They did what you never did to me

by You Have My Word

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I know your voice like I know the voices in my head. They are not gentle. They are still breathing down my back, their hands around my neck. This isn’t a conversation; this is an interrogation that I haven’t been able to walk away from yet.

I know the beating is coming. I know there is still much more to endure before I crawl across the glass they’ve scattered over the path to the door. They do all they can to keep me here. Their questions are Chinese water torture. They do not win because of their power; they win because of their persistence. Like a river through stone. Like glass run down by sand. Like a prisoner with a rock hammer. Like their words… their slurs… their swearing… the shame they IV into my veins too fast for my body to process.

My blood goes cold. But do not assume that I have frozen – that I have stopped feeling. I am an ice sculpture waiting to be worn down by the heat of their hands. They grip my arms and legs, I am strapped to a bed with leather cords from the tail of a whip. I am slave. I am trick. I am not treat. I am not sweet. I am waiting. I am hating every moment their hands touch my skin. I am spread-eagle pain – Vitruvian display. Just a girl. Just this bed and this girl and these voices in my head. Just you.

Just you with the stale stench of greed as you enter the room. You always want more. You always want me. You always want pieces I thought I’d be able to keep to myself, but I was wrong. By the time I’m untied and set free, with leather lashings still speaking for me, I will have nothing left. You will have taken it all, and I won’t have been your first. I have no doubt that I am not your last.

I am your prize trinket till rust and ruin begin to show – the thing you thought eternal has begun to get old, has begun to age, has begun to grow, has begun to grow up, has begun to want out, has begun to fight back, has begun to know better, has begun to want less of this, has begun to want death. Rather dead than beatings and bruises between my legs, across my chest, in my head.

The voices in my head leave bruises. I should be grateful that no one else can see those like they can see the leather scars left around my wrist – a testament to your madness, a testament to my numbness.

I thought that when I finally left you – when the sound of your words became a mere scratching on the air somewhere – that I would leave the voices too. But all that leaving you did, was give them more space to do what you never got to do.

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