I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy, or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. If something that I say displeases you, please, just leave. If you don’t like this story or me, please don’t spoil this experience for everyone. Just go away. For the rest of you, the saga continues…
Chapter 58—A Whole New World
Gail wanted to let me sleep in my first night home from the hospital, but I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to. There are two babies in the house… and no longer inside my body. Every time I rolled over to adjust to the baby bump and discovered that there was no baby bump, I awoke in a panic. So I never slept more than thirty minutes at a time. I found myself prodding down to the nursery at least three times just to peek in and watch them sleeping in their cribs. It was no use. No matter what I did, I couldn’t sleep. Maybe tomorrow night…
Of course, this means that morning finds me groggy and disheveled. I have pumped a few bottles with Mia’s super breast pump as well as fed Mackenzie since Mikey didn’t wake up yet. Now, I’m sitting at the breakfast bar, my arms wrapped around my flatter stomach as if my babies were still there, debating if I should try now to get some sleep.
“Look what I found.” Christian’s sing-songy voice causes me to raise my head to find him coming into the kitchen with one of the babies in his arms.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Mikey,” he says. “Mackenzie is still fast asleep, but Mikey’s little whine actually woke me up.” He looks up at me and frowns. “Are you alright? You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine,” I say sluggishly, rising from the breakfast bar and holding my arms out for Mikey.
“Do you want me to feed him?” he asks. “You really look beat.”
“No, Mackenzie’s asleep because she latched. Michael’s awake because he didn’t. I have to get him more accustomed to the breast than the bottle, but with how much I pumped this morning, I hope I have something left.” I’m still holding my arms out and Christian is still frowning at me, but won’t surrender Mikey.
“Go to the recliner, baby,” he says. “I’ll bring him to you.”
I’m hardly in the mood to protest. I drag over to the recliner and nearly fall into it. Once Christian puts Mikey in my arms, I lift my camisole and rub my nipple against his tiny little cheek. He turns his head and latches on immediately and I feel the milk flow as if my breast is completely full and I hadn’t pumped a drop out of them this morning. I settle back in the comfort of the chair and relax in the solace of feeding my baby boy.
When I open my eyes, I’m wrapped in my microfiber throw, cuddled comfortably in my recliner. I raise my head to see Mikey’s Pack-n-Play in the middle of the family room. Both newborn nappers have been placed inside, each holding one of my children. I stretch leisurely in my chair. How long was I asleep? I must have fallen asleep while I was feeding Mikey. I have to be more careful in the future.
Although I’m stretched out and awake in the chair, I’m in no hurry to get up. I’ve been awake all night and I just want to sit here. I think about Vee’s speech while we were making our getaway. She really broke her usual protocol last night. She’s always the one who tries to keep us in line—makes sure we say the right things. Last night, she just dropped the proverbial mic and walked off the podium. Christian didn’t say much about her statement. I wonder if he was upset about it. I thought she was spot on, not that it’ll do any good. Those fuckers are probably camped outside the gates as we speak. Those snipers are sounding better and better every day.
I pull up my camisole and look at my belly. I’m not wearing my belly belt and my henna has faded. Luckily, the oil that I used faithfully every day prevented me from having any stretch marks on my stomach, but I do still have the post-partum bulge, of course. I look like I’m a solid four-to-five months pregnant. I rub my stomach—so much smaller than it used to be and so very obviously empty. It feels weird not to have something kick me back when I disturb the peace. I have to admit that it feels a bit… lonely. I’ll have to get used to the way things were before there were people inside of me. I can hardly remember that time. I grip my stomach and try to shake the feeling like I’ve lost something precious.
“What is this?” I say quietly to myself. Nobody prepared me for this. Everybody told me about the joy that I would feel when I held my babies; how they would light up my life and give me purpose; that nothing in the world would feel like being a mother; how you would immediately know what to do when the doctor put them in your arms. All of that is true. My babies are precious and beautiful. They’re priceless and gorgeous and I wouldn’t trade them for anything… but no one told me that one they were born, I would feel so empty… so hollow. I literally feel soulless. What is this horrible feeling?
I rub my belly looking for the connection that I felt only days ago. Nothing. There’s nothing. Not a flutter. Not a flicker. I throw the blanket off of me and go over to the Pack-n-Play. Mikey is trying to fit his fist in his mouth, and Minnie is lying with her hands spread open on either side of her head, like she’s trying to mock surprise. It makes me giggle a bit. They kept up so much hell inside me to be so peaceful now. Am I a horrible mother for missing the connection that I had with my children while they were inside of me?
I don’t know how long I stand there watching them sleep, cradling my stomach, singing their lullaby and thinking about the nights I used to lull them to sleep… and they did the same to me. When I felt my worst, my ugliest, my loneliest, they kept me company and gave me purpose, and I kept them safe. Now, they’re out here in the cold, cruel world. There’s nobody to warm me from the inside, and I can’t keep them safe inside of me anymore. What the hell do I do now?
“Hey.” Christian’s concerned voice wafts behind me and causes my shoulders to drop. “What’s wrong? This doesn’t look like the happy, rested mother of two beautiful newborn twin babies.” I’m still grasping my stomach, trying to be inconspicuous about it.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I just… I feel so…” I’m ashamed to say it aloud.
“Is this the post-partum depression thing?” he asks, putting his hands on my shoulder. I shake my head.
“No,” I say, never moving my gaze from the babies. “No, it’s not that. It’s…” I still can’t say it. He examines me closely. Knowing me the way that he does, he takes my arms from around my body, stands behind me and replaces them with his own. He nestles his lips in my neck and places tender kisses there before resting his chin on my shoulder.
“They’re here now,” he says softly, gazing at our children and holding me closer and tighter than he has in months. “They’re here, and they’re alive, and beautiful, and healthy, and perfect.” He speaks with reverence and wonder in his voice. “Two extraordinary beings—products of our love, nurtured in your body, brought forth by your care and your labor—here, with us, now, for us to love and cherish and cultivate… to watch them grow and flourish and thrive.” He rubs my stomach gently. “They may not be here anymore…” He entwines his fingers with mine, and places one on each newborn napper. “… But they’re here…” He then places both hands over my heart. “… And they’ll always be here.”
How I could have married a man so sensitive, kind, and loving, I’ll never know. My heart swells and I have to fight back tears that I don’t want to cry. Too many have been shed for too many reasons, and I just don’t want to shed anymore. I unthread my fingers from his and turn around in his arms. Thrusting my hands in his hair, I kiss him deeply. He moans into my mouth and returns my fever. I love him so much.
