Necrophonie

 

I respected my abuser - he was a sorcerer of sorts.

That flight to the dark

A surrender

Sea foaming and frothing

The lost dead eyes, accumulated in the matter that shrouds us

All these truths, the kind that only creep out in the dark

Awoke in me

And I lusted for them,

And for him.

I needed to seek him, as if I was cursed by a villain and a creep

And that's how it felt.

When we met, we never spoke

He led me to another room (he was dj-ing at the time)

So he led me to this room out back, after his set

And asked no questions of how I found him

But pressed me against the wall, and I heard his belt rattle then

And he rummaged for his c**k

And sternly whispered “should I f**k you right here, is that what you want”

As if I'd tempted him, provoked him somehow

As if he saw the spirits I'd summoned, swirling in my belly

But he also saw fear light up in my eyes

And realised that I'm also innocent,

So he released me, and sank in to a chair, flustered and confused by his own urgent action, his own loss of control

And I sat on the desk.

Accustomed to the shadowy space, I realised it was a small office

I was perched next to some documents - book keeping - I noticed

And out of the window was a row of static red lights, of back alley ways of clubs, fenced-off yards and silver beer barrels

He was silent, seemed to be planning, deciding how to behave next

I was calm, somehow. I just waited for him.

He said “I knew you'd come to find me”.

He walked over to me then, seized my wrists painfully and said “and now we can't turn back”

As if we were wed to an inevitable chain of events, and should submit to the current.

Though it seems nonsensical, absurd, fantasy when I talk about it in the innocuous day

I recognised each of his words, because my mind seemed to already carry its unspoken twin, we ran in parallel.

So he bent me then, over the desk, lifted up my skirt

I didn't struggle against him, though I couldn't tell if i wanted this or not - I didn't care for my feelings, they were eclipsed by the momentum of fate

Some would call it rape, but it wasn't. It wouldn't even make sense to say such a thing.

And anyway, so what if I felt the real stain of a man left inside me? And that incomprehensible suddenness, the outcry inside as if my younger girl self has been stabbed at.

Sex is supposed to be ugly.

Though we can embed it in discourse like its antiseptic, all the disgusting and beguiling creatures in our psyche need to crawl out of their burrows for a carnival.

And if you refuse them, then - since they're very cunning - they will make use of the very barriers you put up against them.

It's a lesson a young girl needs to learn fast.

And then you can begin exploiting all those feelings of being protected and untouched.

It wasn't so long ago I felt like that, but I could sense it abating.

So I went back to him numerous times.

He told me lies. He told me he didn't respect me in the way he respected his girlfriend.

And that I was only fit for scraps. He'd make me repeat that as I bent over for him

"I only deserve scraps".

He'd never let me look in to his eyes. He'd even push my head down, smother it in something, show me my mind was irrelevant.

But these were all games. And anyway, I suspected that actually I was the only woman he was seeing. This was romance and theatre; none of it defiled any deeper sense of connection that slept at its roots.

I didn't want to get too comfortable in that thought though. Nor did I want him to let me. Like I've said before,

We only want to f**k personas.

I have to believe in the lie. I have to ask myself every night. And if I laugh or shrug rather than shudder, then I know it's over.

Reviews

[The Thracian]

Wow. I think we'll have to talk about this one, but at the same time I think it only fair to imprint my first impression in these words.

I kept trying, trying to conceive what it would feel like. I have this momentary conception, it happens a lot in movies now, where I try to feel the reality of the character, as if prodding around to tap into the green screen or the lies. I want to know how human these events can be. I particularly felt dead at the first 'defilement' however as the story progress I became engrossed in your own conception of it all. One of the domains in which I have often limited myself is that of 'physical' or kinetic understanding; pain, dirt, sex, thriving primal urges.. Perhaps that is only partially true, but I say it mostly in the sense of this story. I feel like for myself to fully embrace this character I would have to embrace death before anything else, and through that acceptance 'die' in a sense. And I feel hesitation at that thought, not because of its fatalism, but its own embrace of the primal.

I think the only thing that distinguishes this from casual prostitution for example, is that the female retains this empowered confidence (exemplified in her doubts about his sleeping with other women). She is the queen of the world who decides to be in that position, for as she says, he lies to her, but she must choose to believe them.

I'd go on but it's five in the morning and I can feel the lack of sense creeping into my words.