Title: Enough
From: Evan Black EvanJ4mesBlack@gmail.com
Rating: R
Summary: Mulder takes extreme measures in an attempt to exorcise the demons of his past.
Warning: Contains scenes of S&M violence, implied child abuse.






ENOUGH



'Is there...a...man I could speak to?'

That surprised me. And I don't surprise easy. In fact I can't remember the last time I was surprised my one of my clients. You want me to hold your dick in a vise and rub wintergreen on your balls? Why sure, honey. You want to come into a bag of pretzels while I shove peanuts up your ass? Let me raid the snack drawer.

But my 12.30 just surprised me. 

I look at him and he flushes. Every lanky inch of him is angled in discomfort and embarrassment; he looks at his feet and crosses his arms defensively on his chest, and clears his throat nervously - and none of that can hide what a nice long drink of water he is. Tall, slim, funky-looking. Big nose, small chin, wide mouth, little-boy green eyes, straight brows, big nose. Did I say that already? My sis Charlie and me, we used to call some things bugly - something so ugly it's beautiful. Mostly we meant it about baby warthogs or those funny bulldogs with the sloping noses and the cute piggy little eyes. But this guy's honest-to-god bugly. One for Charlie.

'Sorry, I'm all there is,' I say with a smile. I hope he stays anyway, even if he would prefer a man. I like an under-confident man. Although - in my game - they're all under-confident once you scratch the surface. No one comes to someone like me because they want to take charge. But this guy's not doing the usual macho shit that leads up to that breakdown - he looks like that breakdown happened some time ago. Or is happening right around now.

He teeters in the doorway, deciding. Normally when they do that, I let them make up their own minds but he's different; he surprised me. Therefore he interests me. Therefore I smile and ask him to come in and shut the door. He does, quietly, and I smile again. Under-confident AND polite; I like him more and more.

'Why don't you sit down here so we can chat?'

Even though he wanted a man, he doesn't sit like a queer; he sits easily - a little slumped, with his legs apart and his crotch on subconscious display for me. A lot of my clients cover themselves as they sit; or perch on the edge of the chair. They're almost always the ones who finally get round to asking me to push something into their butts.

'I can do anything for you that a man could do,' I smile teasingly and his eyebrows and mouth twitch briefly in good natured return. He shrugs; he's accepted the situation. Good.

'Business first,' I say. 'It's $250 for the first hour, $200 for each subsequent hour.' He nods.

'There are rules. You can't touch me unless I order you to, understand?' He nods again.

'You can't touch yourself unless I say you can.' Nods.

'Anything else you want, you just tell me and I'll do it to you.' He nods, but I want to make sure he understands I'm good value, so I expand. 'Don't be afraid to ask for what you want. I love my job; I love giving you what you want. The only thing I want is for you to be happy.'

He doesn't nod this time, just looks at me straight in the eyes. Usually when I tell men that, they get excited right away just at the thought of what I'm prepared to do for them. This guy just sits there and stares at me with wide green eyes that reveal nothing. 

It unsettles me a little and the silence grows. Then he shifts in his seat and pulls his wallet out of his suit pants, peels off $450 and hands it to me.

'You want to start now?' He nods.

'You sure it's okay I'm not a guy?' something about him makes me want to tease him, but he actually looks like he's thinking about that - like he might ask for his money back. I should just learn to shut up.

Finally though, he shrugs and stands up.

I step closer. 'What shall I call you?'

'Fox.' 

I smile at that. He may be quiet but I guess he's got a man-ego after all. I already got a Wolf, a Dangerman and a Big Dick with a johnson the size of a cocktail sausage on the books. At least Fox's name suits him.

'Okay Fox,' I say, 'your safe word - should you choose to use it - is Alien

He flinches and his eyes cloud over. 'Can we use something else?'

Alien's the word I use. It's neutral but it's strong, so that the men begging me to stop don't feel weak by having said it - and with no hard consonants, it's easy to say even with a gag in your mouth, so it suits me perfectly. But he doesn't want to use it. And he looks stubborn. I need to go with him.

'Sure. But if it's a word I'm not used to hearing, you may have to yell it a couple of times before I remember!'

He just looks relieved. 

'Let's keep it simple; how about Enough?'

'Okay,' he agrees.

'Follow me.'