“You wanna make out in the recliner until the twins wake up?” he groans.
“Yes,” I breathe, between kisses.
“How do you two plan to make it six weeks? You’re pawing at each other already.” Jason and Chuck come into the family room in what looks like a semi-official capacity.
“It’s just kissing,” I defend, adjusting myself in Christian’s lap. “I’m not dry-fucking the man!” I examine them carefully. “What’s up?” I ask, knowing they came in to tell us something. The pause is pregnant.
“The sex of the twins has been leaked,” Chuck says, “probably from the same source that leaked that you checked in. There’s speculation on the names—from the exotic to the ridiculous.” Christian’s hand clenches on my thigh. I sigh and curl into his lap, nuzzling his neck and kissing the skin below his earlobe. He shudders infinitesimally.
“That’s okay,” I say, wistfully. “The birth announcements will go out today anyway, the sooner the better. Kill the speculation of Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene Grey.” I hear Christian chuckle in his chest, a deep, throaty sound as his hand moves from my thigh up to my hips and he turns his mouth to meet my kiss-swollen lips.
“Okay,” Jason says, “that was easy.” It’s quiet for a moment and I tear my attention away from my husband’s lips to see what’s happening in the room. Jason is looking over into the Pack-n-Play at the children and Chuck is making his way over to them as well.
“God,” he says, breathily, “I can barely remember Sophie ever being that small.” He looks at the children in wonder.
“They’re so tiny and helpless,” Chuck says, his protective instinct dripping off him like water from a fresh shower. “I mean, look at ‘em. They depend on you for everything.”
“I know, right?” Jason says, flashing a look at his colleague and friend, carrying on a conversation about our children as if we weren’t a few feet away making out in a chair.
“Are Peterson and Dougherty ready?” Chuck asks, never taking his eyes off the twins. “I don’t want them fucking up on my watch.” Jason chuckles.
“Strange, they’re saying the same thing about you,” he retorts. Chuck glares at him.
“You tell those clowns I’ve been at this for more than a year and I’ve more than once delivered the package in one piece, even in great detriment to myself. They better be just as diligent or they’ll have to fucking answer to me.” His voice is cold and menacing. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to tell that Peterson and Dougherty must be the detail that will be assigned to the twins.
“Easy, soldier,” Jason says, throwing a look back at Chuck. “You know Peterson is top of the line and Dougherty has more than once been underestimated. You know we wouldn’t sidestep on this.”
“Then explain Bronson!” Chuck retorts quietly. “What the fuck was that all about?”
“He was good for the job,” Jason says, “we just didn’t expect her to be so… lively.” Chuck twists his lips.
“I was out of commission and I expected her to be so lively,” he says flatly, and I have to stifle a giggle. How could Jason not know that Mare is such a fireball? If he didn’t, he does now, and I hope her security detail is just as hot.
“Well, I’ll just say this,” Chuck says, squaring his shoulders. “You tell those fuckers not to worry about me. They had better all be on their game, and if any of them drops their ball on my watch, I’ll shoot ‘em my damn self!” He turns around right into mine and Christian’s gaze, having totally forgotten that we were in the room. Without a word, he marches past us towards the elevator. Sergeant Davenport is officially ready for action and to kick ass. Jason watches as he walks towards the elevator, then turns his gaze to us.
“Prima Dona,” he says, before looking back at the twins.
“Should I be concerned?” Christian asks. Jason looks at him and frowns.
“About what?” he says. “If anything, he’s more dedicated than ever. That’s usually the case after something like… this.” Jason stretches his neck and rolls his shoulder. I know immediately that he’s recalling the bullet he took for Christian.
“I can imagine,” Christian say, his voice betraying his gratitude. “What I mean is… they have to trust each other to work together.”
“Oh, that,” Jason says, waving him off. “That’s harmless ribbing. Chuck’s going to be a little sensitive about it because he’s not 100% back on the beat yet, but he’ll be fine. It happened to me, too. It happens to all of us.” I feel Christian relax slightly underneath me.
“I need to shower,” I whisper to him, “and I’m hungry.”
“Mr. Taylor,” Christian says, garnering Jason’s attention.
“Yes, Mr. Grey?” Jason replies in a mocking tone.
“Would you please tell your lovely wife to mind the twins for about an hour and to have something ready to eat at that time? Mrs. Grey needs to refresh herself.” Jason chuckles.
“Will do, sir,” and off he goes. Christian stands effortlessly with me in his arms.
“How about a bath, Mrs. Grey?” Oh, what a lovely idea.
“Oh yes, a hot bath. I haven’t had one in months!” He frowns as we walk to the elevator.
“Is it safe?” he asks. “So soon after delivery?” I snake my arms around his neck and kiss that same spot. He’s so good to me and wants to take care of me. I love him so much.
“Yes, baby, it’s safe. We’re not going to boil me,” I laugh. “And you can join me if you like, just to make sure that I don’t melt.”
“Hmm,” he moans, deep in his chest. “I like…”
I’m cocooned in Christian’s arms and legs in my huge bathtub, adoring the hot water that I haven’t felt in months. I’m lying back on his chest as he gently scrubs my skin with a freshwater sponge.
“So,” I begin, my voice relaxed, “Vee’s speech was uncharacteristic.”
“And true,” he says without missing a beat. “Those assholes never give up. It’s like they’re hoping to see a body or something soon—our worst fears and moments plastered all over the news. It really should have been a joyous occasion, us bringing our babies to our new home. Yet, we had to smuggle them out the back door like illegal drugs. I’m surprised we didn’t have to put you all in body bags!”
“Oh, Christian!” I scold. “How macabre!”
“I’m sorry, baby, but we were one step off of it,” he says. “We had to take you out through the goddamn morgue!”
“I know, but the staff was wonderful, weren’t they?” I remind him. “Had they blindfolded me and taken me to that hallway, I never would have known.” I won’t remember the horrible truth that I had the “smuggle” my children out of the hospital through the morgue. I’ll remember that the staff brought me to tears by lining the halls with balloons, flowers, posters, smiles, light and kindness as we left.
“Yeah, they did a great job. It’s the least they could do,” he adds.
“Don’t blame the entire hospital for the actions of one, husband,” I chastise. “They went out of their way to bring our babies safely into the world and to set things right and you know it.” I feel him nod behind me.
“Yes, wife, you’re right,” he says gently cupping my breast. I turn around in his lap.
“So why do you think she did it… Vee, I mean?” I say, relieving him of the freshwater sponge and beginning to clean his skin with it.
