Releasing June 22, 2014
Sometimes you reach a point where you just can’t take any more – a breaking point some call it. The day I watched my husband murder the woman who was pregnant with his child, my point didn’t just break, it exploded like a magazine firing through the barrel of a fully-automatic AK-47. Literally. I am no longer his American Princess, nor am I his slave. Now, I’m a murderer in hiding. My name was Bryleigh Carter Oliveira and that was my story.
Translucent is one woman's story of breaking free, starting over, and learning to trust again through willful submission.
Meet Madden Decker…
Immediately, she hangs her head to hide the tears and crosses her arms across her chest to cover her boobs. “I’m sorry for this,” she croaks in between her sobs. “I just want to go home.”
Rushing to her side, I’m hesitant to touch her, not wanting to inflict any additional pain. I lift her chin gently, forcing her to look up at me. “Don’t apologize, sweet girl,” I whisper soothingly. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can talk about it. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Tenderly, I kiss each of her tear-stained cheeks before leading her by the hand over to the shower.
“The spray of the shower will sting too badly. It’s better to clean them with a washcloth and then alcohol,” she reasons, obviously having done this before. “I can take care of it, Madden.
I stop mid-stride and turn to her, knowing damn well my eyes are full of pity – I can’t help it. “Okay, but please let me help you.”
With a slight nod of her head, I open the linen closet, pull out a couple of cloths, and guide her back to the sink. Wetting the first washcloth, I drop to my knees in front of her, putting me eyelevel with the lacerations. She keeps her arms tightly wrapped over her chest as I go to work, carefully cleaning up the red streaks from her bony rib cage and concave stomach which I notice aren’t all fresh, thus confirming this is a common occurrence. I bite my tongue to not comment on her frailness, but I don’t want to tear her down any more than she already is at the moment. Instead, I make a mental note to feed her every chance I get.
After nearly fifteen silent minutes, all of the blood is wiped away and I grab the bottle of rubbing alcohol from the medicine cabinet. Returning to my kneeling position, I peer up at her, making sure she’s ready for the burning sensation I know is about to come. Her eyes are closed tightly and she’s chewing nervously on her bottom lip. Her helplessness and fragility affect me in the most profound way. I want - no scratch that - I need to fix her like I need to take my next breath, and I have no fucking clue why. It scares me shitless.