Ownership

I haven't produced any writing in a while now but I had the idea for this short little piece while driving home from school and had to punch it out. It is a VERY rough draft, but I'm quite pleased with it overall.

When they had started dating last year, he'd pulled the ornate silver ring from his middle finger and placed it in the palm of her hand. It was so large that she probably could have fit three of her fingers into it; he gave her a chain so that she could wear it around her neck. "This way," he explained, "you'll always be reminded that you belong to me." At the time she had thought this was very romantic, but more and more she could see the ring for what it was: territorial pissings, a claim of ownership. The symbolism of the chain and that large heavy ring that struck her in the chest with every step could not possibly have been more blatant.

She'd removed the chain once to take a shower and neglected to return it before heading out to the movies with a group of friends. When she arrived at his apartment later that night, he'd towered over her until the wall at her back seemed less imposing and demanded to know who she was with and why she wasn't wearing his ring. Now she wore it every day, almost afraid to remove it for even an instant.

He'd never threatened her outright with violence, but the way his massive hand swallowed hers whenever he clasped it seemed like a reminder that he could make her vanish just as easily. Something in the way his body pinned hers to the bed when they made love - or more aptly fucked - made her heart pound frantically against her ribs like a caged bird. When he forced his mouth over hers, choked her with a probing tongue, she felt like she was drowning. More and more, when in darkened rooms he trapped her in his embrace and whispered, "I love you," she got the impression that what he actually meant was, "I own you."