“I don’t know, Butterfly,” he says, gently caressing my body as I stroke the sponge over him—his arms, his shoulders, his chest. “Maybe she was stalling… giving us time to get home. Or maybe she was just tired, physically tired or just tired of what she has been seeing these past couple of years.”
“God, Christian, it hasn’t even been two years, yet,” I lament. “Heaven only knows the fires that poor woman has had to put out with me in your life, not to mention the 24-hour extinguisher she had to carry around before you even met me. I’d be exhausted, too.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, his voice low. He’s silent for a moment. His caress becomes tender, more sensual. “I’ve missed this,” he says, huskily. I kiss his neck.
“I have, too,” I say, straddling his body but careful to keep my sex away from his. There’s no possible way we could or would dare indulge ourselves right now. I continue to clean him, paying attention to the ripple of his muscles under the clear water. He looks divine. Granted, we’ve had baths, but not the hot, soothing baths… and so close together without our entire family in the tub with us. His arms can wrap further around me again and I like that feeling. Our chests touch again… and I feel his erection growing on my belly, again.
I take his lips with mine and sink my tongue into his mouth, exploring deeply. One arm wraps around my back while the other wet hand comes out of the water and gently cups my cheek. He tries to take over the kiss, but I dominate him, licking the crevices of his mouth and fisting his hair firmly to keep his head angled perfectly for me. He groans deep and tortured into my mouth and surrenders to my kiss, his resolve hanging on by a string and his erection getting firmer underneath me.
“Baby,” he breathes when I let him up for air. I cover his mouth again and he sighs and whimpers, grasping me hard and pulling me against him. I have no purchase to move. We’re tangled in a passionate jungle kiss and when I pull back and look at him, his eyes are feral, hungry, almost dangerous.
“Let me go,” I breathe. His brow furrows and his dilated pupils constrict a bit.
“What?” he says, slightly breathless.
“Release me,” I say. Confused, he releases his hold on me and I slide slightly down his legs, rubbing his erection against my palm. His lips slack and his pupils dilate again.
“Butterfly… no…” he breathes, his control slipping. “I don’t need this.”
“Shh,” I say, still rubbing my palm against his hardening erection. I feel his resolve slipping.
“Baby, you can’t do anything,” he says, his voice shaky, “it’s too soon.”
“I know,” I confess, “but I can take care of you.” I run my palm and fingers over and around the swelling head and he sucks in a deep breath. He gasps my wrist and stops my hand, taking a steadying breath before raising his eyes to me.
“I don’t need this,” he says firmly. I gaze into his eyes.
“You don’t… want me to…” I can’t hide my disappointment.
“I always want you, Butterfly,” he stops me, “any way I can have you, but I don’t need this right now. I can just hold you… touch you and kiss you…” I believe him, that he could just hold me and kiss me, but he would be doing that mostly for me. I crave that intimacy, too, and we can have that intimacy, but right now, more than anything, I want to satiate my man.
“Lie back,” I say definitively.
“Butterfly…” he protests.
“Lie. Back.” I say again, allowing a full three seconds to pass between the words. He examines me for a long time—hours it seems, before surrender settles in his eyes. He releases my wrist and lies back against the marble of the Grecian tub. I fist his erection in my hand and begin to stroke from root to tip. He gasps loudly, attempting to maintain control, but unable to stifle his moan as I stroke his aching cock. I see him pink up under the water almost immediately—my purple, veiny, angry friend very soon to make his appearance.
Like hell, you don’t need this.
I tighten my grip, speeding my stroke just a bit. I feel him steel his hips while he white-knuckle grasps the edges of the tub, his jaw tight as he grits his teeth, watching my hand.
“Don’t stiffen up, baby,” I coax him. “Enjoy it.”
His grip on the tub loosens, but he still doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
You don’t get it, do you? I’m not jacking you off. I’m making love to you with my hands.
I use both hands, one hand firmly pumping him, the other teasing the head, slit, and the frenulum of his cock. I don’t watch my hands. I don’t watch his penis. I watch him—his reactions, his labored breathing, his unleashed desire and finally, his surrender. His muscles start to ripple harder and he starts to transcend, whatever inhibitions he’s feeling slowing slipping away.
“God… oh, God… it feels so good,” he says, almost incoherently, just above a whisper. His head rolls back and his hips roll infinitesimally into my hands. He doesn’t want to disturb the stroke, the manipulation, but he wants it just a little deeper. I allow him to control that thrust and he moans deep in his chest. After several moments, he finally opens lustful, passionate eyes and looks at me. The hunger and longing are there… and the love. I lean forward so that my nipples graze his chest and my mouth is right there at his. He groans hard as my angle gives me a deeper pull against his penis.
“Ana,” he groans in tormented pleasure.
“Hold me,” I say into his mouth. “Kiss me…”
“Yes!” he breathes, cupping my face with his hands and kissing me hungrily, gasping for air in his passion. “Baby…”
“That’s it,” I coax him, biting his lip, gently at first, then firmly to elicit just the right amount of pain.
“Ah, fuck!” he cries, processing the pain in his lip and the pleasure in his dick. His hand moves to my ass cheek and squeezes hard while the other slides to grasp my neck and cheek simultaneously, holding me possessively. I love it!
“You like it?” I growl, my mouth now at his ear, my hand firmly fisting and pistoning his cock from root to tip, ferociously rubbing the head each time I pass it.
“Yes! God, yes!” he hisses.
“You’re about to come,” I say in his ear. “I feel it. I feel your hard cock pounding against my hand. I feel the blood rushing to the surface and that vein pulsing ready to explode!”
“Oh, my God!” he laments, closing his eyes, his voice anguished in helpless passion. I reach down and give his tightening testicles one torturous stroke, and then another, and another. He jerks violently with each pass.
“Mmmmm, you feel that?” I tease. “They’re so ready to blow for me, so tight and ready to release…” I lick his neck up to his earlobe then suck the lobe into my mouth.
“Aannnaaa…” he groans, half in protest, half in surrender as if to say, “why are you doing this to me; why are you tormenting me?”
Because I love you, and I want to feel you thumping in my hands when you come.
“Give it to me, baby,” I say directly in his ear, my bare breasts rubbing against his chest, my tongue lapping at his neck as he offers himself to me. “Give it to me… come on, baby…” His face is agonized, tortured in ecstasy as he chokes out those pre-orgasmic breaths. The hand that previously grasped my cheek and neck now firmly grasps the side of the tub while his other hand moves to the floor of the tub to steady him. I pump hard and deep, sure to cross his sensitive head and frenulum with each stroke and manipulating his eager, tightening balls in the process.