He does. We go into the black room which is empty, and then into the supply room. He looks around with interest, which surprises me again. Most men get embarrassed when they come in and see the instruments of their fantasies laid out. But Fox actually grins at some of the stuff. He stares at the rubber suit and ball gags and zippered hoods then raises an amused eyebrow at me. I shrug, suddenly feeling a little off-kilter. Most clients take this shit seriously, which makes it easier for me to take it seriously. The thought of trying to get this guy into a rubber suit while we're both helpless with giggles makes me feel strangely young and vulnerable. And that's not the way I need to feel at all, so I don't return his smile.

He stops at the whips, canes and lashes, each hung in its own space, ordered by size. His eyes scan them, then he turns to me and I see we've arrived at where he wants to be. He's stopped finding it funny and I'm back on solid ground.

'Um. Do you have a belt?' He flushes again, which increases my dominance. I feel much better.

'Just an ordinary belt?'

'Yeah. A...man's belt. Leather. Brown leather.'

A tiny niggle of disquiet stirs in me. Most of my men want extremes. They want the studded leather and rubber gear. They want to be taken somewhere else - away from their lives where they are one thing, so they can be something so different with me.

But a brown leather belt is a little normal for me. I don't have one. I start to shake my head, then remember. I hold up a hand to show him I'll be back, then leave and go back into my part of the house. Into my bedroom. I haven't had a boyfriend for four years. My last was Carlo. He was a client to start with - most of them have been - and then moved in. He only stayed for three months before he started wanting to control me on the outside, resenting the control I had over him in the black room. We rowed, I kicked him out, and sent his boxes on to him. But I missed a few things, and one of them was... this belt.

Brown. Leather. with a thick brass buckle. More a jeans belt than one you'd wear with dress pants. A little heavier, a little thicker.

I take it back through and hold it out to him, but he slides away, not wanting to touch it. That bothers me too. Most men can't wait to feel the toys, rub against them, feel the texture of the items that will hurt them later, like they can't believe something so soft and pliable can hurt so good.

But he doesn't want to touch it, and I see a look like fear in his eyes. I pull it back from him quickly as he swallows and glances around like he might bolt. 

'Is this what you want?'

He hesitates, then nods...

In the black room I turn on the spotlight as he takes off his suit jacket. I catch a glimpse of the label; no wonder he's paid for two hours with me before he even knows he'll like it. I provide hangers but he doesn't bother using them, just lays his jacket down on the floor, then looks at me. He has a gun on his hip. He suddenly remembers it, and lays it on top of the jacket. I get a lot of cops but the sight of guns always unnerves me. He seems to understand this.

'Would you like me to put that outside?'

I shake my head. Just having him ask makes me trust him.

'You a cop?'

'Something like that.' He doesn't want to talk about it.

'So, what game would you like to play, Fox?'

He looks lost, doesn't know what to do, so I help him.

'Are you a bad schoolboy? And I'm the headmistress?' 

'No,' he grins, 'but that sounds like fun in another context!'

I laugh but cut it short - it's hard to stay serious around this guy, and I need to be serious. More - HE needs me to be serious. I remember he wanted a man - so try another tack. I touch the cat o'nine tails: 'How about you're a mutineer and I'm Captain Bligh on the Bounty?'

He shakes his head, but doesn't smile and I know he's building up to telling me what he wants.

'I want... Can you?... I... um.'

He glances at me and I look encouragingly at him, not laughing or smiling now. He looks away into a dark corner of the room - away from the spotlight.

'What do you want Fox?'

He still looks away from me when he finally speaks in a voice so low I can barely hear it.

'I want you to make me cry.'

***

Bill Mulder stared through the French windows at Fox playing basketball with the Beidecker boys. The Beideckers had a hoop over the garage. Fox was 12 - two years younger than the twins, but rose easily under the basket to score, then walked slowly back to his starting position on the sidewalk beside Lucy Owen's pink tricycle.

Lucy Owen, five years old, hair in yellow ribbons, clapped briefly then went back to examining something on the sidewalk. Ants, most likely.

Fox rarely played ball any more. He was only out there now because his father had told him to get lost. For an hour or so he'd mooched about in the back yard, sat in the oak. Then the twins had started a game and he'd answered their call for the first time in...how long? 

Bill knew he knew exactly how long it had been since Fox played ball...

He looked at Lucy Owen again and felt his chest tighten with loss. 

