That is probably an ok snapshot of life at the moment. It misses out the huge amounts of work I'm doing for uni, the charity work, Crimson, spiritual work, photo shoots, tutoring and the way my body consistently fails me; I've been to too many doctors recently. Doing all of this is also wearing me down quite a lot and leaving me with very little time for things like sleep. Or blogging.
It's all ok though. 2010 is proving to be busy, challenging and somewhat confusing in places. People keep failing in odd little ways, which frustrates me. I'm losing faith in a couple of people in a big way. It is very much a time of spring cleaning things, from relationships to my own ideals, to shoes and kinky toys. It is very much needed. But I could really use some more time to do it right now; I'm worried that because I'm so busy I'm just going to gloss over some things that could cause a lot of hurt later.
But equally, 2010 is awesome. Friends, love, spiritual life, some beautiful scenes, reconnecting with people and occasional bursts of utter indulgence keep me sane and mightily happy.
Plus, Caprica! Spas! Flowers! New dresses, bags, hats, boots, shoes, books, shiny things! Glee! Concerts! Royal Albert Hall! Dissertation concepts approved! Consistent 80%+ grades in my favourite module! Charity work! Photography stuff being amazing!
Some things suck, but whilst I have love in my life, I'm not really going to complain.
I had a lovely and terrifying scene late last week. I had finished packing for our trip to Eastern Europe for a few days and was feeling quite content, a little drowsy and presumed that, being as it was midnight and we had a early (very early) flight, we would probably head up to sleep rather soon. Ergo, I was a touch vulnerable to, say, a syringe to my throat.
I find that some of best scenes I have ever had contain me truly believing at some point that I am genuinely going to die. Friends often question this, reminding me that *of course* I'm not going to be killed by one of the people I love most in this world; they point out his devotion to me, the care he takes with every blow to my defenceless body. It doesn't matter. A deep, primal part of me honestly believes in these moments that he could do it, that I have fucked up so epically in some way that, frankly, a blade to the chest or pillow over the head is his only option for expressing his displeasure. It's part of his charm.
The interesting thing is, it's pretty much only him I believe it of. Other people have tried playing around with fear with me and, to be honest, it's never really worked that well. I just don't believe that they could break bone or such. I find them too afraid of themselves; afraid of hurting me too badly, of legal issues, of what other people might think of them. But somehow, he is exempt. Maybe I can just suspend belief better with him... Or maybe he's just an utter bastard. Both work.
So anyway, I walked into the playroom to tell him I was heading to bed and there he was. Butchers apron, latex gloves, syringe of fluid in his hand and a sneer of contempt on his face. And it hit that base fear just right, the whole visual, the knives laid out, the hammers, the bench covered in plastic sheeting. I remember running up the stairs, to get away, just get away from him. A calm voice echoed around the house; I must come down, else I might be harmed in ways he hadn't intended. I shouldn't force him to come and get me. That would be – a pause; I could hear myself crying – regrettable. Unfortunate, even. Certainly unadvisable.
I couldn't move, even when I heard the footsteps on the carpeted floor. I had left the door open, huddled just inside the doorframe. Made no move to defend myself as he strolled into the room. I think he laughed; I can't quite remember. I remember the fist grabbing my hair though, hauling me to my feet, breathless and weeping, huge ugly sobs of fear, then freezing as I felt the syringe make contact with my neck. Sobbing again as it was removed, hyperventilating breaths, being kicked to the floor, dragged down the stairs, tripping near the bottom and being flung, awkwardly, limbs akimbo, into the wall at the bottom. Brutal hands gripping my arms, pinning me to the cold stone, curses snarled about my weakness, mocking my utter vulnerability.
I was dragged beneath a spotlight, forced to strip. At this point, the swimmingly nauseating disorientation started to set in, exhaustion, fear and the damn syringe making me collapse, numb and wide eyed, before being pulled onto the medical bed. I can't remember when the rough blackout sack was forced over my head; maybe before he commenced binding me to the bed with smooth, tight pallet wrap. Maybe after. No matter; I was gone by this point. Gasping inside the hood, inhaling the fabric into my mouth, I knew not to fight back. Disobedience means pain. At some point I would displease him. What would go first, I though hazily, as images began to form in my drugged mind. A finger, broken, useless? My hair, hacked off like he promised not long ago? Skin, cut, peeled, carefully and gently like he had shown me once on a dead rabbit in Scotland? What. What. What.
