Redblog: the Well

2 August 2007

Today, I have been restless. The past few days, really, but it's interminable days that stretch into weeks now, and I find that I don't really remember when this all started. The emotions are raw and cutting, each wielding little blades that tool around in my insides, cutting and piercing wherever they catch, whittling a deeper and deeper hole.

Inside that hole are things I can scarce put words to. A vision came to me a week ago, when I was just sitting here, minding my business. A hand grabs my hair, and pushes me face down into the mattress. My arms are bound behind my back. I am fucked roughly, on my knees and begging for it.

A vision came to me today. I am wearing a little skirt, a dress shirt with French cuffs, and little heeled boots. The Father decides to punish me for being such a little slut. My arms are bound above my head, and I squirm, but he knows what it is that I want, and have always wanted. His hands are black-vinyl-clad as he pinches my nipples roughly and forces me to look at him. To look at him is submission, and I flush deep red. My eyes flick downwards, ashamed. He refuses to let me lie to him, and plunges his fingers into my hot cunt, which drips with arousal. He fucks me until I come, cunt tensing around his fingers as I writhe under his power.

I dreamed once that I was walking down a hallway. A gruff voice came from behind me, and I felt strong hands gripping my arm, in between the shoulder and elbow. "It's time to go," he snarled, and slid the blindfold over my eyes. I don't know how we got there, but we did. He bound me to a chair, and I saw like an out of body experience that he went down on me, he and others too, had their fill.

A vision came to me once, even while I was having sex, it came to me once. A woman straddled my face, and ground her cunt against my lips. I sucked her clit, flicked it with my tongue, as she arched her back and jerked her hips to my rhythm, pinching her own nipples. She came on my face, I came on his cock, and he fucked me until he came. I was used, like I needed to be used. She disappeared, and I was left with him, and I wondered who the fuck I was, and what sort of demon was clawing through my skull to make me see things with such profound clarity.

He makes me taste my juices on his lips, and I know that I am a whore. That I am a toy meant for his pleasure, that my profoundest needs are bound up into the moments in time, moments when his swollen cock plunges into my cunt, moments when he puts his dick in my mouth and fucks it until he comes down the back of my throat.

This is me, through various guises, creative stories or simply every-day wicked works. I don't know where I came from, or how I got here, all I know is that these desires were uncaged not of my own volition, but ripped free because of a deep need. A deep need.

I saw a collar today, and I tried not to cry. I imagined what it would be like to wear one, lovely, fur-lined and leather, earned by my own sweat and blood and cum dripping down the insides of my thighs. I hate what these needs do to people that I care about, but I cannot make them go away. I can sit, and imagine, and fuck myself until I get off from them, but they return, more vivid, more insistent. They haunt me like a vengeful wraith, and sometimes, I too become the wraith.

It hurts too much to think about sometimes. These needs are tied up inside me, in a compact bundle, and all must be met or dealt with, but rarely are they invited out, and when they are, usually only to be teased at and put away again. I scream in agony each time these needs are put away from me, put back into the chest from whence they came, like the dirty things they are.

I can't think anymore. I don't know what to do. They come back with such force that I cannot continue to pretend they don't exist. I am trapped here in silence, silence, silence, only with myself and the flashing lights that pretend to be a neon distraction, only they don't serve that need so well. And I begin to wonder how deep this hole has become, why no one can hear me shouting from the bottom that I'm scared, I'm scared that I can't seem to control these wild needs, and I need someone to put it in perspective. I need someone to take the reigns and make me understand who I am, but where is that person when I need him? I'm frightened, and I need the reassurance. I need to know that these things don't disgust him, that he wants to unlock all my secrets and examine them, and smile at my perverse little fantasies all the while he's twisting the knot behind my back before he fucks me until I'm screaming.

I've become a sick little joke. I'm lost and wandering without guidance, rejected at every inn in Jerusalem, and there's no outlet for this merciless, pounding, screaming need. Please listen, please listen, but you're not listening, and no one is listening. I'm an emotional isolate, hemmed in by waters and mountains and trees, but the hero forgot to come.

I swim in my misery. Tears come to my eyes at stupid, unbidden moments, and silence is the only answer. I'm the enemy, you see, the enemy of both myself and everyone else, because I hold on to some twisted idea that someone, somewhere wants to meet my needs, can meet my needs, and all I hear in response to my pleading, begging cries is the distant drip of cave water, from stalagmite into stagnant pool, stalagmite into stagnant pool.

This part of me must be ugly. She must be a scarred and dirty me, a filthy whore, a disgusting disease, a minuscule iridescent speck that is invisible to every eye who looks. But they're drawn to look anyway, to look and point, and I am freakshow incarnate, genetic accident in a cage where everyone can gossip and comment, like I am an object to be examined, but one that no one wants to touch.

I am so fucking alone. It lies heavy on my heart, and I feel like a liar, or at least I must be the liar since nobody else can possibly be the liar. I am guilty and I am pathetic and I am full of pain that I have to pretend I don't feel, because to tell someone that I feel it somehow hurts them more than it hurts me. I knife myself with these realities that I create, realities that mean so much to me but can never exist, because I'm the only one who will believe that they can. I thought that we loved each other, that we loved all parts of each other, but I feel rejected like a dirty garment. I feel like a glove that no longer fits, that maybe never fit so well anyway, but is something that you like the looks of while it hangs on its rack.

These fantasies-cum-realities have become so encompassing that they are obsessions. I fight them because I know they are useless, torturing things, but they come back, and they'll come back until I can live them or flay them, and I don't think I have a knife sharp enough to cut that part of me up and toss it away like so much stale meat. It is a part of me, and without it there, I'm not sure if I'll be me anymore. The tears don't release anything anymore, they're just manifestations of sorrow and the ache, the ache of that deep, widening chasm in my psyche. I'm Eve who keeps stupidly eating the apple no matter how much grief she knows it's going to cause. I'm Lilith Undesirable, the one who's left the walled-in myopic bullshit of the Garden to fight her own way through the brambles and shadows, shouting God's True Name to the Irascible Heavens, but no one, not even the serpent, follows in my footsteps. The garden is too cool, the oasis too perfect. If it is storm that I want, then I will have it—on my own.

The well is dry, little bonehusks buried in the dust down at the bottom. One day, I am scared that I will be Stormbringer, that control will explode, and I, all to be noticed, will burn that stupid fucking Garden to the ground.