War of Attrition
Lena

I wonder at night, on those nights when you don't come. The dark doesn't seem as real as the shadows beneath it, and the eyes of the predators never open. All that I know is the hopeful fear that you might show yourself, and then again, you might not--

But which ever you choose, I will still be yours, until you've no further use of me.

Thrills go up my spine and down it to places best left unmentioned, when I think of you, when I think of what you could do to me if you wished. The thinking of it consumes me each night, haunting my dreams more solidly than you yourself-- you are truly no more than a specter-- and I don't sleep at all if I don't sleep well. You see to it with your existence that I don't sleep well. I am restless.

I know that your powers, your thoughts alone could destroy me so quickly it would be painful to die, or that your cruelty could strip me down so that each moment of agony was a hell of agonizing pleasure and shame. I want more than anything to be yours, to be with you, and I hate myself for it, because I know you will not come to me. Yes. You would much prefer I crawl to you, and I will.

I will.

Each night I dream of demons and death, of rape and the beauty of rape if it was you raping me. I am twisted. I am afraid. Silk, metal, hemp, leather-- I want to feel it upon me, about me, twisting me into the shape that I should be for the thoughts that I have. There are ghosts of constriction about my wrists where you once held me, and will hold me, while you bound me and will bind me, and I did not even dare to struggle.

You know well that you could tie me with a thread, and I would not dare to break it.

And your laughter, and your smiles that never smile, and your eyes that burn with anger no matter what I am made to do-- does it displease you that you have broken me? Is it this? Should I fight? --No, I won't fight, I fought before and am afraid to now. The lesson behind your punishments was that fighting earned them; I stopped fighting you long ago. But you punish me yet. I always make mistakes. There is always something wrong.

I am, by nature, flawed.

You have made me this way. The beautiful creature you mourn with those hate-fire eyes, that being of strength that covered weakness, you killed it. Now all that is left is me.

A beaten toy. Frail, insipid, a shell within a shell, a weak little cretin who spends each night awaiting you, wondering if you will come, falling into madness and beginning to hope-- dreadfully, sickeningly, truly --hope that you will indeed come. Yes. That is what I am. That is what is left.

And you are killing me.


Return to Acropolis Fanfiction