And with ████████ as my witness, I'll never be a victim again.
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ADULT CONTENT
This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers.
Sexual References: Features sexual themes or language, without the depiction of sexual acts.
Sexually Explicit: Description of sexual acts.
Sexual Assault: Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Gore: Depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts.
Child Abuse: Features severe mistreatment of children.
Self-Harm: Description of self-harm.
Suicide: Description of suicide.
Torture: Description of torture.
Contains themes of long term relationship abuse.If you are above the age of 18+ and wish to read such content, then you may click Continue to view said content.
Series Hub » Woman of Stone and Blood Hub» Dr. Barrikada Violanti's Marital Cage
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Barrikada paced in the corridor outside the multi-purpose room.
Looking through the small rectangular windows in the heavy double doors, she could see chairs set up in rows; even catch a glimpse at the simple arch at the altar. It wasn’t a particularly pretty thing – nothing more than a frame, covered in cheap chiffon and fake flowers, but it was what she expected. No more, no less.
Getting married on-site was always a simple affair; standing at the alter gave a scenic view of concrete block walls, tiled ceilings, and covered folding chairs. The guests who sat upon those chairs were no better – a sea of plain button down shirts stained with god-knows-what, hastily 'improved' by polyester clip-on ties. Slacks. Khakis. Pencil skirts. Security badges stuffed into pockets. Lab coats, for the guests who couldn’t even bother to ditch them before showing up. If they were anything to her, she’d be more forgiving. Too bad she didn’t know half of them from a hole in the wall. Site weddings were like this, though; always a full house, regardless of how many friends the 'happy couple' had.
The far side – the groom’s side – was at least an improvement. Quite a few guests in well-kept suits and formal dresses. His friends. His coworkers. No surprise for the Personnel Director of the largest Site in the Foundation. Instead, the surprise was all theirs. Bashka could almost hear them balk at the accommodations as they walked in. Obviously, such humble facilities were far below what one could expect for someone of his status. Not that they had any right to complain; for it was they who denied him better. They cited the 'lower clearance level' held by her and her guests, since nearly all of the nicer meeting halls on-site were restricted, but, as an 03, she didn't quite buy it.
Bashka knew this was a purposeful spit in the face. Many large figures at the Foundation were known to cast aspersions at their relationship, both openly and behind closed doors. Not for the ethical quandaries inherent to such a union, nor for a violation of Foundation policy (if you don’t count the fact that the Overseers sure as hell didn’t like it). Truth be told, it was an open secret that quite a few of those aforementioned large figures engaged in any number of grey-tinted affairs themselves, to say the least. Their disdain was instead sparked by the many shames brought upon him for involving himself with someone like her; an anomaly, a non-human, an immigrant, a woman whose features neglected the conventional standards of beauty. Hell, to the worst of them, 'non-human' could summarize all four. Yet her betrothed made no complaint. Not about her, nor about the disapproval of his peers. Not even about the bargain bin affair that was their wedding.
At the best of times, Bashka was ready to prostrate before him, to kiss his perfectly shined dress shoes – after all, he was the one saved her from a life of misery and solitude in containment. He’d gone up against his superiors, against the O5 Council for her. It was an act that deserved nothing less than genuflection, one she thought about each and every time her role at the Foundation was challenged. Every time she was held to unfair behavioral standards, every time a coworker dared treat her differently, it was a reminder of why she could afford to pay these affronts no mind. He was the only reason that she had not yet felt the true frigidity of the Foundation, and for that, she was forever indebted.
It was no wonder that associating him with his own controlling nature was no easy feat for Bashka. He, himself, loved her, supported her, and expected little interpersonal obedience from her… And yet, he held the Foundation's ultimate authority like a gun to her head, trafficking in her understanding of the immense power he wielded. He stood between her and the Foundation’s worst, but by nature, that meant the Foundation was behind him. She knew full well who they’d stand with, and he made sure she didn’t forget.
Not by threatening her with containment, he’d never be so crude. Everything he did was a labor of love – he scheduled her medical appointments for her, he gave her the results of her performance reviews long before they were supposed to be revealed, he especially made sure to cheer her up whenever she was in distress — always knowing exactly what to say (her parapsychiatrist was a fantastic note-taker). He blatantly violated the minute sliver of privacy that Foundation personnel, in theory, had the right to, with little desire to be discreet — and as long as she responded with the appreciation such care warranted, all was well.
She figured this out long before her wedding day, and after a while, she gave up on the idea that there would ever be another choice. As she paced, struggling to remember the details of the farcical, candy-coated love story he had them both memorize before the wedding, she hoped that one day, she would no longer want one.
❦
The last five-and-a-half years had passed by in a blur; Bashka was the first to admit that if she were asked to recount the steps taken to arrive where she stood outside that scantily decorated meeting room, she'd be utterly lost. It was almost as if she'd woken up in that barren hallway — gown and veil donned, only able to recall the memories she wished most to forget.
No matter how much her righteous anger withered over the years, she still couldn't bring herself to forget the events of the night during which every imaginable boundary of professional ethics was torn to shreds, then discarded without a second thought.
It was just under two weeks after she was discharged from Emergency Medicine back in ‘95. That night, at nearly 9:30, he beckoned her to his office, alleging an emergent situation. He'd spent the time that preceded working up the courage to pick up the phone, while ensuring that all nearby personnel had left the area before he did. He knew the time he had left to 'apologize' was limited; she would soon be headed to Site-17, in accordance with O5 orders.
By the time she got there, he was already haggard. He wasn’t his normal self. She, on the other hand, was the closest to normal she could be, given the circumstances. Stone cold sober, no less. He hugged her over and over again the moment her feet passed the threshold, nearly crying, telling how sorry he was for what he did. Telling her how ridiculous it was for the Council to claim his conduct with her was “inappropriate” when he’d, quote, “never even touched her”.
