It’s not often I write fiction, but when I do, this is an example of the thoughts which pervade my mind.
I know what it looks like, in my head, this thing I call submission.
When I turn it to the light, it has many conflicting faces, but tonight, it wants my blood.
Tonight, it looks like pain.
The chill in the air,
fuelled by the consumptive fire of anger.
Both were hunter,
both were prey,
passion’s rage the anchor locking them together.
Disengaging from the ritual of resentment, time away needed.
Brooding, quietly, furiously, locking down emotions in order to protect.
Going through the motions, robotic routine.
Bathe, cleanse, letting the water purify.
It’s hard to cry beneath a liquid horizon.
Drying, defeated, resignation settling into the void.
Tiptoeing into a silent room,
towel temporarily protecting modesty.
Finding strength in ritual, even with no one to bear witness, losing oneself to familiarity where comfort keeps a residence.
travelling so far away his presence goes undetected.
a hand, fingers,
twisting hair into a knot,
anger burning fingerprints into his palm.
Frost biting at the skin,
pinpricks of ice shattering with each frantic thud of the heart.
Refusal to meet his gaze met with force,
A hand rests on cheek…
‘Are you cold?’
the mistake will be punished.
A flood, then,
not of harsh crash of palm against cheek,
but of liquid bitterness…
(……wintry water poured….)
Can’t breathe, can’t breathe.
Tremulous hands venture up
(…to wipe away the chill rivulets…)
‘Are you cold?’
Shivers wrack the body.
Time crawls, silence the cacophony which punctuates each fractured tick of clock hand. Eyes lock, emotion exchanged, reading, interpreting, hunter and prey sizing each other up.
‘You don’t get to deny me’
Head cocks, momentarily, in confusion.
Hand tightens in hair, wrenching, immobilising.
Softer voice now…
‘Don’t deny me…’
Releasing himself now,
voice hard once again,
providing a visual to compliment his words.
‘This is what your tears do to me’
Eyebrow raises in defiance..
‘….there are no tears….’
‘There will be.’
Once again, bitterness settles.
‘Hold out your hands’
still the tremors shake.
Another whimper as he demonstrates his dominance, a visual usually designed to arouse.
Unable to turn my eyes away,
Hands remain cupped, outstretched, tears threaten as realisation nips at the mind.
Breathing altered now, fevered staccato beats.
breathing shallow now, waiting my..
Hand tightens still more in hair as conclusion is reached,
I cry out,
his dominance, hot and sticky, falls in my hands.
Momentary pause, his composure regained.
‘Wipe it on your face….’
and shake my head
‘I’m not in the fucking mood to negotiate. Wipe it on your face!’
Tears burn, tears fall.
Dominance is turning cold.
Cheek stings, cheek flushes.
‘Wipe it on your fucking face’
Words, barely audible, drowning in tears
Spotlight illuminates abject humiliation,
hands shake uncontrollably,
as the act of submission is played out to an audience of one.
Hand releases hair.
Denying Him was never an option.
In front of Him, I break down.
Today, this is what submission looks like, to me.