Yes, my love, let it go.
Right at that crucial moment when I feel his testicles solidify and that muscle start to throb, I bite down on his neck and suck hard.
“Ah… ah… Ana…!”
He chokes that familiar mournful sound as I feel him throb in my fist and jerk through his orgasm. His back straight, his eyes closed, his head back, and his mouth open, he’s paralyzed with pleasure as I suck hard, then lick beads of water and sweat from his throat, still pumping his penis while he ejaculates. He’s gasping through his climax as if he’s taking his last breaths and somehow, I know he needed this more than he was willing to admit. He shakily leans back against the tub, still trembling and unable to catch his breath, speechless, his hair sticking to his face and his eyes still closed. I lean against his chest and he wraps a shaky arm around me, trying to regain his control.
Maxie’s right. I have no idea how I’m going to stay away from that dick for six weeks.
My wife has magic hands. Fucking magic!
I was fine to sit in that wonderful warm water with her, to touch her and kiss her and just be in her presence. Our bodies hadn’t been that close in a long time. I hadn’t been able to put my arms around her and pull her against me like that, feel her bare breasts against my chest and hold her close to my body. I miss the swollenness of the baby bump, but feeling her against me like that was euphoric. I’ll admit, it turned me on and I got hard, but I was fine caressing her and just feeling her body against me.
I almost felt bruised when she told me to let her go. At first, I thought she might have thought I was trying to get some pussy and I was a little hurt, but when she touched me, Greystone ignited immediately and I didn’t think I could stand it. I certainly couldn’t tolerate the thought of her getting me off and I couldn’t reciprocate anything at this point, not even a little one-on-one time with her clit. But when I looked into her eyes, I knew that at that moment, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
I have no idea how we’re going to get through the next six weeks without me being able to be inside her. The only times I haven’t touched my wife intimately for any extended periods of time were when we were having horrible fights—Montana, the fundraiser fiasco, Flynngate—and when she was in the hospital in a coma. I shudder to think of that one more than any of the others. But if today’s demonstration was any indication, we’re going to be clawing at each other on March 6th.
Butterfly handled me like a pro, today. That release was mental, emotional, and physical. I don’t know what it was… recalling taking the babies out through the morgue, the helplessness I felt when she locked herself in the bathroom, McIntyre’s speech and all the memories it stirred—I didn’t even know I was wound so tight. Yes, her hands felt wonderful… magnificent! But more than that, she reached inside me and pulled out the anguish and despair that I didn’t even know was there. Then she warmed me with her body, kissing my face, neck and chest, stroking my hair and calming my soul when the orgasm was spent. I couldn’t stop shaking. I was drained, completely emptied in every way and I had no control over anything. I could do nothing but lie there and hold her and allow her to kiss me and love me when that’s what I wanted to do to her…
“Are you okay?” she asks, concern lacing her voice as she pushes wet tendrils of hair off my forehead. I can only nod. I’m trembling so hard that I can’t find my voice. My dick isn’t coming anymore, but my body is still orgasmic—surges of energy pulsing through me, through all my extremities like the chills you feel later in the day when you have a flashback of the experience.
“Do you need anything?” she breathes. “Some water, maybe?”
The thought of her leaving me, taking her warmth away, her body—it fills me with dread. I weakly reach for her with my other arm and hold her as close to me as I can, still trembling. Her kisses on my face, cheek, and chest serve to calm me a bit. The trembling starts to cease after several moments and I can finally take a full breath.
“There now,” she coos. “That’s better. You told a tale, Mr. Grey. You did need that.”
“I need you,” I say, turning a sleepy gaze to her. “More than anything in this world, I need you.” Her eyes fill with more love and adoration and she climbs atop me, careful how she positions herself. Cupping my face in her hands, she gazes into my eyes and pours all of that love back into me. She strokes my wet hair—from water or sweat, I don’t know—and clasps my face on either side.
“And I need you, Christian Grey,” she breathes, “more than you’ll ever know. So much that I ache.” She closes her eyes and brushes her lips against mine, then her nose, then her cheek, gently touching parts of her to parts of me before resting her forehead on mine and just sitting there. I slowly feel her energy surging into me as I move my arms around her and splay my hands over her back. She doesn’t move her hands from the side of my head, but her breathing changes, as does mine. At first, it’s short and breathless, like we’re only just learning how to use our lungs. Then, we’re panting, like we’ve been running a marathon, holding on to each other as if we would die—or float away—if we let go. Our breathing calms a bit, but it’s still labored, still intense—but even… we’re breathing the same breath, the same air. I need to be closer… closer…
I sit up with her in my lap, trying hard to satisfy this yearning, this aching in my chest—no, my soul… I need her in my soul! I’m clinging to her body, hoping to breathe her in, absorb her…
She opens her eyes and her pupils are a deep ocean blue… and I’m lost. I dive in and immerse myself in the warmth as her energy and electricity surges through me through her fingertips, her breast, her thighs, her skin, her breath…
Ana… my life…
I feel a single tear burn a trek down my cheek at the same time that I see one escape her beautiful, glassy blue eye. I want to kiss it away, but I dare not move, dare not break this connection or I just might expire from the loss of energy. Another one soon follows, and another, and another, until we’re both silently weeping in each other’s arms, each afraid to release the other for fear that one or both of us may disappear or float away to that other plane that we’ve reached together. My soul cries…
I am you… only you…
I feel her whimper… or was it me? We whimpered… we are one. I feel everything… her breath, her pain, her love… it’s overwhelming. I struggle not to collapse from the intensity. I have to hold on… I hold on to her and ascend into this outer-body high… this transcendental plane where no one else exists but us—the I/you/me/we being that no one else understands…
But us… WeMeYouIUs…
Don’t stop breathing… please don’t stop breathing… If you stop breathing, I’ll stop breathing, and we’ll both cease to exist…
Sitting in the family room on the loveseat in a T-shirt and jeans sporting a large purple bruise on my neck, I feed my gorgeous wife her favorites foods—fresh fruits, chicken and vegetable kabobs, caprese salad and bruschetta with some of the sparkling grape juice we had from New Year’s Eve. I have to admit, my wife has always had a thing for healthy food, but it has to be prepared a certain way and that way is delicious! I need a higher protein diet with the amount of energy that I expend, but she won’t eat anything that’s not visibly appealing and tasty.
“I don’t want to spoil your mood,” I say, as I pop a piece of chicken in her mouth and hand her a flute of grape juice, “but I need to talk to you about something… so that I can be better prepared in the future.”
