II.
Re–enact your legendary tragedy
And do to me what has been done to you
Is that the only point to all this misery?
-Lou Barlow
The following is a transcription of a Kathryn Merteuil's therapy session with Dr. Murdoch, done on September 30 at 10:00 AM.
Beginning of tape
Dr. Murdoch: Good morning, Kathryn. I've just received news from your family, it seems as though—
Kathryn: They're all dead? Good. Maybe then I can get the fuck out of here.
Dr. Murdoch: I'm sensing a lot of inherent hostility against your family, particularly your mother. Will you tell me about her?
Kathryn: Of course you're sensing my fucking hostility, doctor. They're the ones who are fucking responsible for my being here. Do you really want me to talk about my mother? I have nothing to say about her. I don't see the point in all these sessions, do you consider me unstable because you've heard about my fall from grace?
Dr. Murdoch: Your family was just… They're just concerned, Kathryn. They only want what's best for you.
Kathryn: (a wrapped necklace around her wrist is suddenly visible from her sweater and she plays with it) You don't get it, do you? (laughs amusedly) My 'family' consists of a frosty bitch mother who would probably leave me here to rot, a father I don't fucking know, and a stepbrother who—
(There is a long pause from her. A brief flash of hesitance appears clearly on her face.)
Kathryn: A stepbrother who wanted to fuck me and then decided to fucking ruin my life because of a stupid game we had.
Dr. Murdoch: (looks at his notes) What can you tell me about your stepbrother?
Kathryn: (shrugs) There's not much to tell and if there were, I am most certainly not going to give you the information so you could use it to psychoanalyze me. I don't need these fucking sessions, and to be quite honest you're wasting both our time.
Dr. Murdoch: He seems to care about you enough since he's the first one who made an attempt to contact you.
Kathryn: The fucker didn't care. He just wanted to gloat. We had a war. It got too far.
Dr. Murdoch: Hmm… I saw you when you read his letter. In fact, it was the first active reaction you've had since you arrived.
Kathryn: Hatred stems deep in the case of my bastard scheming brother, what can I say?
Dr. Murdoch: How did you meet him?
Kathryn: (looks surprised) Excuse me?
Dr. Murdoch: I read the contents of his journal—
Kathryn: (visibly agitated) Can we not talk about that fucking journal?
Dr. Murdoch: It's obvious that you were very close to him—
Kathryn: Enough! (reaches across the table and stops the tape recorder)
End of tape
The following letter was written on October 19 and was consequently delivered to the Valmont house:
Sebastian,
However the outcome of this particular battle reflects harshly upon me, I at least have the grace (after almost two months of being here) to congratulate you. Don't get me wrong, I still want to have you impaled on a very dull ended pole somewhere, but however this displeases me, you were right. It's also correct to never expect forgiveness; I should know that our actions have only been necessitated by the need to win. You've won. For now. Relish it, because it won't be in your hands for very long.
You're wondering as to why I suddenly decided to continue this correspondence with you. It's just that I realized I will never let you get the satisfaction of knowing that you've completely destroyed me. Do you think that my fucking reputation's the only thing I'm composed of? Now I find that highly insulting. So no, your dreams of me turning into a mute, pathetic mass of a sniveling, disgraced woman are as of now burning in hell. Pretty much where you should be at the moment, actually.
Do you know that an odd thing happened to me the other night? I had a dream, and in it I was right there when you and Ronald were fighting. I also saw you when that cab slammed into your hip, right after you pushed your ironically clad all in white virgin out of harm's way. Do you want to know where I was?
I was the one driving the taxi. Pity it was just a dream and you can only imagine my extreme disappointment when I finally woke up and realized it hadn't been real. In my dream, I didn't stop driving. There was a particular moment of impact that broke the glass and I saw your blood all over the windshield. I killed you then. That had been a nice dream, considering our friendship has been irrevocably fucked up. Dr. Murdoch, your dear friend, told me to keep a journal. "Record all your thoughts and feelings, Kathryn. It helps to let it all out." I don't think he has any idea what he's asking of me. If he wants me to 'let it all out', you, Annette, Cecile, and Ronald would be begging for mercy at the moment. Since that doesn't seem currently plausible, I told him to go fuck himself. Do you see? Still the same old Kathryn who was once the object of your very desire.
Since there's little for me to find amusing in this place, I would like to talk to you about that day. Yes, That Day. My ruination as you liked to call it. As I've mentioned earlier, I do understand. That journal was a particularly gruesome twist that could have only come from you. How could I have missed out on that? You'll forgive me of course, for my own moment of vulnerability. Do you think those fucking tears were merely a result of theatrics? Of attempting to incite some sort of sympathy from these fuckwits I called my friends? Perhaps it's better that you think that way, but need I remind you, brother, that just because you don't believe it doesn't mean it wasn't real.
