DISCLAIMER: Written upon request. Therefore, ph34r what lays beyond.
Last chance to turn back....
Oie.
bruises and triumph
It's like a slow poison. The kind of ecstasy one can only know in pain- the most sweet caresses of a blade in the flesh, or the gentle kiss of teeth, clipping, shredding the skin. Pain. The most beautiful flowers in the world are those that bloom behind your eyelids in flashes of vermilion, and the varicolored ones that spread on pale fields as capillaries burst and sluggishly reweave themselves. I like to watch their motion, with stolen awareness, and sometimes I interfere- a gardener of this flesh I've come to despise (for He despises it, often as he uses it,) always nudging, picking, interfering. In His name. Always, in his honor.
My addiction. My master.
God, how I hate what I need.
I used to try. To leave. To cease to care. To be as cold and impartial as I should be- aware of my own uselessness, my arrogance, my ineffectuality. But... Each time those fingers come to brush my skin it burns me, and I feel the blood that runs through these veins- my own, and the stolen ones- seethe and boil, flushing my cheeks, as though I were still capable of embarrassment. I know, in the end, that that's what he really wants of me- everything else is an accident, an embarrassment to him- he only does it to feel the pound of the pulse in that sinister wrist, the twitch of those fingers on his shoulder, the need to possess in that flesh that equals to his own. He's wedding what I desire with what he desires- and in the end, the pale comparison is worth it, oh, so worth it; it's very bittersweet quality is the intoxicant.
I've never seen any passion from my Master, no depth of feeling or emotion, that can equal his capacity for hate. He only loves in hate- and his lust (oh, God, I know it well,) is the blackest of furies, the deepest loathing, pits of jealousy that are my heights of euphoria. If he loved me, it would not be so sweet- I can't help but crave- want- need- it's power, the only kind I have. He knows he can make me hurt. And for that- if for nothing else- I am favored. Blessed. Redeemed. Saved. Enlightened. His, entirely, to the core of my worthless being, I belong to him and him alone. The last vestige of my humanity is this pride I cannot kill- because I am His, in a way no other is. I accepted that which I knew to be true, and this- this quiet, screaming need of ours... he cannot do without me, and I without him... I am a shadow of a shadow of a shadow. I am the substance left when memory fades and desire's lost- lifeless, nothing but the lingering taste of perfect flesh and my own blood, left when one of us bit through the lip.
I cannot... remember... what I was, before I was his creature. I can't believe that I ever knew joy before he beckoned to me, laid his hand upon my soul and pulled his nails across my chest. Since then, I have been a being of convenience, creature of desire and devotion. There is no part of me that is not bent to his whim... I know each inch of my flesh, and each inch of his.
And it is only on the flesh that I call my own that his marks appear. The other arm remains pristine- he's too jealous of it to use it as he does the rest, to abuse its virtue. He can't hate it as much as he detests me. I... I am not the one he wants, but I am the one he has. I am proud of my place, the chosen among the lepers. A favorite toy, the best one he has to break.
Each scratch, each bite, each discolored edge of a broken rib, jutting through translucent, lacerated skin... each is a badge of honor, a proof of small success. I am as he would have me be. And how he despises me for it.
I've gotten what I wanted.