She chews her chicken and glances over at Gail and Keri, who are feeding and cooing at the twins. After she swallows the chicken, she sips her grape juice and holds it in her hands.
“Okay,” she says, somewhat steeling herself.
“When you… were crying, and you locked yourself in the bathroom at the hospital, can you tell me why?” I felt so helpless. She was so fragile and I didn’t know what was going on. All I wanted to do was make her pain stop and I didn’t know how. She looks down at her drink and sighs.
“Helplessness… I think,” she begins. We were feeling the same thing? “I felt like things were happening that I couldn’t control… I couldn’t fix…” Yeah, I know that feeling. “It was so overwhelming.” Her voice cracks. I reach for her hand.
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I say softly. She shakes her head.
“No, it’s okay,” she says, swallowing hard. “I look at our children. They’re so tiny, and I feel that same dread that I felt when I discovered that I was pregnant, like the Boogeyman is just going to come and gobble them up—as evidence by the fact that our lives were completely disrupted by a tweet.” She says the last part with such disdain and disbelief.
“Then I looked over and you were holding one of the twins and Maxie was minding the other… and I felt the first real emptiness. I know I sounded unreasonable ranting about the Branch Davidians and Jim Jones, but…” She frowns deeply.” Did you ever stop to think what was going through those men’s minds to make them think they could get away with something like that? I mean what made them so desperate to separate from the real world that they would even try something like that? What was so horrible that they would rather die than to assimilate back into humanity. Seriously, Christian, how crazy must the world be when the crazies almost seem sane?”
That’s a really scary thought. When my wife was ranting about turning our home into a compound, I was hoping that the delirium would pass. Now she’s talking about Jim Jones possibly maybe having the right idea.
Careful there, soldier. Not too long ago, you wanted to put her in a box or a cage to protect her from the world. You effectively did just that when you told her not to go back to Helping Hands.
“It’s a mad, mad, mad, mad world out there, baby,” I tell her, “but we can only do our best to keep our wits about us and protect ourselves and our children. Really, that’s all we can do.”
“I know, but you wanted to know what had me locked in the bathroom… that was it,” she says resigned. “That overwhelming feeling of emptiness and helplessness.”
“And what can I do the next time it happens?” I ask, gently stroking her hand with my thumb. “I don’t want to tear doors down or take them off the hinges, but when you’re behind a locked door, crying, I feel the exact same helplessness.” She shrugs.
“I can’t guarantee that it won’t happen again, but I’ll try not to do it. I’ll try to communicate with you that I’m okay and that I just need a minute so that you’re not so helpless. God knows, I don’t want you to feel that way.”
“I appreciate that, baby,” I tell her. She sighs and gathers her long mahogany hair in her hand, twists it a few times, and pulls it over her shoulder and over the short patch that encloses her scar. I gently stick my fingers in her hair and caress the scar, the area now covered with about as much hair as the very shortest part of a pixie cut. Butterfly’s hair grew back pretty quickly during the pregnancy, but I would imagine that it would take an extremely long time, probably years, before this small patch of hair would catch up with the rest of her hair. She would probably layer it or cut the rest of it the match some length of this spot before that ever happened.
Cut it… I actually shiver at the thought of it.
Caressing her scar has a similar effect on her as playing in the garden, only she leans into my hand and draws comfort from the gesture instead of arousal. At the risk of sounding bad, it’s like scratching a puppy behind the ear.
“It’s your hair, and I’ll love you no matter what you decide to do with it,” I begin softly, “but if you ever decide to cut this beautiful mane, would you please warn me first?” She opens her eyes and gazes at me.
“I would only trim it, Christian,” she says. “Five or six inches at the most. I would never cut it off.” I nod. That’s comforting. I lift the tresses from where they lay on her shoulders and chest and allow them to slide through my fingers. She smiles at me and crawls into my lap. She’s wearing these red harem pants that fall off her hips and sinfully small long-sleeved wraparound crop top that would allow easy access to feed the babies. Her midriff is covered by this beautiful exotic belly wrap that she ordered during the babymoon—one of several—making the entire ensemble look like a one-piece red jumpsuit with a really exotic middle. Upon seeing her, Gail immediately commented how jealous she was as Butterfly didn’t at all look like she’s had two babies two days ago and nearly looked like her pre-baby weight in the baby wrap. I had to concur.
“Christian,” Butterfly begins as she settles in my lap, “I know that Vee is your head of PR, but is she also a publicist, because we’re going to need one.”
Do you really think it’s that serious?” I ask her.
“I know it is,” she says. “We’re going to have to spoon-feed some information to the press or we’ll never get a moment’s peace. We may not be international news, although in some circuits, we are. But we’re big shit in Seattle—they’re going to be chasing us around like criminals. We’ll be fugitives in our own city. Vee mentioned Michael Jackson, but do you remember when he had to cover his children’s faces when they were in public—those ridiculous masks and scarves and things? I don’t want that for Minnie and Mikey. We need to drip feed information to the press so that we control what they get, just like we sent out the birth announcements. Yes, that big mouthed bitch let it slip that we had checked into the hospital and that the twins were male and female, but we still had the last word. Let us control what gets into the news instead of having to fend off rumors after the fact. I know we’ll still have to do some of that, but at least we’ll have a bit of a jump on things this way.”
She has a point. People are going to be clamoring for statements and pictures the moment either of us hit the public eye. We’ve got to be able to move around freely and handle our business.
“I’ll talk to her and see how she feels about it. If she can’t handle it, we might have to hire someone.” Butterfly sighs.
“Well, that’s going to be a nightmare,” she laments. I frown.
“How do you mean?” I ask.
“Name one publicist anywhere who wouldn’t want to make a name off your back,” she says. “We’d have to break them in, explain everything—how we move, why we do certain things, the non-disclosure agreements and what they entail, my history, your history… Vee knows when to come, what to do, what to say… we’ll never be able to train anybody like that.” I nod.
“So we have to convince McIntyre to do both jobs,” I say. “I don’t know, baby…”
“Isn’t there someone that you could promote from inside and make them head of PR if you make Vee our publicist?” 1I shrug.
“Maybe… I’ll talk to her about it on Monday,” I say.
And so we settled into a simple weekend—cuddling our children and each other, laughing and spending time with our nanny/house manager and security staff, who ironically are also our closest friends, sans Butterfly’s beloved Al. There’s a bit of melancholy in the moment as we all watch Keri connect with the children, caring for them coming naturally to her as if she’d done it all her life, the sad reality being that her visa will expire in less than two weeks and she will have to return to Anguilla.
