Two Feet Above

Two Feet Above

Conclusion to 'Two Feet Below'

That first night alone, at my home - Becca and my home - was when the nightmares started. I must have woken five or six times, sweating profusely. My shoulders, forearms, and a few times my leg muscles were tight and cramped. Most of the dreams, I couldn't remember, or I recalled some of them, but it was garbled. There were two that stayed with me.

The most poignant was similar to what I'd seen Theodore and Becca do to me while I was under, except in the dream, they were doing a vast array of other vile and unspeakable things to me and my body. In the dream, I was awake, or a better word would be aware - but unable to move or talk. The two of them laughed and mocked me at each new twisted action.

The second, while less intense, was also acute. Theodore sat in a fancy chair in our bedroom, with his aged cock in hand, spurring Becca and me on. Becca was using her feet and toes in many unnatural and improbable ways on her husband's cock, and every orifice. I knew there were probably many different instances, but most faded when I woke up. What I remembered was Becca's foot to the hilt in my mouth, to her ankle, and me not being able to breathe. The other was my wife being cheered on to dock her toes with my pee hole. She started with her baby toe, and in the dream with each larger appendage, I had excruciating pain. Once she had her big toe fully embedded, she pulled it out and pointed the tip towards my face where, in the dream, I could see deep into my body. Each time Becca would 'perform' a task on me, Theodore would toss both of us a biscuit, like a couple of trained seals. He would clap manically, shouting 'Bravo! Bravo!'

I spent extra time in the shower, trying to let the hot water wash over me - wash away my troubles. Of course, that didn't work. It was only seven in the morning when I got down to the kitchen. My first cup of coffee also contained a liberal shot of whiskey.

Grabbing my phone, I saw a text from Margaret. She said she was making good progress with Becca, but would need the better part of today, before she thought we were ready to reunite. For some reason, that simple text made me break down and sob. I couldn't remember a time as an adult when that kind of emotion reverberated from my shoulders to my waist. I shook so badly from uncontrollable crying that I almost vomited.

After spending some time getting myself together, and thinking about how long and difficult the road back would be for both of us, I decided to start putting my thoughts on paper. There was so much swirling in my head I needed a control point. Something I could latch onto, then go back and look at it later from another perspective.

At the local Walgreens, I purchased a twelve-pack of journals, a highlighter, and two packages of pens. I knew I shouldn't have, but I bought a six-pack of IPA with higher alcohol content. That wasn't for getting drunk, rather it was for numbing. I'd probably need that a few times during the day. If that didn't work, well, I still have a half bottle of whiskey at home.

I wrote like crazy for about two hours when I got home, working to get as many of my thoughts out of my head as possible. After lunch, I skimmed through what I'd written, and realized that most of it was unimportant - or maybe, inconsequential.

I... we, had been violated horrifically by a maniac - a madman. There was no imminent threat, as the madman was dead. In what amounted to my rape - and that's how I perceived it - my wife had possibly been complicit. I thought about that and scribbled a line through 'complicit' and changed it to duplicity.

So, she was either a victim like me or she was duplicitous. That was an either/or. Being so also included drugging my food. I started thinking about the pregnancy and realized that was another issue. I'd have to deal with that separately.

What was it that Theodore had said? I asked myself. He had two fetishes: feet and cuckolding. He felt extreme power in taking a married woman from her husband so casually, in front of a crowd. He felt that power in getting Becca pregnant. I didn't think... no I couldn't believe that my Becca would purposefully let him do that to her.

I also had written the importance of vetting Margaret. She was Theodore's blood, and it would be foolish of me to simply trust her at her word. So far, she'd done and said the right things, but I'd need to be sure.

Taking a mid-afternoon break, I got online and started looking at the going rates for therapy.

That turned out to be much more difficult than I'd imagined. Still, I had to decide if I was going to foot the entire bill or let Margaret use some of her brother's blood money. I knew from the moment he mentioned it on the video what his game was. He wanted the power to lord over me from the grave, offering something of value only because of his prior despicable actions, in essence to divert from those actions, while maintaining control over our lives.

