THE CONTROL: An Arranged Marriage Romance

they turned even my own identity against me. It was beaten into me. I only had to control the old parts trying to smear the new ones like a vengeful teenager.
Remember your place.
Remember what you went through to make these lessons stick.
Remember the scars that’ll keep the old you chained up in the basement of your mind.
Don’t even start, the voice in my head sputtered, slicing through all the hate. I felt my hip pop and whatever restraints they had on the old me were shaky at best.
You can’t keep a bad bitch down. At least that’s what they say but only half of me was listening. 
Drowning in the image staring back at me, I felt an overwhelming sense to purge, not just whatever was in my empty stomach but the personality that emerged from Denmark—just for a slice of control. Holding onto the edges of a porcelain toilet somehow centers me in a way that nothing else does.
There’s solace in feeling empty, control even.
People were so much more difficult to navigate, like right now. What did they expect and how was I going to stumble my way through giving it to them?
Forcing myself to move on from the reflection, I continued wandering around his castle looking for somewhere I could call mine. Somewhere to set up my paints and hide my canvases from curious eyes.
More like judgmental eyes. 
There hadn’t been much to grab my attention so far besides a few pieces of random art and sculptures that all scream sex even though I still couldn’t figure out what his deal was. Every time I had visited before he wouldn’t budge on sharing the same room even if we slept with pillows between us.
The sexual art was a real mystery.
Any red-blooded male with a dick and a pulse would have practically stolen my virginity by now without even contemplating the consequences.
Not Bowen. 
During my visits, I took the time to observe this new Bowen that I didn’t seem to know anymore at all. These observations only gave me a slight sense of comfort of what to expect since he was such a routine person.
He started every day with a green smoothie which seemed to be the only form of nutrition he offered himself. His weakness for Hennessy followed him throughout the day, usually starting early, which only made him more cold and cruel towards me. He left for work at the same time every morning, looking effortlessly sexy and put together regardless of how hungover he might be. I had never once seen him eat dinner when he finally got home—apparently, he’s only ever hungry for the taste of booze. Sometimes he even went back to work at night, only those times he dressed more casually in a hoodie and jeans. Maybe he wasn’t actually going back to work...
And repeat.
Bowen was a workaholic and a pure alcoholic. The rest was a straight up mystery.

Running my finger down the decorative molding framing each panel of the wall, I traced it along until my nail caught on an edge and gave me a splinter. The sting pushed my finger to my lips while I examined the wall, realizing that the molding here was disconnected, revealing a secret door.
Now, this was the one thing they didn’t kill in Denmark—my curiosity.
When I was younger, it was the number one trait that got me into trouble. Sometimes I’m a slave to my own curiosity, and now I am free from all of my punishers.
Examining the opening, I could see a staircase that snaked up, twisting to who knows where when I carefully stepped over the safety of the hallway, trading it for the unknown.
Is this where the rest of Bowen was hiding?
Was Braeden keeping him hostage and taking his place?
That would explain things.
The metal of the stairs made a sharp clank with every step, making me wonder if they were safe. I decided death by adventure seemed appropriate enough for me as the stairs faded out into an attic.
Natural lighting struck the darkness away through the round windows parallel to each other on each side of the room. The roof came to a point above me, and my eyes fixed on another empty cage with a folding chair placed in front of it.
Another empty cage.
The first one was alarming, but now I could see his process unfolding… it starts up here then maybe you graduate to the one in the living room.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I tried to justify it anyway I could.
It’s not for a person.
It’s art. 
It’s not what it seems.
Creeping closer to the cage, I let my hand wrap around a bar, and I tugged, hoping it was truly some art that I could ruin. To my disappointment, the cage was sturdier than my heart that Bowen kept taking jabs at.
Scanning the rest of the empty room, I decided it was the perfect place to paint if I just threw a sheet over the cage so I could better ignore the parts of Bowen that reminded me of his brother.
I was already living with whatever kind of evil Bowen consumed, so if that meant swallowing some hell too then the cage mocking me was going to be it.
They let me paint as much as I wanted to in Denmark, but always bared their teeth when they realized I was always only painting Bowen. They hated that weapon I kept sharp in my arsenal. I was committing him to memory, dedicated to not losing any details like they say you do when you don’t see someone regularly.
We recognize their familiarity, but we lose the details as time goes on.
I refused to be a victim of time and distance.
Every canvas, every stroke, every finished piece—him. It was how I kept his image alive—not