She’s become a bit of a fixture around here. She and Chuck decide not to spend any of their precious remaining time together moving back to his home on Bainbridge. He’d agreed to do that after she left, much to Butterfly’s chagrin. She, like the rest of us, had become accustomed to having them around on a regular basis. Their absence will be sorely felt once they’re gone.
Finding a sleep schedule is a bit of a trial, especially since every moment Butterfly and I have alone, we can’t seem to keep our hands off each other. It’s not necessarily a sexual thing. I mean, I love her body and I always want to be inside her, but the raging monster that wants to fuck has subconsciously put himself on a brief hiatus, knowing that this is an impossibility right now. I don’t know how long he’ll stay tamed, but for right now, he’s calm. That’s not to say that he won’t show up front and center when she wants to put her hands—or her mouth—on me, like she did in the bathtub, sending me to a level of Nirvana to which I had no idea or intention to ascend. Lately, we’ve just wanted to touch, hug, kiss, and most of all, connect.
Our connections are cosmic and frequent lately, at least once a day. We’ve come to realize that the connection room, in theory, is a really good idea, but the actual act of connecting is quite spontaneous and we never actually get the opportunity to get to the room. It’s something that can’t really be planned. It’s not like meditating, where you set time aside and you focus or concentrate and get into a space in your mind… no. It just happens. And for some reason, we’ve been needing it right now more than ever.
The energy around you changes; your body and mind get caught up in the moment and if you move or think, the moment is lost. At the risk of sounding hokey, it’s like the spirits envelop you and push you together; tiny, powerful, invisible threads connect you and you can’t move. It’s only at the very beginning or when I wake that I realize that our hands always gravitate to the weakest points of the other’s body—the face, the neck, the garden, the burns, or a scar—where they stay welded until the connection has ended, and the love energy and healing energy flows back and forth from one to the other through these power-points, for lack of a better word, with such force that the soul and spirit can only weep. When the connection is over, we’re so spent that we always lose consciousness or fall asleep no matter where we are. That day in the bathtub, we stayed there until the water was cold.
I remember once reading a book in school that compared intense emotion to dying. The character’s grandmother had told him that each of us was born with a box of matches or candles inside of us, depending on which interpretation of the book you read. If all of those candles were lit at once by a strong emotion, it would create a brightness like a tunnel’s end that would lead the soul back to the place of our creation and leave the body dead. I was very young when I read that book, and I was certain that I would never feel that kind of love or emotion. So I was never in danger of being overcome and falling over the precipice of light into darkness, especially since I was already in perpetual darkness from what I could see. However, after waking in my wife’s arms a week after the birth of our children with her spooning me like she did on our honeymoon after our very first connection—still trembling from the intensity of the experience—I truly begin to wonder.
It’s almost like we die each time we connect; at the very least, we leave our mortal coil for a while, because I’m never conscious of the ending of the connection. I never asked Butterfly, because I don’t want to be too analytical about something so precious, special, and seemingly vital to our existence. But just this once, I lay here looking at the ceiling and wondering…
Could the connection actually be strong enough to cause us to transcend that far?
I certainly hoped something so beautiful couldn’t be the end of me, or worse, of Butterfly. I can only imagine that this is one of those things that—like Butterfly’s intense love—would drive a weaker man mad, or even kill a weaker man. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. All I know is that this experience is always mentally, physically, and emotionally draining. The world could be crumbling around us and we would never know. It’s better than sex and it reminds me of things like old movie scenes about giving ourselves to each other and book quotes about “going to the light.”
One thing’s for damn sure. If that’s how I have to go, I’ll embrace it wholeheartedly, because I wouldn’t trade this level of love and connection with my Butterfly for anything in this world.
February has come in and the month brings with it several developments that will make for a busy new year. I’ve taken paternity leave to spend the same six weeks bonding with my family as my beautiful wife, but that doesn’t mean that the work stops at GEH, or at home for that matter. McIntyre has agreed to become our publicist, but refuses to relinquish the reins of the PR department to anyone else. She’s afraid that some gung-ho idiot will drop the ball on some majorly important issue and we’ll have an international incident on our hands. I can see where she would be concerned about that sort of thing. She’s had to handle some pretty delicate situations for me. Had they been handled any other way or by anyone with any less experience or savoir faire, the results could have been disastrous.
She begrudgingly agreed to an assistant department head who couldn’t make any decisions in the beginning without her, but would gradually gain more responsibility as time progressed and they showed that they were worth their salt. When Butterfly wasn’t in earshot, I asked her what had caused her candidness during the press statement the night we left the hospital.
“I knew this was coming,” she says, sitting in one of the seats across from my desk in my home office. “I’m surprised you took so long to ask me.”
“You’ve always impressed upon me the importance of keeping a rein on your personal feelings. I was just wondering what caused you to stray from your own advice.” She tenses a bit.
“I didn’t mean to offend anyone,” she says, swallowing hard. “I hope that I didn’t cause any problems and I wasn’t trying to be unprofessional in any way…” I raise my hand to halt her explanation.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say, halting her attempts at an apology. “You said everything that I’ve wanted to say for the last year and a half, but you’ve stopped me from saying it and you said it more eloquently than I ever would have. Had you not taken the position as our publicist, I would have given you a raise anyway.” She releases a sigh of relief and visibly relaxes. “Butterfly and I were both just curious about what brought it on at that moment.” She sighs again and holds her head down.
“The only time I’ve ever seen you helpless is when it comes down to your wife,” she says, raising her eyes back to me. “You’re at your very strongest or your very weakest when it comes down to her. When it comes to protecting her, you’re a bull with impenetrable armor. When she’s hurt, unconscious, or missing, you’re a marshmallow. I’ve never seen that before in any person, anywhere, in my life ever! I wasn’t privy to what happened before I got to that room, but the panicked look in your eyes when you thought your wife was going to be locked in the bathroom again was just something that I couldn’t explain.
“She wasn’t handcuffed to a bed held captive by a psychotic ex-lover.
“She wasn’t off in the mountains of Montana with you not knowing whether or not she was going to return.
“She wasn’t in a coma on an IV knocking on death’s door.
“She was standing there listening to a conversation, and something that happened previously caused her to lock herself in the bathroom and that sent you into a state of slightly controlled anxiety. You were a marshmallow again attempting to bear that armor, and it wasn’t working. In that moment, I saw one of the strongest men that I’ve ever known with the exception of my father reduced to a heap of goo.
