In Response to “Some­times I hate it”

This is in response to TheSinDoll’s post Some­times I hate it.

Some­times I hate it. It is always fuck­ing there. Right there. At the cor­ner of your eye it is there. You can even smell the putrid stench of the black bird of need as it is climb­ing your back, scratch­ing your skin with talons, grip­ping any­thing it can find with its beak for lever­age. It is on you and no mat­ter what you do it is there.

I hate it like I hate the pair of shoes I should have thrown away years ago. I even fished them out of the garbage can once. They are there, no mat­ter how much I try to ignore them. They are so bro­ken that they are not even com­fort­able any­more. I don’t want to wear them and yet they find them­selves on my feet when I least expect it. Like a bad dream they won’t leave me alone.

I didn’t ask to be this way. This is not what I should be, yet I can­not be any­thing else. I can’t believe that peo­ple look at me and see a rea­son­able, nor­mal per­son. Fuck, women have this annoy­ing habit of relax­ing in my pres­ence, like I was some­one to be trusted, and I just want to roar at them to run away, to save them­selves before I…

Yes, some­times I hate it.

And some­times I love it.

God help me, some­times I love it. I love the inten­sity of what I am capa­ble of. I love the pro­fun­dity of my emo­tions. I love the focus that descends on me when I catch the scent of prey. When I descend into the pri­mal of what I am, noth­ing else matters.

Noth­ing else mat­ters but to take. To feed. To use. To per­form my craft to the dis­tant sounds of the song being sung in my honor, the stac­cato breaths graz­ing the tiny hairs on my arm, the warm liq­uid coat­ing my hands and my lips. Noth­ing else mat­ters than the foggy vision of wild eyes beg­ging, plead­ing to… stop? I don’t under­stand that word.

Stop? Enough? More?

More?

I wash up well. I have table man­ners. I drive safely. I am nice to ani­mals and old ladies. I even make small talk. And peo­ple just don’t know. I am approx­i­mat­ing a civ­i­lized being; I am pro­ject­ing the image of a man and nobody is the wiser.

Except her.

She tells me again and again that she is safe with me. And I believe her because I trust her. She sees me for what I am. She knows how I became and she knows what I want. And she refuses to leave. I pushed her away in the begin­ning; I told her to run, to hide, to never, ever give me time to…

Fuck. I would never have thought that a sub­mis­sive woman would be the strongest and most pow­er­ful force I have ever faced. She is mak­ing me believe in my even­tual redemption.

Some­times I don’t hate it so much anymore.