'We had a deal,' he said.

'We had a plan,' said Spender. 'It's not the same thing. Plans change. We had to make a quick decision on the night. You didn't tell us the boy was a fighter.'

'He's not. And even if he was, so what? He's only fucking 12 years old!'

'He's a handful. We weren't expecting a handful. You misled us.'

'But to take her...' Bill Mulder stopped again, unable to speak without his voice shaking.

'You misled us,' said Spender again, as if Bill Mulder was a slow child. 'You said she'd be in bed--'

'He was supposed to put her to bed at nine!'

'But she wasn't in bed. And he was a handful. Trying to be a hero for her. You should be proud of him really.'

Bill Mulder wasn't proud. He was devastated. And angry. And getting angrier by the minute, listening to Spender tell him what went wrong, why his life had been ruined.

'You don't understand!' he blurted out. 'You don't understand what she meant to me!'

Spender stubbed out his cigarette and rose through the last exhalation of blue smoke.

'Oh, but I do, Bill,' he said softly. 'I was there for the initial medical. I know EXACTLY what she meant to you.'

Mulder turned back to the window and watched Fox glide up and make another basket with lazy grace. He felt Spender at his shoulder, heard the lighter click, smelled the oily smell of fuel on the wick.

'Whatever happens to her now, I'd say she's better off where she is, wouldn't you?'

He said nothing. Heard Spender walk away. Heard the door snick behind him.

One of the twins slapped Fox on the back and - even from here - Mulder could see his son wince. The fucking baby. He'd ruined everything.

With trembling hands he threw open the French windows.

'Fox!!'

Fox turned as if spooked, and dropped the ball. 

'Get inside!'

All the animation left his son's slender body as he trailed back across the lawn. 

'Run!' 

Fox broke into a lope.

Bill Mulder glanced at the clock. Teena wouldn't be back from the doctor's until after five. She never was. There was plenty of time.

When he looked back, Fox was standing there, his eyes wide and wary. Bill hated that look; like an animal in a trap. A weak little animal. 

'Get inside,' he said tightly.

'The game's not finished,' Fox's defiance was half-hearted at best. Bill stood aside so Fox would have to pass close to him as he came in. He saw Fox lean away from him as he passed through the doorway, bumping his opposite shoulder on the door frame so as not to have to touch his father. Nothing like Samantha. Samantha who he missed so much he could hardly bear it. Samantha who would be here with him right now if it weren't for Fox fucking things up.

'Go upstairs.'

Fox looked at him, already scared. 'But Dad. I didn't do anything.'

'This is not a debate. Go upstairs.'

Bill saw his son's eyes suddenly brighten with tears and he felt the dull embers in him flare up as if fanned by a breeze.

'Upstairs and take off your shirt.'

***

Fox pulls off his tie and sheds his shirt. His skin is pale gold - the kind of skin you're born with, not acquire on a beach or a sunbed. It's beautiful and almost flawless, stretched perfectly over the gently-defined muscles of his chest and stomach. There's a puckered scar on his left shoulder, red and recent. Gunshot wound - I've seen a few of those.

Then he turns to drop his shirt onto his jacket and I see imperfections on his back. Not much, just a few little white marks. 

'Step into the light Fox.'

He does, and I walk around him. His eyes don't follow me; he stands and stares at his feet.

'Lift your arms.'

He hesitates, then slowly does.

The scars on his back are minor. But now that he's in the light I can see similar marks all down his sides, from ribs to hips. I step in closer. The scars are white with age. Small, like bird tracks up and down his sides, more on his right side than on his left. 

I know what they are.

They are buckle-marks. Marks made by a beating with the buckle-end of a belt. A man's brown leather belt, no doubt. Most beltings are different. Most men hit with the other end, or with the belt doubled over so it makes a satisfying crack as it lands. But buckle-end beatings are something else. They're cruel; they mean business. The leather lands flat across the skin, hurting but rarely scarring, but the buckle whips round at the end of it, gouging the skin, biting into flesh, taking little chunks with it every time it lands and flicks away. Repeated buckle-end beatings are rare because the blood puts people off. Makes a mess.

A long time ago, somebody did this to him and ruined perfection. I put out my hand and touch his ribs and he flinches so violently away from me that I think I've hurt him.

'Who did this to you Fox?' I say softly.

He looks away and speaks in a low, hard voice. 

