Sadistic Love

I look into her eyes and see the pain like sed­i­ment in what was once a clear pool of water. Her eyes move slowly and delib­er­ately and her smile barely touches the sur­face. It comes and goes. There are days when she feels con­nected to the world around her but there are also days when she feels the world like a form­less, life­less glob of same­ness, cov­er­ing her, invad­ing her mind, seek­ing to make her one with it. But the silent des­per­a­tion of impend­ing numb­ness, of elud­ing sat­is­fac­tion is always with her.

She hurts her­self. Some­times she does it to dis­tract from the pain in her heart and other times to dis­pel the cloak of numb­ness that cov­ers her, to remind her­self that she is still alive. In the dark silence of her room she seeks the light­ning rod of the pain of the flesh to but for a moment guide her inner pain else­where. For a few pre­cious moments she will man­age to find a focus so strong that she can ignore the con­stantly squawk­ing crows in the back of her head. And sometimes…sometimes, for one sacred moment, she knows peace.

The ways she hurts her­self are cal­cu­lated to be dis­guised as mun­dane acci­den­tal bruises or acts of uncom­mon clum­si­ness. She does not want peo­ple to know because the phys­i­cal pain is her own secret sanc­tu­ary. When the well-​​meaning but oh, so sim­ple­minded stick fig­ures around her call her clumsy and unlucky, she always some­how man­ages to find enough strength to smile and joke the signs away. She wishes that the stick fig­ures would not bother to look because they are not pay­ing atten­tion to her any­way. Why pay atten­tion to a bruise or a scab when she her­self is there, right in front of them?

Her soul’s pain, born from dis­ap­point­ment, bred from lies, some­times drowns her and buries her to the point that she must claw at her own skin to dig her way out. Her heart’s pain, born from lone­li­ness, bred from lack of inti­macy, some­times over­whelms her and suf­fo­cates her to the point that she must open her very skin to breathe. And not even that is enough. For in the dis­tance far behind her, she can hear the howl of the wolves of numb­ness. And they are com­ing closer heart­beat by heartbeat.

I look at her and where oth­ers would coo and fuss and tell her that what she is doing is not right, that she must stop that fool­ish­ness, I embrace her in my wings, I cup her cheek and tell her that she is not alone. I have never known the pain she car­ries inside her, but in a strange, mys­te­ri­ous way I under­stand her need. I can feel her pain like the radi­ant glow from a fire and I instinc­tively know how to con­trol it. Fight fire with fire. Pain with pain.

I kiss her eye­lids and as I lower her head down I reas­sure her that she is safe with me. I will stand guard over her body while her mind lets go. She is free to feel. She is free to guide the exter­nal pain into her soul to bat­tle the inter­nal pain that is con­sum­ing her. Free of the need to occupy her mind with the mechan­ics of pain, the logis­tics of agony, she is free to expe­ri­ence an inti­macy she has never felt before, the inti­macy between the tor­tured and the torturer.

With teeth of steel and fin­gers of iron, I slowly and grad­u­ally take away her con­trol of her own body. Her heart soars, her skin sings, and finally, her thoughts are quiet. Her entire being is lost in sen­sa­tions, expe­ri­ences so pure, erupt­ing in white hot foun­tains of pain. And my heart bursts with pride at her dis­play of brav­ery and unself­con­scious rapture.

When she cries out in agony my ears hear her song of release. I can feel the cloak of numb­ness cling­ing to her rip­ping apart at the seams. Her skin cov­ered in a sheen of per­spi­ra­tion, she raises her­self up through the fire of her inner pain and embraces the pain her body endows. I can sense that the inces­sant thoughts in her mind are qui­et­ing down, the grief of loss of inno­cence is a just a pale mem­ory. Before my eyes, she is reclaim­ing her existence.

I move slowly and pur­pose­fully. I never take my eyes off her; I watch her body’s reac­tions to my min­is­tra­tions, her breath­ing, her pulse in the vein by her neck, the color of her skin. Of this she knows noth­ing which is as it should. This is her time. Her place. I am merely a tool; a sign­post guid­ing her on her jour­ney. As to not unduly invade her mind and stir the thoughts that are lying to rest, I whis­per in her ear and encour­age her to let go, to fly.

And when she bursts out in tears I do not stop. No, at that moment I know that I am touch­ing her very core and I gen­tly and firmly per­sist. I reach into her heart and with ten­der vio­lence claw at her pain to drag, to pull, to cajole pieces of it out. As the sound of her cry­ing sub­sides I relent as well and I take her sore, exhausted, throb­bing body in my arms, and I hold her. I stroke her hair while sobs reverb through her body and I tell her that I have never seen a braver soul nor a stronger heart. Her eyes are clear for now. They are red­dened by tears, but they are as deep as bot­tom­less pools of calm fresh water.

I hold her and for the first time I only feel the heat from her body radi­at­ing against me, not the heat from her pain. That heat will return. But not for a while. And I will be here when it does.

I look down at her now peace­ful face.

She is asleep.