Around four that afternoon, I received a call from Dr. Bachman. "Hello, Marshall," she said, sounding worn out. "How are you feeling today?"

I told her about my morning, leaving out the restless night and dreams, then told her about the journals.

"I'm proud of you," she said with sincerity. "I was going to strongly recommend you do that. Has it been helpful sorting your thoughts?"

I explained how it had a different effect than I'd thought of, mainly to eliminate things from my head that weren't necessary, so I could focus on the important things.

"I'm finished for now with Rebecca," she told me. "Would you like me to bring her and Trinity home now, or should we wait until the morning?"

"What's your assessment?" I asked, unsure.

"Well, we've been through so much today, and it sounds like you have to," she replied. "If you're feeling okay to spend another night alone, I'd recommend tomorrow morning when everyone is fresh. I'm just worried about you being alone, Marshall."

"I'm fine," I reassured her. "I think I might write some more, but to be honest, afterward I'm going to get lost in a ballgame on TV and try to decompress a bit. I agree - tomorrow morning, let's say nine?"

It felt bizarre scheduling time with my wife and... well, shit - her daughter. I'd have to spend time on those feelings also before my wife came home.

My dreams centered on Trinity that night. We were having a birthday party. There were neighbors and family. Trinity seemed about five or six. She blew out all her candles, to a round of applause, and when I leaned it to remove them from the cake, Trinity leaned forward, close to my face, and said in the most tender, sweet voice, "I love you, Daddy." My heart melted instantly.

Then her expression changed, and a dark fog came forth from her open mouth until it covered her face and took the form of Theodore. In his wicked, evil tone he whispered, "I love you - DAD-DY!"

I almost fell over backward, crushing the cake, as her beautiful face returned to normal. In another, I couldn't draw any correlation, Trinity was a late teen. Strangely, in the dream, she seemed so real from a looks standpoint. She had her mother's looks, but she also had her own unique beauty, just like I would imagine her while I was awake. We were talking about a boy, in high school, I guess, as she sat on the bed painting her toenails.

Suddenly, her face contorted and the same fog came forth more violently this time. It took the shape of Theodore's upper body, his smile menacing, as he floated near the bed. "Would you just look at those!" he spat maniacally, looking at Trinity's feet like a meal. "So much like her mother."

I dove forward towards my daughter. In dreams you can fly apparently. As Theodore was retreating into Trinity's mouth, my hand, then arm followed him down her throat. I was wrestling with him, my hand around his ghostly neck, as I tried with all my strength to pull the demon from her.

That one made me sit straight up, gasping. I couldn't go back to sleep after that, even though it was only five-fifteen. It was a nice morning for a run, and that's what I did. It had been a while since I did an honest mile, but I sure felt good afterward. I'd need to remember that in the future.

Five minutes before nine, my wife's car pulled into her spot on the driveway, followed by Margaret and my sister, Amy. Becca undid the car seat and I met them on the front porch. Becca looked up at me hesitantly. I guess that was the best word I could use to describe her expression - but I wasn't sure.

I knew then it would take us a long time to get back to where we'd been.

Unnerved, I smiled and extended my arms fully to her. My sister instinctively took the baby, and Becca ran the four steps between us and launched herself at me. I caught her, and I held her close. It felt really good to hold her again. Just four days before, we had it all. Now, I wasn't sure what we had. But, I told myself before her arrival, that at least we did still have each other, even if we were now broken. She was my wife, and I'd reserve my dread about our experience and take things as they came.

Margaret leaned in as she walked past us into the house. "We're going to put Trinity down for a nap and then try to be scarce so you two can be alone. We'll be out on the back deck if you need anything."

We stood there in a tight embrace for maybe five minutes, swaying back and forth, and not saying a word to one another. Finally, I realized we might have a neighborly audience, and softly told my wife we should go inside. She was going to get her bags, and I told her we'd do it later.

I took Becca to the sofa and she straddled my lap. It wasn't a sexual move; she'd done it countless times over the years, just so she could be as close as possible to me. She held me tight for a long time, crying on my chest. A few dark thoughts came to mind, and I became leery and on guard, and wasn't holding her quite so closely. Becca sensed that after a few minutes, and pulled back just a bit to look at me.