'I deserved it.'

So this is the game. 

I get back into my role quickly. He pays the piper - he calls the tune.

'Are you ready for your punishment then?' I say just as harshly. I drop my voice an octave so it's more masculine. I'm a little surprised that he hasn't taken his pants off. I can't remember the last time I had a client whose needs weren't ultimately about sex. Usually the pain is just a means to an end. Maybe he's shy; maybe he'll work up to his pants.

But he nods that he's ready.

'What did you do wrong, Fox?'

'I...I lost her.'

I think about the scars. They weren't made while he was standing; the angles are wrong.

'Get down Fox.'

He drops slowly to his knees.

'You know the position.'

Fox leans forward so he's on his hands and knees. I can see that he's started to shake with fear, and I wonder for the millionth time why anyone would pay me to do this shit to them. I push the thought to the back of my mind. My clients need me focused. They trust me to take care of them even as I hurt them.

'Where is she Fox?'

He hesitates, as if he knows the answer will be unacceptable. 

'I don't know.'

I hit him and he bucks and tries to straighten with the shock of it. I grip the back of his neck and push him down again.

'Don't you move when I'm beating you.'

'Sorry.'

'Sorry who?' I growl.

'Sorry...' 

He can't say it. I won't push him this first time.

'What happened?'

'They came and took her.'

I hit him.

'Who took her?'

'I...I don't know.'

I hit him again. This time the buckle sends a little spit of blood into the air off his ribs and he grunts.

'You were supposed to look after her.'

'I tried. I tried. I swear.'

I loosen my grip on his neck now that he's back on his hands and knees, but he suddenly grips my forearm to hold me there.

'Did I say you could touch me?'

He lets go fast. 'No. I'm sorry. Please can you...'

'Hold you down?'

He nods. I grip the silky hair at the back of his head tightly, making him wince, and keep the pressure on his neck, then hit him again. Because of this new position, the buckle whips too far round and catches him in the chest, making him shout with pain.

I hit him again and again. He shakes and flinches but doesn't make any more noise, even when the buckle tears a piece the size of a dime out of his hip. I'm sweating. He wants me to make him cry. Why won't he do it?

'You gonna cry now Fox?'

'No' The word is squeezed out between jolts of pain as I lay the belt across him. The buckle doesn't make good contact every time but when it does his body jerks and ripples.

'Why not?'

Nothing.

'Answer me Fox! Why won't you cry?'

'I can't,' he pants desperately. 'I'm not allowed.'

***

'Dad please. It hurts. Please!'

Bill Mulder stopped, his hand still tight on Fox's neck, the boy's hair damp with the sweat of fear under his fingers...

Teena was at the hospital. She'd always volunteered on Tuesday nights. Bill had had to get his own dinner. A man - a working man - having to get his own dinner. Get his own pre-dinner drink. Drinks. Find the ice for his own after-dinner Scotch. 

He'd sat on the sofa. No Teena. No Samantha. What the fuck had his life come to? A job filled with danger, sacrifice and conspiracy, a fucked up wife, a lost daughter, and a son who crept around him like a shadow, watched him from the corners like a dirty little spy, hid from him. Hid from his own father.

Bill had jerked in anger at the thought and spilled his third post-dinner double on the arm of the couch.

'Fuck!'

Fox had looked up from his homework at the sound, his shoulders already hunching with foreboding, his dark green eyes blinking nervously. 

He'd give the little shit something to blink about...

Now he looked down at the back of his son's head: 'Are you crying?'

Under his hand, Fox's head moved to indicate that he was not, but Bill was no fool. He grasped Fox's hair and yanked his head up to see the boy's streaked face and his eyes already brimming with more pathetic tears...

When Teena got home they told her that Fox had been hit in the face by a fastball. But she hadn't noticed the bruising and - after a cursory look - she didn't care anyway.

***

To my surprise, Fox keeps coming back. With what I can only describe as stubborn terror. 

He never does take his pants off, and I never see any sign of arousal, so it's not a sex thing. 

It's always the same: He comes in quietly and stands nervously. When I indicate I'm ready, he walks into the black room, takes off his jacket, gun and shirt, and gets down and waits for me to begin. He grits his teeth and hisses with pain. He grunts. He whimpers. He makes a little high-pitched choking sound as the buckle bites and the leather bruises.

But he doesn't cry. 