I'll give you a few minutes for the words to sink in before I continue.
There. All done now? I do imagine your mouth partially hanging open at my voluntary admittance; well let that be a foreshadowing of what I can do. Just when you least expect it, I will surprise you. You know how exceptional I am in surprising people.
Going back to that day… Yes, I do applaud you. Well done, it takes so much to faze me and you did just that and more. I never saw it coming, much like that inept taxi driver who was stupid enough to let you live. It was a masterpiece, an obra maestra. However, you pushed it too far. You bastard. I mourned for your death. Now I only wish you had died. I wonder what it was about that blonde hick of yours that's gotten you to voluntarily shackle your cock and reserve it for her alone. Is it really love? Valmont, what have you done? What happened to us? How did you claim love for that woman? What has she told you? How has she controlled you to delude you into believing that you would be happy in her world, where everything is bright, perky, and there is a promise of a bright tomorrow? Poor, estranged brother. What exactly is the reason behind the publicizing of your journal other than to showcase your horrid handwriting and crude words? Was it truly because you loved her or was it because you hated me? Could you blame me for sending Ronald after you? You forget, Sebastian, that you did hit me. It was a particularly painful backhand. After that stunt you foolishly pulled, do you honestly think I wouldn't have retaliated, and that your apology would readily be accepted? Do you think that after you told me you were sorry, I would readily open my legs for you to give me the fuck of my life? You had been disrespectful and out of line and however fond I had been of you then, nobody fucking does that to me without being punished for it. How then could you be so angry enough to blame me for that accident that, up until your letter arrived, caused your demise? It was to be expected from me. You remember me well, don't you? The bane of your existence, your cherished prize. The incident had been beyond my control, so how could I be blamed for it?
But enough of that. I'm sure by now as you read this, you're in your room surrounded by the luxury you've deprived me. You told me that you didn't want my forgiveness because I'm supposed to understand your actions, that it was to be expected from you. Read your words and try to really understand its meaning. If you've asked this of me, then does it not apply to myself as well? Do you think that what you did had a much nobler cause that you've turned into the accidental hero while I became vilified by your words? Now that I'm gone and that you've revealed me as the heartless bitch, do you think you're going to be redeemed by your pious saint?
No, Valmont. I assure you that it isn't the case. However gentle and loving you must be with her, there will always be nights wherein you will wonder about me. Perhaps even these days, when you're inside of her, buried deeply while she hugs you close, you will wonder somewhere at the back of your mind (where that secret drawer of all things dark) what it would have felt like to be inside of me. You would have given me the fuck of my life? No. I would have given you the fuck of yours. Before you roll your eyes at these statements, you and I both know that what I'm saying is true. You were right in saying that this isn't about Annette. You see Valmont, what you've done, everything, from that day you ran after her and when you made love to her, you may not know it, but it's always been about us.
How nice of you to be so nostalgic about our nights of talking. Has your girlfriend really been that dull in bed that you've resorted to immediately to remembering me? Don't you have that same spark with her, that same frisson that had always existed between us? No. Of course not. You only had that with me, but it's futile to talk about such things now. Your letter, although filled with cruel bluntness, evidences that while you don't regret what you've done, I know that in some way, you do regret losing me. I'm that thought in your head, a voice never to be silenced even though you tell your girlfriend over and over again that you've changed. Even though I am incarcerated, I can feel your restlessness from here. You may claim to be happy with her, but it will never last. You see, while she may love you, she doesn't know you. She doesn't know your secret kinks and fantasies, does she? What about your horrible and damaging secrets? She doesn't know that when you were nine, you had been afraid of that uncle of yours. The one you said almost touched you there. She doesn't know that you used to write letters to your mother as a young boy and ask her to visit you, but you stopped when you turned thirteen. She doesn't know that you like rough sex, that it always excited you when we fought. Your precious saint doesn't know that our fights would sometimes turn so intense I'd hit you and you'd slam me against the wall, eyes narrowed and teeth bared as though you were going to eat me alive. I would feel your arousal poking my thigh when you were pressed against me. Do you have that with her? Does she make your blood boil and rush in all the right places? You see, I do know so much about you but unlike you, I'm better at keeping secrets. How can you feel so secure in a relationship based on nearly nothing at all but this façade you insist on keeping up? Do you see the irony? How we've switched roles? Now you're the one everybody worships whereas I'm the one people despise. You may have ruined me, but you will never completely obliterate me.
If your claim of love for me had indeed once been true, then you'll get me the fuck out of here. Don't I deserve a chance to play the cards you've mercilessly dealt me or are you afraid of what I might do? Well now, my darling brother, the hero who saved the day, I suppose it's only fitting to say this to you in advance: I don't ask for forgiveness for what I could possibly do when I get out of here, but I expect your understanding.
Kathryn