fucking dreams." I rose.

"Sorry," I said, turning away. "I thought you were serious."

"Lundgren," he called out, stopping me after a few steps. "I can't kill you, but I can make you very unhappy." I turned back to him.

"Still not serious, are you?" I said. "What will you do – crush my kneecaps? Break a few bones? Cut off my balls?" I watched his dark face before going on. "I don't think that would do the trick, Maynard. You see – turning me into a cripple would hardly make me want to cling to my miserable life, would it? It might even make me bold enough to blow up your and Papa's precious little scheme."

The silence went on for a while, each second gnawing at my fragile self-confidence.

"Okay," he then said. "What do you want?"

Mia.

Things that concern my life and death are happening around me. I have no control over them. Okay, you say, what's new since you came to France? I guess you're right. I only wonder why one of those men controlling me suddenly has to be Carl. Why do I have to obey a worm that is as weak as I am? Why didn't Jean-Luc wipe him out like the annoying gnat he was? I saw him threatening to pull his gun and kill him. Why did he hesitate?