Quietly, I slipped from the bed. The silk covers rustled and the man inside it shuddered- calling my name. A feeling of guilt welled inside of me… or did it? I didn't think I had the possibility to feel guilt now. That sort of frail shit had been battered out of my mind, fucked viciously by the voices in my head. Violated. I guess you could say that was what I was. Ruined for anyone with a brain cell in the near vicinity.

How many voices were inside me now? Did it even fucking matter?

I slipped from the window into the gloomy grounds below, wet grass squelching underfoot. It was cold. November times in Toronto always were. The thin slip I had on caught on a bush and I tugged it free, felt the rip and basked in the almost cathartic violence. It was too much. The voices whirring in my mind, screaming to be let free from the prison of another persons eyes. It was coming up to four nights. Four nights of no sleep, acting as the perfect housewife.

I always knew Bobby was fucking stupid.

–

"And what are you doing here?"

"I need you to hurt me."

"What?"

"Stop me from thinking… please."

–

I guess you could say it was a ritual. I went and slept with a man who couldn't love me, and that I couldn't love so that it would reset me. It made the voices quiet. Probably shocked them, if I'm honest. After all, who knew sweet Marie liked being choked half to death while speared on a cock?

–

"Ah,"

"Like it?"

"…."

"Oh, you can't pass out now frail… I haven't cum yet."

–

What was it that attracted me to him? Was it the fact I knew that he would treat me like shit? That he wouldn't care if I was injured during sex? Or maybe it was just because I demanded that from him. That I made him touch me with calloused hands that smelt of smoke, sucked on his uncut cock whenever he wanted like a little bitch, let him rip my hair around because it made me feel human to be crushed by something inhuman.

But reality would smack me in the face soon after. I wouldn't be bruised. I wouldn't have clumps of hair missing. The blood would cake my body but I would have no wounds to show for it. And maybe that was the saddest thing of all.

–

"When are you going to tell him you can control it?"

"Never."

"Why?"

"Not like you to care."

"Eh, I'd lose my favourite cunt if he could touch you."

"...He'd want kids."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"If I'm honest..." I took a large gulp of beer. "I'd probably drown it in the bath."

–

I couldn't see myself as a mother. It was probably because every-time I thought of family I saw the dead eyes of my father and mother as they threw me into the snow. I was 16. No money. No anything, and they left me there to die.

And every time Bobby brought up family I would have to hold it in, smile, pretend. Then throw up, later in the evening while he was asleep because the thought of having a child- that responsibility- that life-

So I would see him again. The man that didn't love me, but held sunshine in his eyes when he rarely spoke of kin, of family. But I wouldn't cry, just force my throat further on his engorged cock and say my eyes were watering. I didn't want to admit it. I couldn't admit it. Somewhere in my mind, when I'd first thought of Victor while the voices rammed through my head, it had called for him. Maybe it was Stockholm syndrome and you know what? It probably was. But that monster made my demons quiet. That killer made the ones in my head tremble. And that psychopath's sick delusions made mine vomit.

At the end of the day, it was more than likely an excuse.

–

"You want a divorce?"

"Yes."

"W-why? What have I done, Rogue? I promise that this is something that we can talk through-"

"No. I've had enough. I don't love you… and I don't think I ever did."

–

It was a pain after that, explaining to everyone about the split. Kitty, as usual was straight up into Bobby's space so I'm sure he would have been better off after that. Surprisingly enough, many people commented that it was my skins fault. After all, how was a relationship supposed to work out if the two party's couldn't touch each other?

I never told Victor. I just think he knew. More of my things would disappear from my house I shared with Bobby, and those things would appear at Victors flat. Bobby never questioned it. So neither did I.

–

"No strangling tonight?"

"Nope."

"Anything kinky at all? Seems a bit boring."

"Nope."

"…why?"

"I just want to touch you."

–

It wasn't love that drove me to him, but peace. And in the end, I suppose that all that really mattered is that he made me peaceful and shut the voices in my head up. Yes, he was terrifying. But that was kind of the point.

END