"What?" she questioned, staring deeply at me. I felt my face flush. She immediately noticed too, and sadly said, Oh."

She held the sides of my face with both hands. "I understand, my love." She was watching for any signs of affirmation. "Margaret and I talked a lot about how you felt - how you'd be feeling. I understand your trepidations, and I won't begrudge you of them. I'll do anything and everything in my power to make sure you know how much I love you." She paused for a moment.

"I need you, Marsh," she told me as tears filled her eyes. "I need you, and I'll be here for you, too. I'm not going to let that... let him destroy us. Promise me you won't either."

I smiled and promised. The smile was a reaction that felt overwhelming at that moment. I knew she was sincere. My shoulders felt like someone had removed a four-ton boulder from them. We just sat looking at each other for a while.

"Did you have a good...?" I stammered. "Did you and Margaret work through some things?"

"Yeah," she answered thoughtfully. Then she spoke her mind. "We're gonna be messed up for a long time, aren't we, Marsh?"

I nodded. "I love you, Becca. It isn't going to be easy - of that I'm positive - but I'm all in with you and Trinity."

We both decided we were starving and worked together making lunch for our guests and ourselves. That in itself was cathartic. Having some semblance of normalcy, even for a few minutes was what we badly needed. Trinity woke up, while we were eating our sandwiches, of course. After her feeding, I held her and made silly faces trying to get a smile from her, as Becca, Amy, and Margaret cleaned the kitchen.

After that, Amy and I took a walk around the neighborhood. She told me how sorry she was, that this had happened to us and that she would be there to help either of us in any way she could. I was proud to be her brother, as she poured out her thoughts and her devotion.

Back at the house, Margaret and Becca had ordered Chinese to be delivered. After dinner, Becca and I both said goodnight to Amy and thanked her for her love and her help. We then sat with Margaret in the living room with a bottle of wine.

"So," she began, "today went pretty well, yes?" We both nodded.

"Let's do a quick check around," she said. "Rebecca, let's start with you. How are you feeling about being home with your husband?"

"I'm happy!" Becca was quick to respond. Her answer was likely the most logical one, yet it sounded so strange to me. It wasn't her tone, just those two words.

"And you, Marshall?" she turned to me.

"I guess happy too." Even I sounded stupid. "But I'm also anxious. Worried - I guess - trepidations about our future." When I looked at my wife her smile had completely faded.

"Okay, Marshall," Margaret said, "I'm just talking about now - today. We can talk about the future later. I'm sure Rebecca has many of the same feelings and concerns."

"Then the same as Bec," I said more sure of myself. "It's good to have her home, and Trinity too."

That answer felt forced.

It hit me that was what I'd found in my wife's reply too. What were we supposed to say? The truth was, both of us were likely very unhappy. Margaret noticed me scowling in thought and raised an eyebrow as if wanting me to say more.

"Margaret," I started, "I think we both have plenty more to say. I know I do anyway."

"I'm sure," she answered with a smile. "I asked the way I did because I want to keep you two grounded in the here and now. What happened to you - what my brother did - is abominable. People who've had their mind or thinking altered, often experience extremely powerful negative feelings and thoughts. In the worst cases, we're talking paranoia, even schizophrenia. Seeing things, and wondering if they are real, in layman's terms.

"I've done quite a bit of research on these types of cases before coming to see you, Marshall. This isn't my specialty, but I'm being paid to help you both, so I needed to know everything I could. The most important thing for both of your recoveries is not to move too fast. I suppose, not getting ahead of yourselves would be a better way to phrase it. That can lead to intense feelings of anxiety, as you mentioned. Staying in the here and now, and sticking to a short-term plan, can counter the feelings you're likely to encounter about the future."

I immediately didn't like her statement about her qualifications and getting paid. There it was again: Theodore operating to control things post-mortem. And Margaret was family, so as much as she said, and it seemed she wanted to help, she could also be working to manage the fallout from her brother's actions and keep the family name intact. I couldn't even consider those things right then.

"So what's next?" I asked nervously. "I think I'd like to spend some quiet, private time with my wife and daughter."