“Also in that moment, I got yet another glimpse of the utter torment that it must be just to be Anastasia Grey—the scrutiny that she’s had to suffer before she even became your wife. Here’s this woman who hasn’t done anything to anybody. You can’t find anything on her. Believe me, I’ve tried. And yet, she’s villainized as a gold-digger, a black widow, even a home-wrecker wherever the fuck they came up with that one. People hate her just because you love her, and she can’t have a moment’s peace, even to have her goddamn babies!” Her irritation is rising as she speaks her piece once again, but something she said keeps playing over in my head.
“People hate her because I love her?” I ask. “Why do you say that? I mean, I don’t doubt it, but what brought you to this conclusion?” She pinches her nose and her fingers spread across her eyebrows until she is massaging the edges near her temples.
“Christian,” she says, slipping easily into the familiar, and I can tell that she’s weary, “if you only knew how many hate sites I’ve had to kill, how much I’ve had to report on social media as slander, libel, or cyber bullying, empires would fall. She has more hits on Google Alerts and search engines than you do. AnaChris is only popular because of the Ana. I have a small staff of people that do nothing but comb the internet for hits you, her, or AnaChris and trust me—these days, Ana gets more than Chris.”
“Do you need more staff?” I ask.
“Yes, I do,” she says without hesitation.
“Hire whoever you need,” I reply. “You have total carte blanche.”
Visible relief settles on her face and she sinks back into her chair infinitesimally. She holds her head down and sighs heavily, like she’s let a huge weight off your shoulders.
“To answer your question,” she begins without raising her head, “I said those things because I was just tired… tired of seeing the way that she was being treated, how you were being treated, and the fact that you couldn’t even come to the hospital to have your babies in peace. Hell, a heart attack patient had to be diverted to St. Sinai because the ambulance couldn’t get through the throng of reporters and these assholes thought that was fine as long as they could get a scoop on you! In what world is that okay?”
I don’t speak because I feel like there’s more that she wants to say, and I’m right.
“I just, I don’t know… Something about her makes you want to protect her. She’s a good person, and deep down, so are you. I know a lot of people see the ruthless businessman, but I’ve seen more and I know that deep down you’re a good person, too. I just don’t think that you deserve the hand that you’re being dealt when it comes down to the press.” I pause for a moment and ponder what she just said. Yep, that’s my Butterfly, alright.
“She has that effect on a lot of people,” I say. McIntyre raises her head. “A lot of people want to protect her. I don’t know what it is, but she brings that out in me, too. So I know exactly what you mean.” She shrugs one shoulder.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she says. “I was afraid it would sound a little stalkerish.” I laugh.
“No, not stalkerish. Completely normal. Just don’t start dressing like her and we’ll be fine.” Now it’s McIntyre’s turn to laugh.
“That’s not very likely,” she says through her laughter.
We spend the morning plowing through some immediate PR items. I want to know just how big AnaChris really is…
From the mundane to the ridiculous to the utterly outrageous, you name it, it’s out there. From fan sites to fashion pages where her choices are compared to similar outfits on other “celebrities” in a “Who Wore It Best” showdown. There are even a few women who claim to have been surrogate mothers to our twins—their stories still holding water even after all the pictures of my pregnant wife out there laboring in public, very pregnant over the last few months. It takes all kinds, I guess.
“You know, I think the country club idea was a good one,” McIntyre says. “Ana’s?” I raise my eyes to her.
“What makes you think it was her idea?” I ask. She raises one eyebrow at me.
“How long have I worked for you?” I nod.
“Duly noted. Yes, Ana’s,” I concede. “I think she wants to get exposure for herself and the Center.”
“Hmm.” It was a grunt that had something behind it. I’m sure of it, but she didn’t finish the thought.
“What?” She raises her head, but doesn’t say anything. “Spill it, McIntyre.”
“Look,” she says, placing her tablet on my desk and leaning her elbows on her knees. “As your publicist, I’m going to be working very closely with you an Ana, closer than I ever did as your head of PR. I’m going to know a lot more about your personal life than you’re comfortable with and I’m now going to be able to admit to knowing a lot more about your personal life than you’re comfortable with.” I frown.
“Come again?” She sighs and sits back in her chair, folding her arms and crossing her legs.
“Come on, Christian, you can’t possibly be that naïve,” she says. “The kinky clubs, the women, the freaky lifestyle—I don’t know all about it, but I’ve got a pretty good idea. Any relatively intelligent person can make some decent deductions. Who do you think keeps that shit out of the news… Alex?”
Fuck me sideways. And all this time, I thought I was so damn smart.
“Okay, so where is this going?” I ask, folding my hands.
“Well, first, stop calling me McIntyre. Doesn’t that get tiring? It’s sure exhausting for me to hear it.” I nearly scoff at her.
“What do you expect me to call you?”
“Good God, man, I’m all up in your business now. I was all up in it before, only now, you know. With everything I know about you, your life, and your wife, I think we can be a bit less formal. If you can’t call me by my first name, call me Vee or Mac. I’ll answer to either one.”
“I’m more comfortable with Mac,” I tell her.
“I figured you would be. I won’t call you Christian if you think it’s too soon.” Now, I laugh.
“You haven’t noticed that you already call me Christian?” I retort. Her brow furrows.
“I do?” she asks, truly surprised.
“Yes, you do,” I confirm.
“You never said anything.” I wave her off.
“Don’t change the subject, Mac. What’s behind the grunt?”
“What grunt?” I glare at her for a moment. “Oh! That grunt. Yeah, the country club. It’s good because it makes you more sociable. You’re a family man, now, and your image is going to change slightly whether you want that to happen or not. We’re going to want the press and the world to be able to draw the line between the social family man and the businessman. It’s important that those lines don’t get grayed. To that extent, the country club gives the impression that you and your wife and family have a social life that you set aside from business. Your competitors are already seeing you as the husband and family man, which is why Fairlane tried to leverage that against you—well played, by the way.”
That’s high praise coming from PR. They’re the first to be able to tell you when your image is slipping. Confirmation that I handled the Fairlane account exactly as I should have is just what I wanted to hear.
“Joining the country club says that you are handling your social exposure on your own terms—especially Broadmoor. Highly exclusive, extremely active in the community, required sponsorship… you could have just gone with Mercer, but Broadmoor shows that you’re scrutinizing and not just trying to get on someone’s roster. It also solidifies Ana’s position in society as well as eliminates the social climber stigma as Broadmoor sniffs those out just from the ink on the paper.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” I tell her, especially considering what started this whole thing in the first place.
