“Anastasia, come here for a moment.”
I stand up from my chair and walk over to him as he sits behind his cool, granite desk. Even his office at home is so sophisticated, all granite and black and grey (because he’s rich). Wow.
“Yes, Christian?” I’m a little peeved that he’s making me miss some of my television time. It’s halfway through that episode of South Park with Britney Spears, and she’s just blown half her head off but she’s still alive and it’s kind of disgusting but hilarious at the same time. I don’t know how those boys make that show so funny and disgusting and popular. I suppose it’s a little bit like myself, in a way. I wish I could just sit there and ignore his calls, but there’s something about Christian that makes me come crawling back. Maybe it’s the shackles on my knees and feet that make it hard to walk so that I literally have to crawl; maybe it’s his unrealistic good looks that draw me back like a magnet; or maybe it’s the fact that he’s fucking loaded and I’ve become accustomed to the numerous expensive gifts he gives me to keep me sweet, and I don’t want to let a sugar daddy like that get away.
“I have a question to ask you.” He runs his hand through his hair and cocks his head to the side, smiling. Sitting behind his desk he looks like a young FDR, albeit less jowly and with the added bonus of being able to stand up. But he doesn’t stand up, he just sits there eyeing me up. He makes me feel like the only woman in the world, especially when he’s beating the shit out of me to get his rocks off; I wish all women could get this special treatment, though not from my Mr Grey.
“Ask away, my love.” The room must be cold, because he shudders when I say that. It must be all the granite. He opens the drawer next to him and takes something out, but I can’t see what it is so I step on my tiptoes to look and bang my head on the sex-rack chandelier hanging in the middle of the room.
“Come closer. Kneel down here beside my chair and close your eyes.” He puts his hands behind his back, hiding whatever glittery trinket he has just taken out of the drawer. He’s going to make me work for it, I suppose, like the whore that I am. I do as I’m told because that’s part of the contract, and reach out towards him to start on his belt. My hands fumble about in his lap until he says “No, not that. Just hold out your hand.”
Well this is different. Wow. Oh my god. I suddenly realised what day it is - it’s our six and a half month anniversary. I can’t believe he remembered! This must be it, he’s going to propose. Oh my god. He’s going to propose, and then I’ll be his wife and that’ll be the end of all this contract business. Well, apart from the marriage contract. And I assume he’ll want a prenuptial agreement too. But apart from those two very significant contracts, I’ll be done with all that. Yay!
I hold out my left hand, palm down and wait for a few seconds, expecting to feel him slip an engagement ring on there. I laugh to myself as I imagine my wrist buckling under the weight of the huge diamond, but then that laugh turns into a scream as I feel my ring finger, middle and index come clean off. I open my eyes and see Christian standing over me with a switchblade in his hand, and then look over to the cream carpet and see my poor fingers lying there in a small pool of blood. Poor things. They’re probably as scared as I am.
“What are you doing, Christian? I thought you were going to propose!” I clutch my now half-empty hand to my chest, but I won’t get up because he hasn’t told me I can yet.
“SHUT UP! I’m sick of your nonsense, you stupid little girl.” I reach for my fingers, wondering if they’ll screw right back on but Christian gets up and walks over to his cabinet, stepping on my severed little digits in the process.
“Can I get up now, please? I’m losing a lot of blood and I’d quite like to get a bandage or something. And I could really do with a cup of Twinings English tea, Christian.”
“Come here, Anastasia. Now.”
I get up, because his request for me to go over to him sort of means that I’m allowed to get up. Even after he’s cut off my fingers, I find I’m still devoted to him, and despite the searing, agonising pain in my hand I follow him to the cabinet. He has his back to me, doesn’t look round as I approach him and place my right hand - now my ‘good hand’ - on his shoulder. He swings round immediately and slices my arm clean off at the elbow with a huge samurai sword.
“Baby, please!” He ignores my pleas, and waves the katana above his head.
“Check this shit out.” He swings the other door of the cabinet open and all I can say is that I’ve never seen that many swords in one place, apart from that time when Christian took me to the sword museum. And also the time when I already looked in this cabinet. There must have been at least fifty blades in there. At this point I’ve lost quite a lot of blood, but I have the strength still to stumble over to his desk.
“Take me, Christian, take me now!” I squeal, leaning over the desk, trying to lower my trousers but failing due to my new lack of dexterity.
“Get away from there, you clumsy whore, you’re bleeding all over some very important paperwork.” He strides towards me now with a different knife, this time a sort of crooked dagger, a bit like the one Jafar has when he’s going to stab Aladdin after he’s got the lamp from the big sand thing and he goes “Your eternal reward” or something. Oh wow. I’ve lost a lot of blood. He plunges the knife into my back and the pain shoots through my entire body this time, an unbearable pulsating heat that is impossible to ignore.
I wonder what I might have done wrong. “What did I do wrong, Christian?”
“Nothing, Anastasia. I’m just a psychopath.”
“Oh, fair enough.” I love his honesty.
“Now keep still, that I may slit your throat.”
“No, I can’t let you do that, Christian, anything but that.” I mean, I have to draw the line somewhere. He cocks his head to the side and smiles, his face freckled with my blood.
“Fine,” he smiles, “let me flip you over though.” Oh good, sexy sex time! Maybe it will take my mind off of my extreme blood loss and fatal injuries. He grabs my shoulder and roughly pushes me, so that I’m now lying on my back on his desk.
“Oh shit, my paperwork.” He remembers his important files and he sweeps them away from under me. God, I love how spontaneous this all is. Wow. Damn! He has this sort of psychotic look in his piercing blue eyes, and he turns and walks back to the cabinet, presumably to get some kind of kinky, fetish toy thi- no wait, it’s another knife. This one is curved at the end, like a sickle. I reckon this is probably the end for me.
“Hey, Christian,” I say, as he walks toward me with the sickle in his hand, “look.” I raise my left hand to my face, my thumb by my ear and my pinky at my chin, like a phone. “Call me. HAHA! Get it? CALL ME!”
He raises the sickle. Here it comes. Oh wow.
Very Bret Easton Ellis take on the tawdry 50 Shades pseudo-porn. Like it!
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