"That's a good plan," she said, adding, "so, let's talk about how that looks for now. I'm going to ask you two to refrain from intimacy for now. By intimacy, I mean sex. Since you were both a victim of a sexual crime, likely, trying to engage in sexual activity may actually be a setback for one or both of you."

"Hold on, doc!" I said. "Why would normalcy set us back? And I'm not very comfortable talking to you about our sex lives."

Margaret had lost that happy appearance. "Marshall, I can understand your concern. Tomorrow we'll start interviewing and test-driving therapists. They will need to know about your sex lives, in fact, almost every detail. We'll have a separate counselor for both of you to see individually, and another for you to see as a couple.

"What I'm asking," she went on, "is for the two of you to refrain from sex; that would include intercourse, anal, and oral sex. Refrain until your therapists recommend you connect like that. Acts of affection, I'm encouraging. Holding hands, normal light touches, and lots of hugs. That is unless one of you feels uncomfortable with the physical contact, and you should both be cognoscente of that. Be on the lookout, and if your partner needs space, give it to them. That's even if they were accepting the contact just ten minutes before. And above all, have patience for each other. Even with me saying that I expect some arguing, some negative feelings towards each other. That's natural, so remember, if those negative feelings are directed at you it doesn't mean your partner loves you less. It's a normal part of expelling those feelings.

"Here's the biggie," she concluded. "Until you both have at least a few sessions under your belts, I'm asking you not to share the same bed." She was ready as I started to interrupt. "There's a very good reason, which will become clear as we get into therapy. I'm asking you to trust me on this. Marshall, giving Rebecca a kiss and hug goodnight will be the same degree of separation that existed when you two were dating and you dropped her off at home. I promise you'll both thank me later."

Becca and I both felt a little better after talking to Margaret. I could tell we were on eggshells. The one question I wanted desperately to ask, I couldn't. Not yet. To offset the awkwardness, we spent the evening with Trinity. We sat and watched a movie for a while, but my mind was elsewhere. I could see Becca was in the same boat when I'd glance over at her. We got ready for bed as usual. Becca had made up the spare room bed with fresh linens and an extra blanket earlier. She got into bed and I tried to make light of 'tucking her in.' She giggled, then so did I, and we ended the night on a high note.

The next few days were very busy. Margaret had set up some preliminary appointments with therapists she'd hand-picked. A woman in her forties, Tammy Whitley, was going to be Becca's therapist.

Our couple's counselor was a man about the same age; Robert Toms. Margaret had chosen Ms. Lorraine Baxter for me. She was approaching fifty, I was told, and had her master's degree with a specialty in trauma depression.

I asked Margaret why the hell she'd pick a female, let alone someone who specialized in depression. She told me that with what had happened to me, I was 'textbook' depressed. She added that in my particular case, she thought it best to confide in someone who could offer the woman's perspective, namely, Becca's. Both explanations seemed odd at best. I told her I was definitely not suffering from depression.

As it turned out, I needn't have worried. Ms. Baxter was sitting in her smallish office, with a single, uncomfortable chair facing hers. She was... frumpy. That's the only way to explain it. She wore a tie-dye dress to her ankles, greyish-brownish hair all messy and curly.

We were about forty minutes into our first session. I'd been reluctant to open up about the immediate future with Becca, especially intimacy. It wasn't exactly that I didn't want to have sex with my wife; it was just the unsettling feeling in the pit of my gut that I couldn't shake. I couldn't identify, nor describe it, but it was there - always.

"I'm sure you've had some time before today," she started, "to think about what Mr. Rasmussen said and showed you on those videos. What would you say was the main emotion, or part of you that he was trying to attack?"

I didn't have to think long, but I hesitated a bit, not sure I wanted to discuss this on our first visit. She watched me carefully. When I didn't answer, she tried another angle.

"Would you say that he was attacking your masculinity in some way?" she asked.

Wasn't that obvious to her? I thought. "Of course," I answered.

"So have you put any thought into how you're going to disarm the feelings he was trying to attack?"

"No, not really," I said with apathy. "Clearly, he wanted me to know he considered himself the better man - may be the only man. All that he did was designed to cause maximum pain."