The wrapping kept going, bound tight, tighter across my chest, repressing my still panicked breathing. At some point I heard the sound of metal on stone, knives being sharpened. Then I was blind, sack ripped from my head and the searing light from the interrogation lamp was pointed towards my face. I lay there for a while, head craned backwards, trying to get away from the light, the harsh pain of it, stars scattered across my vision. He was there, behind the lamp somewhere, sparks occasionally appearing as a blade made contact with the whetstones. Then he began talking; a slow, chilling lecture on the flaws of the human body, how simple it is to bend, twist, break skin and bone beyond anything recognisable. I faded in and out of it, catching vague strains of dialogue... words like snap, ribcage, sinew, puncture, whore. The light was moved, tools adjusted, the time taken to make everything just so, fresh latex gloves snapped on. I think I started begging at some point, because one moment he was calm and still and I was unhurt and the next moment my head exploded in pain with him snarling, forcing rags into my mouth, “Good girls are quiet girls”. Welts slashed across my cheek, friction burns where the latex had dragged and ripped pale skin in the split second of the blow. There was a black machete in the other hand; I was to be thankful he hadn't lost that much control. Yet.
The knife traveled my body and he was silent again. Shaking, my vision became dusty, colours losing their saturation. A casual blow to the ribs, a ragged breath, a curt order to stop hyperventilating. The first cut through the pallet wrap. I froze, the sudden exposure to the cold air causing sensory overload and began weeping once more, convinced I was cut, bleeding, too damaged already to work out just how much. Another cut, and again, quick careless slices, over and over. Pain, sharp and tearing across my skin as the pallet wrap shifted. The rough hand over my mouth, the silent warning to dispense with my muffled wailing. I remember thinking that I couldn't, I couldn't be quiet, couldn't be good for him, it was too hard, too much, too much fear and I couldn't. I couldn't do it.
Then the machete was dropped, tumbling past the bed to the floor and a hand was raising up, the steel flicking from it's sheath almost gently, pointing directly towards my heart and I was quiet. I was quiet, silent, not a single muffled moan of fear. Good girl.
And then he smiled, looked at me and smiled and I knew it didn't matter, he wanted blood and fear and pain and the sudden look of anguish in my eyes when I realised he could do it, would bring the knife down, no hesitation and would actually rather do it than anything else. Wanted to. Really, truly wanted too.
I closed my eyes and didn't make a sound as the knife fell towards my body.
Often, he buys me flowers before he hurts me. It started from the very first time. Sometimes I play at trying to avoid him after getting them (it is, after all, always a game), but it never seems to work. I want it and I love the cool rush of fear and anticipation when the delivery man turns up, asking me to sign for them, or I arrive home to an empty house with a fresh bouquet on the dining table. It is never the same. Actually, it's a little odd that he has kept that particular tradition going; he was never really one for such simple rituals. Not one for mediocrity. But this... it has style.
It's never the same though. Never loses the rush, no matter how many times it happens. The first time it was lilies. Poetic brute that he is, they were white, right up until the moment he painted them with my blood, straight from the knife. We had only kissed before that moment.
I can't remember all of them. All the flowers. Isn't that dreadful? You would think I could at least do that. But four years of carefully pressed petals have a tendency to fade in both scent and memory.
The roses were for our anniversary. Bloody and red, they lay crushed on the bed within moments of having received them. Thorns clutching at my throat as he raped me. The irises; that time I bruised. Lazy lilac hazes across my breasts, ink pools on my thighs, blue fingerprints around my throat and fine pale lines across my cheek. Then - odd - a cabbage flower. I laughed at that, with friends in the kitchen and he was vicious in his retribution. Later, I lay alone and numb in the cage, bandages wrapped around my arm and I had never been more in love.