martedì 24 aprile 2012

Storytelling: A Soft Place To Hide


The blow echoes in the empty room, reverberating in the barenessa of its sickly green, sterile walls. There is no music in the background now. Thnere was before, some sort of churning, joyous,m jangly pop, with compressed, plastic guitars and robotic vocals spreading through the ghastly skeletal tracks like a gangrene in a child's body. But then the tunes dropped out and silenmce strated filling up every inch of the air, leaving the whole natural sound of the scene to unfold itself. J. yelps, recpoiling from the hit. The pain is still sharp. Her body hasnt numbed yet. The wall hasnt been reached. She doesnt know if thats a good thing or not. 

She has survived throyugh the dark years, thanks to the invisible sticky wall that her own body built for her, in porder to preserve what was left of her mind, from the aftermath of her wedding. Her husband, still not an ex, maybe never, had a peculiar set of invisible tools to slowly peel down the layers of her soul and inflict wounds that could cripple her min, for his own delight and amusement. He was a skinny, slightly bloated man. With brown eyes and an empty glassy stare. She remembers the smell of the cologne and the thought itself makes her gag. No time for gagging. She holds the wave of vomit back, straining to do so. The pain in her mouth, after the punch, is warm and pungent. The metallic, sweet taste of her own raw flesh and blood, which till then just lingered in her becomes a reality. Her mouth fills with red juice. She spits it out and sees one of her teeth,m cautiosly pauid for fixing by her expensive professional Dentist, doctor Lucius Freeeman. The wall is there but being scraped at intently. Good. 

Her husband paid for dental work on her. Surgery, Constant control on her image. Even amphetamine based diet pilsl so shed neever get thin. Thois was one of his favourite tricks. He was rich, he worked hard to build his own wicked fortune since he was eighteen. Going through humiliating roads of degradation so that he could eventually afford to become enough powerful and safe to be able to rest on his own possessions. Another punch, harder. A bone in her nose cracks, emitting a sloppy wet sound. The wall cracks. Her own inner wall, the powerfvul measure that she built to be impervious to phgiscal suffgering. Where other had limits or safe words, she had this. An ability to become numb to the pain while still being re ceptive. To allow the pain to hit her while still feeling it and being aware of its presence. To subvert the impulses of her nerve endings at her own will. But this is so hard. Almost every inch of her bosy is burnt, cut, bruised, sore. Broken. Even after her long, tenacious expereience and testing, her shapely, built body is giving up to the external overtake. Husband married her when she was young. She was broken. LOnely. Unable to have kids after two miscarriages from her past lovers. He took her and nurtured her despair and solitude. Made her feel loved and safe from the humiliation of a family that pointed a finger at her and yelled "Whore" and "unable to procreate". His shielding, welòathy chivalry made her feel beautiful and light. The gloved hands dont rest. After The punching, they grab the pliars. They playfully snap them in the air making a rusty, disjointed sound. The room is now glowerin with the scent of blood urine, vomit and sweast. But still not as dfisgusting as the polished smell of the surgeon's room por the always clean stench of her picture perfect house.

He owned her. Had her surgically made to be the perfect trophy wife, the fair animal. Paraded her in front of his friends and family. Gave her money to be drunk, drugged up and numb so she would have a rictus on her face that could apss as a smile. All the time, in his name. But sadly, bodies get used to alcohol and drugs. She couldve killed herself. She could've taken herself out of his picture. As a reward for the mental toryure he put her through everytime the world wasnt paying enough attention. But that would've been so quick and easy. The gloved hands pinch her nipple, almost seductively. In the sea of ab ysmal pain, her body almost gives a hint of pleasure. The first one in years. Her husband provided her with boy toys to keep her quiet. He did not care. They were on hsi paybook. EMpot minded servants that gave her rides, fixed meal, and jizzed on her face. They wouldve not crossed him: And yet she didnt really feel anything. It was gymanastics. No saviour lovers to take her away. No prince to plot his murder with and live happily ever after. Until She meet X. Her nipple is hard and elongated, the hands stroke it lovingly. Then The pliars close on it. Severing it with "SNIP". The impulses in her head are so strong, they kick down the wall. She screams and then dry heaves, drool and blood coming out of her mouth. X. was a street thgug that her husband picked up from the gutter. Hardened by life. Empty eyes. Abuse made him soulless and the tons of drugs that he was provided by his employyee made him even less able to eprceive any emotion. But he sort of, in aa weird animaistic way, connected with her. He did not respect her husband. All he wanted was money to build his own buisness. And for the moment he seemed to be working its way up. But she had money saved and she needed a way out. So one day, after a pointless excercise in groping that her husband required for them while he was somewhere else, scratching his itches on some asian underage prostitute, she made him a proposal. The ritual repeats on her other nipple. Her body is now a scarred janglke of exposed nerves, felsh and blood. Unfixable and broken. She feels it all. Tears stain her face. The sensation is horrifying yet she knows ity will end soon. Its time. She wants to get out, she tells him. Only not that way. She wants to scar that body. He wants to go out without that enhanced mostruosity that her husband imprisoned her within. Anything she can do to herslef wouldnt be enough: Cant Drive by herslef, doesnt own weapons. He willl have to do ti. And make it unforgettabler for both. He will roture her and disfigure her and, then she will have to choose what to do. Stay or go. In a pool of her own urine, She thinks. Can she enjoy this: Can she go back to her old life? Can she run away? No to all three. But she feels free. Hope ois gone and her body is ruined. X. had enough money to escape from the husband's cluitches too. Money CAN buy anything. It bought her a numb heaven. And now she can finally have the last word with the man who raised her up to be his own dog with a wig. "Do it X. I want it" She mubles through bleeding gums and broken teeth. X takes a deep gulp of booze. Evcen in his broken, numb mind he needs the booze to do this. Somehow he understands the need of a hole to dig to feel no more ache and fear. That is why he slowly abuses himself with chemicals. Its not about the numbness or the buyzz. Its about the ending.

"I love you" She sort of smiles. It aches and its beautiful. 

"I love you too. And thank you" she mumbles. He grabs her head, lovingly. And slits her throat. Blood gushes. The numbness falls. And she is finally resting.

Nessun commento:

Posta un commento