The Reawakening of an Aging Dom - Chapter 11

The Reawakening of an Aging Dom - Chapter 11

The Reawakening of an Aging Dom - Chapter 11

by kc Rollins

Too many hours in bed yesterday causes a painful stiffness throughout my body. I shuffle to the bathroom like an old man; moaning and groaning.

While relieving myself, I think of the numerous things that must be done today. First, a much- needed trip to Madam’s salon, where Ami can hopefully work out the kinks. Then off to the hospital to spend some time with Monique so that she and I can become better acquainted. And, of course, there is Suzie. A smile forms on my lips with the thought.
At the salon, I think about her and how she excites me. I draw a picture in my mind of our first intimate moment together. While it is absurd for me to contemplate such a union, she makes me feel alive again, and logic and reason have no place in affairs of the heart. Before I met her, I was not only reluctant to return to the states and my position, but dreaded the very thought. Now, because of her, there is good reason to return.
I leave the salon feeling like a man reborn. The sun sits warm in a cloudless sky and I am enthralled with a feeling of passion and new hope, when out of nowhere guilt attacks me like a pack of ravenous wolves. Liz’s face flashes before me and I see the look in her eyes on our last day together. I pat my pocket, hanging onto a memory saturated with regret. 

Stupid, silly me. “I love you, Liz.” My feet pound angrily against the pavement and I pick up my pace.  My legs carry me faster until I am running, trying to escape a pitifully acute recollection that haunts my soul. I race to the Seine and it is only the rail that stops me from going further.
“I love you, Liz,” I cry out painfully. My head hangs over the rail as tears flow from my eyes and drop into the endless waters of the river, where they are carried off to hide, but never die. “I love you, Liz.”

These are the moments of which Lisa spoke. They come when least expected.


I arrive at the hospital happy to find Monique eating. Her battered face is coming alive again. She smiles and reaches out to me with both arms. “Monsieur.”  She pushes away the tray and rises to her knees to clasp her hands around my neck in a long embrace. Her fragile body presses solidly against mine, and as I run my hand down her back, I count each vertebra. She is like a delicate piece of blown glass that I feel will crack if I apply pressure.  
When the nurse walks in I joke, “Tell her she needs meat on her bones.” 

The nurse relates the message and Monique laughs heartily, falling back on the bed. I push the tray in front of her and tell her to eat.

Monique speaks to the nurse, and although I understand most of what she says, the nurse translates. “She says, she will grow up in her bones like her mama.” The nurse makes a face like a blow fish and puffs out her stomach, compelling us to laugh at the sight.

“Tell her it’s good to hear her laugh,” I say.

The little French I speak permits me to ask Monique questions and she speaks slowly, so that I can digest what she says. If I get stuck, I have my French dictionary on hand. Year after year, I vow to study conversational French and never find the time. This visit has now made me determined to put mastering the language on my priority list.

When she tells me she is 30, I am shocked, for she looks much younger. She and her (abusive) husband married when she was 16. He is a good man, she tells me, but I know good men do not abuse their wives. Misfortune has caused him to be combative, she contends.

I listen as she defends his behavior, and now I think the detective was right. She will not file charges against him and she will, more likely than not, return to him. Maybe next time, in a fit of rage, he will kill her.

“No!” I shout, causing Monique to jump. “Are you crazy?” I say in my broken French.

I do my best to educate her, telling her that men do not beat women. “Men love women. Men protect women. Even in the worst of times, men care for their women. They don’t use their fists!” I yell, pounding my clenched hands in the air, for effect.

He is the only man she has ever known, except for the men with whom she performed in order to make “Good money.” Saliva runs hot in my mouth and I can feel a sickness erupt in my stomach that I battle to keep down. I scramble through my dictionary to find words that will impress upon her that she is wrong to care for this man and if he cared for her he would not allow her to sell herself, nor would he beat her. Despite my efforts, she continues to defend him.

“Enough!” I say in English, throwing my arms up in frustration. “Do what you want.” She does not have to comprehend the words, for my actions express my mood and contempt for this man. 

 Her eyes well and her bottom lip quivers. “Monsieur.”

Instinct dictates that she needs to be comforted and I should go to her, but anger stops me cold. How can she justify the actions of a brute, who has manipulated her in the name of love? She sells herself so he can live comfortably. “He hurts you for God’s sake.” Frustrated that she cannot, or will not understand, I shake my head in defeat. “I have to go.”

“Monsieur, plaire,” she begs, her hands clasped in a prayerful gesture.

Her soulful entreaty coerces me to her. “Be well,” I say, grasping her shoulders and placing a tender kiss upon her forehead. She and I both know I will never return.

As I leave, my eyes are drawn to the flowers that I brought. They are wilting; drying, dying and their beauty is now only a memory as their petals fall from their stem.

 “Adieu, Monique. Farewell”