“That brings me to another point,” she says, picking up her tablet and swiping the screen. “Ana is publicity gold and she has instincts like a cat. She’s high-profile and she can’t avoid it and you’re trying to hide her under a bushel.” I frown deeply.
“More than half of these rumors, hate sites, and gossip rags can be silenced if you just let. Her. Speak,” she says slowly. Was she reading my fucking mind? “When has Ana ever stepped wrong with the press?” I sigh heavily.
“Never,” I admit, reluctantly.
“Then why are you stymying her? What has she said or done that causes you to doubt her instincts? What has shaken your trust in her abilities? From the first time I met her, the first time she opened her mouth at that press conference in 2012 when she handed Cheryl her ass on a platter and charmed the pants off the rest of the reporters, I knew she was thee one. I knew that no matter who shoved a camera or a mic in her face, she was going to dominate the interview, and so far, she has. She’s had a sacrificial lamb at almost every appearance—by no fault of her own—and she even sniffed out your mole!” Fuck, I had completely forgotten about that. “Most of her appearances have been impromptu, sidewalk interviews with the exception of that one press conference and you’re telling me that you honestly don’t trust her in a controlled environment?”
“Things have changed now,” I defend. “She’s had this accident and lost her memory. Yes, it came back, but I don’t want to see her exploited because of it. She’s still recalling some things, you know.”
“Was she so weak before?” Mac asks. “From what I’ve been told, she boxed you in and made you come out swinging when you met her. She was a force to reckon with before she became Mrs. Christian Grey, and those are the only memories currently under scrutiny, correct?”
She pauses and waits for my answer. As I ponder her point of view, I realize that she has a point. Butterfly was a fucking fireball when I met her. She wouldn’t even take down to me face-to-face. When she did break down, I wasn’t supposed to see it. I was supposed to be long gone, and every time she came back at me, the next blow was more powerful than the last.
“Has she had any trouble defending herself since then? Sources tell me that she chased a couple out of the Fairlane Meet-and-Greet and if I remember correctly, she was in shark-infested waters that night. So what gives?”
“Myrick,” I say in a low voice. “Myrick is out there. He’s gunning for me; I know he is. Putting her on the forefront will just put a target on her back.”
“Have you been listening??” Mac exclaims. “She’s already on the forefront and not in a favorable way. You’re a high-profile couple. Everybody knows how to get to you. They just can’t because they can’t get through your defenses. Anybody who has been watching you over the last year knows that nobody is going to be able to get to you without an army. Jason took a bullet for you, Chuck almost died, and now you’re beefing up security because of the twins. Nothing short of a Sherman tank and a bazooka is going to break through that wall and if it does, then God help us all!” She lowers her voice and leans on her knees again.
“Myrick would have to show up with paratroopers and the Navy Seals to get to you all now, and you know it. You can’t keep her hiding in a box. At some point in time, she’s going to break free. You might as well let her appearances be on your terms, where you can control what is said, what questions are asked, and what will be aired. You know she won’t go against you because she knows that not only do you value your privacy, but that it’s detrimental that we control the flow of information. Use that to your advantage.”
She has systematically taken away every argument that I had for keeping Butterfly out of the press. Not only that, but she even used Butterfly’s logic against me—that we control the flow of information to keep the dogs at bay.
“Have you been talking to my wife?” I ask. She shakes her head.
“Not yet,” she replies. I sigh.
“Okay. Let’s see where this goes,” I concede.
A/N: Christian talks about movies scenes and book quotes when he thinks of the connection. The movie scene he was speaking of was Cocoon made in 1985. Kitty, an alien from another planet, decides to “give herself” to Jack. So they get naked and get in the pool with the other cocoons. Kitty takes on her alien form and starts to glow, after which her “essence” shoots off of her, bounces around the pool house a few times, then slams into Jack, causing him to have an electric, euphoric experience of his own where—for a brief moment—he actually starts the glow, too. After he catches his breath, he exclaims “If this is foreplay I’m a dead man!”
The quote he discussed came from a book called Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel—”She remembered then the words that John had once spoken to her: ‘If a strong emotion suddenly lights all the candles we carry inside ourselves, it creates a brightness that shines far beyond our normal vision and then a splendid tunnel appears that shows us the way that we forgot when we were born and calls us to recover our lost divine origin. The soul longs to return to the place it came from, leaving the body lifeless.’”
So, I was reading the comments and realized that I forgot to add my informational blurb about Jim Jones and about the Branch Davidians. So, here’s the short version:
Jim Jones was a cult leader from the 70’s of the “People’s Temple.” He was power hungry and crazy—like most cult leaders are—and basically lead hundreds of people to follow him to Guyana and start a compound there called Jonestown. The People’s Church was basically chased out of San Francisco. The “Rainbow Family” (Jones and his followers) was supposed to defect to the Soviet Union. However, when a congressman and camera crew came to Guyana to investigate accusations of acts of human cruelty, they offered to take anyone who wanted to leave with them when they departed Guyana. Several people left with the delegates and they were attacked by Jones’ “Red Brigade” before and after they boarded the plane to leave. Five people died, including the congressman. When the Soviet Union heard about it, the refused refuge to the Rainbow Family. Jones then convinced 909 people (over 300 were children) to consume cyanide-laced Flavor Ade and commit “revolutionary suicide.” He said: a) if they didn’t, the government would send paratroopers that would come and capture and torture them and b) they were all going to die together and live in peace on another planet—something he called the “Translation.” This is where the saying comes from—if you’ve ever heard it—“don’t drink the Kool-Aid.”
The Branch Davidians were another cult with their own crazy ass leader, David Koresh (hence, “Davidians”). They separated from the Seventh Day Adventist Church in the 50’s and had a ranch in Waco, TX. When the ATF tried to raid the ranch in 1993, they were met with extreme resistance and gunfire from the Branch Davidians. Six Branch Davidians were killed in that raid. The FBI attempted to “gas” the Davidians out of the compound. There is still a dispute as to what happened next—each side blaming the other. However, during the standoff, three fires ignited inside the ranch and the structure burned quickly. While 35 people left/escaped during the FBI standoff and nine more survived the fire, 76 people—including Koresh—died as a result of the fire from various causes including buried alive in the rubble, smoke inhalation, carbon monoxide poisoning, or fatal gunshot wounds. Twenty-eight of those people were under the age of 20 (one was 20 years old); 20 of those were under the age of 18 (none of them were 18); two were pregnant.
You can find songs along with pictures of places, things, and fashions on my Pinterest page at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/becoming-dr-grey/
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Love and handcuffs 🙂