I start to wish he would. I start to wish it like a kid wishes for Christmas.

I don't expect to cure my clients. They don't come to me for that. They have needs and I fulfil those needs. Those needs don't disappear - just build up until the next time. But at least most of them enjoy the temporary fulfilment of those needs.

But Fox doesn't enjoy this. He needs it, but there's no pleasure for him. He has a goal and I feel I'm not helping him to reach it. Of course, if I cure him, he won't come any more and I'll be down $450 a month, but something about him makes me think I could bear to lose the money. 

I'm not so sure I could bear to lose him though. Even though he's real quiet, he's a gentleman. He opens the door to the black room and waits for me to go through it before him. He doesn't joke any more but he's always polite. He thanks me when I clean him up afterwards and put gauze on his wounds. He never curses me when I hit him the way a lot of men do. They spit at me, some of them. If it's part of the game, I allow it. If not, I use a ball gag while they're still civil and pliable and not on the edge of coming from the sheer force of the beating.

I've worked out that Fox lost his sister. Her name was Samantha. We use her name now in the black room. But he still won't say the name of the person beating him. It's not rocket science, of course. Odds-on it was his father. They fuck you up, your mom and dad. Some poet said that and believe me, I make a good living off his being right. Doesn't mean I like it. The thought of a grown man taking his belt to his own son to inflict this kind of damage makes me feel slow rage. It's good though; the rage helps me focus; without the rage all I would feel is Fox's pain and then I couldn't do what I do to him.

Sometimes he has to take time off to allow the wounds to heal. I try to keep them along his sides where the original scars were. I don't want to ruin more of his perfect skin. When he takes time away, I miss him. Miss his polite ways and his haunted eyes and his soft dark voice. Miss the golden skin across his ribs and the knobs of his spine; miss the way his hands curl and his long fingers knot into white fists against the floor when the buckle hits him; the way his slender hips twist away from the belt. Miss the whole bugly thing, which seems to be more like beautiful and less like ugly every time I see his face.

But I don't miss hurting him. Sometimes I want to stop beating him and hold him instead. Stroke him. Pet him. Let him know that he doesn't have to do this; keep doing this. That the past has no hold on him, if only he would let go of his hold on it. 

But I keep hurting him. And he keeps not crying. And it gets so that I dread seeing him. Dread watching his neat suit and bright white shirt disappear to be replaced by the ruin of a body. A body I am ruining again in a vague, unscientific attempt to rebuild the mind.

It gets so that I lie awake in bed at night and worry about him. Worry about what's been done to him and what I'm continuing to do to him. I want it to end. Surely there has to be an end? When will it be enough?

***

'Why won't you cry Fox?'

'I'm not allowed.'

We've been here before. Many times. He's panting and sweating under my hand, wheezing in air as blood trickles round his ribcage.

'What will he do to you if you cry?'

It's the first time I've spoken of his abuser in the third person. He says nothing so I hit him again.

'I don't know.'

He knows.

'Does he love you Fox?'

'...Yes.'

'How do you know? Does he tell you?'

'...I just... He loved me. I know he did.'

So he's gone. Dead, I hope.

'Did he show you Fox? Did he show how he loved you?'

Silence. Now we're getting somewhere. I'm not sure where, but I know we're on the way. I hit him while I think of my next question. He makes a fragile little grunt of pain.

'Did he hold you? Did he hug you?'

'......No.'

'Did he hug Samantha?'

'Yes.'

'Did you want him to hold you like that?'

'No!'

The word comes out hard, like he really means it. I start to feel uneasy. I don't know what to say next so I hit him again.

'Tell me the truth!'

'I am!'

'Why didn't you want him to hold you like he held Samantha, Fox?'

'I... don't know.'

'You know.'

He shakes his head so I hit him again. He yelps and jerks in pain.

'What did he do if you cried?'

'He...I don't know.'

Smack.

'Tell me.'

Nothing. Smack. Smack. He whimpers and puts a hand to his ribs so I hit him to remind him of the rules. It was a knee-jerk reaction; I wish I hadn't.

'What did he do if you cried Fox?'...

***

Bill Mulder glared at his son's face. It was pale and sweaty and his mouth hung open as he gulped air. Fox's lashes were clumped with moisture. 

'You're fucking crying! I knew it! What are you, a girl?'

'No!'