It seemed that this was the reasoning with which he decided there was nothing left to lose. From his perspective, if he’d already crossed the line with a relationship that never mutually stepped beyond professionalism, then why care at all? It was drunkard logic, taken in a direction and to an extent that even he should have identified as bad news. But, according to him, he was just so, so, so sorry that it clouded his judgement. Apparently, all that was left was for him to make it up to her. She learned quickly that the first step in his warped version of 'atonement' involved crowding her with drunken apologies and coaxing her onto her back.
She responded with little opposition, frozen by the sheer authority she knew he held over her. She’d never been docile like this before, but no matter how much she tried to convince her body to let her do something, anything, she remained limp on his desk. He removed every single article of clothing that stood in his way while she retreated into her own head; 'At least he isn't unattractive', 'at least he always acted like he cared', she bargained, crossing her fingers at her sides and hoping it wouldn't hurt. If it did, she hoped her pain would mean something to him.
Yet, instead of the sharp sound of the zipper of his dress pants and the rustle of fabric she expected, she heard the sound of his desk chair lowering until it clicked. She lifted her head, moving just enough to look down at him in silence; head cocked and eyes wide. In a tone of voice she could only describe as drunken and forlorn, he tried to explain himself; "I just have to make it up to you before you leave." She opened her mouth to speak, but the words never came out.
She then spent the next…God knows how long, staring at the harsh office lights until her vision went spotty. Internally, she was panicking. She knew she should have been afraid, but she just…wasn’t. She was supposed to be, anyone else would be, so why was it the case that, if anything, she was just numb? Numb and woozy, yet she still had to cover her mouth and grit her teeth, because nothing was more horrifying to her at that moment than presenting him with a reason to believe that this was consensual.
Eventually, even in his intoxicated state, he still managed to rip away the teeny tiny little bit of agency she had left — it felt like being punched in the stomach. She closed her eyes and focused on the swirling patterns burned into her vision until they made her dizzy. For a little while after, she just let herself drift, counting the ceiling tiles while never being able to remember the total, starting over each time she forgot. It felt like hours until she was dragged back by his voice, asking her if she was still awake.
She flinched in surprise.
"That felt good, didn’t it?"
She said nothing.
“You know, I can tell. It’s okay.”
She covered her face with her hands to hide her teary-eyed shame.
“I’m sorry, you didn’t expect that…that’s my bad…”
She took a shaky breath and suggested he find a paper towel to wipe his face.
He used his sleeve instead; his black jacket sleeve.
She felt queasy.
It was the guilt that seized her like nothing else; guilt for 'allowing it to happen' in the first place — contradicted directly by shame for being 'too unwilling' to submit to his will. None of it made sense. She was drowning, and in the moment, she'd have done just about anything for a breath of fresh air. But, to her desperate state of mind, even noxious fumes seemed good enough. Maybe, if she forced herself to return the favor, it would be like it was her choice…even if she couldn’t quite stop the tears rolling down her cheeks. She insisted that it was fine, that she wanted to continue, that she was just overwhelmed…it took her three tries to get him to believe her.
He threw her three lifelines and she took none of them.
She never made it to Site-17.
❦
Compliance was a rain check — nothing more than robbing Peter to pay Paul; bargaining for a momentary deliverance from guilt, without regards for how much worse the crushing shame would feel when it returned the next morning. For Bashka, compliance was the beginning of a vicious cycle of meeting any and all guilt with preemptive acquiescence.
She faked it until she didn't have to anymore, bargained until it became second nature. Until it almost became an addiction…again and again and again, until she finally came back to reality with a bridal bouquet in her hands.
❦
Sometimes, she went as far as to find solace in the fact that he was already in his mid-forties. It was oddly comforting. For the time being, she was his, but when his life came to an end, she’d still have a century left. One in which she’d belong solely to herself; all while his urn would sit collecting dust on a shelf. It’s what made the seemingly endless walk down the aisle bearable. The vows, the rings, the first time they’d dared to kiss before another living soul – all turned nearly optimistic by the idea that this was but a chapter in her life. An experience, just to say she did it; just like those who desired her often sought.
Til death do they part, as long as he shall live…and someday, when the pages of this chapter have been turned, she hoped she could look back fondly on the situation. Even if it was only through rose tinted glasses
❦
The first time Bashka signed her name as a married woman was on a digital signature pad in the Admin office. She signed her name, getting to “Uly-” before stopping. Asking the man behind the desk to allow her to rewrite it felt illogically humiliating. On the second attempt, she was more cautious – anything to avoid having to repeat the wretched process a third time. It was shaky and angular, but it would have to do.
Soon after, she received her brand new ID badge with the brand new name she could hardly stand to look at. Her new husband got to it before she did, opening the envelope and remarking, “Huh, they forgot to mark you as insulin dependent, you should probably go back and get that fixed”. No sadness or guilt in his voice. It was simply matter of fact, without a sliver of regard for the fact that what he spoke of was precipitated by him. Directly downstream from his own actions, from his own choices that his position allowed him to make for her.
It felt like a punch in the gut — like a spike of anger, then the deep, oppressive guilt she trained herself into, ever since that first night. Truly second-nature by this point, she skipped straight past compliance, straight into placid acceptance. Her anger faded away. It was years ago, she thought to herself. Over half a decade, for God's sake. Who was she to hold a mistake over the head of the man who granted her salvation from the looming threat of containment? She forced herself to smile.
The third time Bashka signed her married name, she made no error. No second attempt was required; she knew full well that she'd have to get used to it eventually.
In near perfect cursive, she signed…
Barrikada Vladlenevna Violanti
❦
January 8th, 2001
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