He'll come to me at all hours. Morning, noon, night; it doesn't matter. I could be sound asleep, working diligently on research, eating supper, working out. It doesn't matter to him. There will come a knock to my apartment door, an impatient, annoyed knock, expecting me to answer. If I don't, it just gets louder and louder, with calls of 'I know you're in there, open up.' When I finally do answer the door, he barges in and locks it behind him, quickly shutting any windows or sources of light there are around. 'You're alone.' he will ask me distractedly, a statement rather than a question. I am always alone. 'Yes.' I will answer him. I always answer him. Sometimes he smells like alcohol or drugs, the unmistakable scent to the trained nose lingering on his clothes and breath. I find myself wondering if he does it for pleasure, or just to get through the day. Other times he smells pleasantly of pinewood and mulch, as though he's been running through a forest or field all day long. I often wonder what it is he does. If I asked, he wouldn't answer.
I have learned to play my part well. I become less of a man, and more of a trained instrument, responding how I have been conditioned to respond, reacting how I am supposed to react to the unpredictable enigma in my life. He changes. I do not. On the outside, at least. While at first it frightened me, it soon invigorated me, then, consumed me. I find myself waiting for the sound to come from the door, to let him in. Though unpredictable, it is a staple, now. If a week or two goes by I become anxious. Skittish. I know it is wrong of me. But I can't help it.
There are eight words I have learned by heart. Eight words he says to me with such frequency I would not be surprised if I said them in my sleep. The three words he says as soon as all the doors and windows are locked and he advances on me, the three words he says as I tilt my face up towards his.
"Don't kiss me."
He has always had this rule. I am never allowed to break it. I have actually stayed up at night with that phrase in that gruff and hoarse voice repeating in my head, wondering what it means. This is a strange rule. I wonder if it is to distance himself from this, to forget me. I wonder if I am a template to him. Just a tool. That's probably it. I mean nothing to him. I am just a toy he will toss away when he tires of it. And I have resigned myself to that. If it is to become my lot in life, to serve him so completely, so be it. I have grown accustomed to it.
The other phrase he says when I crumple in a heap to the ground or roll onto my side, gasping for breath. He turns with a few quick motions and only shows me the profile of his face, often lit up by the light behind him quite admirably.
"You know what this is."
Nothing. It is nothing. It means nothing. I am nothing. Just a tool. A toy. An object. This is meaningless feeling. A whirlwind of sight, taste, touch. Commands and obliging. Whispered vulgarities.
However, in the heat of the moment, if I glance up at just the right second, I can see a glimmer. A flash of something beyond my world. Something hinting to the life I will never get to know of. Rough touches turning gentle and a faint glimpse at feeling and compassion in those deeply purple eyes. Growls growing louder and grips turning bruising, a burning behind the eyes that frightens me so much that I look away. No sound at all and a jumpy touch, he turns his head away from me and I manage to glimpse what could be a tear in the corner of the eye. Seen, and gone again.
I hate myself for it. But I have become attached to him. I barely remember how we met, how this cycle started. It seems sometimes as though I did not exist before him, and I cannot exist without him. Without him I feel no anger, no gentleness, no burning fires nor icy stares. I need them. I crave them. Without them, I will go mad.
I have to have a pillow by my face to obey his commands. Don't kiss him. And another rule he does not need to say, don't say his name. Don't make any reference to who he is. Don't ask questions. If I do, he stops. He leaves me. And I can't have that.
Maybe it's been months since this has started. Maybe years. I can hardly tell any longer. I never know when he will come to me, physically and sometimes even in my dreams, but he always does. And when he does, he has eight words. Two phrases. One meaning.
"You're just a pawn to me."
I have accepted that.