'Because if you act like a girl, I'll treat you like a fucking girl!'

He slapped Fox's frightened face hard, knocking him into the side of the tub, then leaned low over his back, crudely tugging the dazed boy's slender body up against his groin. 'Is this what you want, huh? Is this what you're about, little girl?'

'No! Please Dad I'm not crying. Please. I'm not crying. Look!'

Fox twisted his face to his father and Bill Mulder could see the red swelling starting to close his son's left eye, the blood running from his nose across his lips and chin. Then he looked down at the boy's pale back, spattered with fine drops of blood and ugly purple stripes that disappeared into his jeans. 

Nothing pretty about Fox any more.

Good. 

Shaking with hatred for both of them, he levered himself up and simultaneously shoved Fox onto his side on the bathroom tiles. 

'You disgust me. You hear me?! You disgust me! You whine like a baby. "I tried! I couldn't help it! There was nothing I could do!" Bullshit! You LET them take her you feeble little sonofabitch! It should've been you.'

'I'm sorry.' Fox's voice was weak and broken.

'Are you crying again?!'

The belt licked around the boy's narrow hips and he yelped and rolled onto his back, holding his splayed hands up to his father - part protection, part supplication. 'No! Daddy No! I'm not! I'm not I'm not I'm not!!'

Bill Mulder panted down at his son, and swayed. The rush of the drink had left him and, while he was belting the boy, the desire to sleep had snuck up on him and taken him unawares. He was suddenly very tired. He'd shown Fox. He'd made him ugly and bloody and too vile to touch.

This time. 

He looked round the neat bathroom blearily. The mat was in a heap against the tub where it had ridden under Fox's knees; he'd also kicked the little plastic bin over and used Kleenex had spilled out. And there was the blood of course...

He threaded his belt back through the loops in his slacks.

'Clean this fucking mess up.'

***
'What did he do when you cried, Fox?'

'He... he told me I was a girl. A fucking girl.'

Bastard.  

'But what did he DO, Fox?'

'He... nothing.'

I bend to put my lips close to his ear.

'Did he fuck you Fox? Did he fuck you like a girl for crying like a girl?

'No!'

'But he wanted to, right?'

'No!'

The note of desperation in his voice tells me the truth.

'If you'd cried like a girl he'd have done it right?'

'No!'

'If you'd cried like Samantha...'

'....please.' His voice is a thrumming wire of high tension.

'Then he would've fucked you.'

'No!'

'Like he fucked her.'

'NO!!'

I hit him hard then with real anger that he's protecting that sonofabitch even after he's gone. Won't betray the man who betrayed him so often and so harshly. He cries out and jerks under my hand. I have to end this.

'Tell me the truth!'

'I don't know!'

'Bullshit! I want the fucking Truth!' 

And suddenly my anger burgeons and bursts and spills and I dig my nails into his neck and start beating him so hard that I shock myself. He moans and writhes and I dig and pull and tear at his head as the belt rises and falls with real weight across his back, ribs, shoulders, hips. 

He can barely get the words out through his pain. 'Please don't Please don't. It hurts. Please stop!'

Then say Enough! I think desperately. Say it. Stop me. Because I can't stop myself. My fury at his abuser makes me abuse him too in sheer desperation to have it be over. I lay into him so hard he falls to his side, trying to cover up. The buckle tears into his stomach, his chest, his knuckles and forearms as he tries to protect his balls from the flailing brass; it rips a hole in the leg of his pants.

I stop, sweating, my arm aching, feeling sick. 

He sobs, just once, shaking with the effort of keeping it all inside.

'He loved me.'

I look at this broken boy-man and understanding hits me so hard that I feel dizzy. My voice is hoarse with yelling and exhaustion.

'But he wanted you too. The way he wanted Samantha--'

'No. Please don't...' He's only just hanging on.

'But he didn't want to hurt you Fox. Not like that. So he had to keep you scared and beat up and ugly... just to keep his hands off you. BECAUSE he loved you.'

Silence.

It feels like the truth. 

His face twists and he can't speak through the choking sobs that suddenly wash out of him in convulsive waves, like he's vomiting them into his hands.

I sit down beside him and stroke his hair, and I'm trembling with relief. 

It's over. It's over. I will never hit him again; I don't care if he gives me a thousand bucks an hour. 

He cries. 

He's safe. 

Enough.


END