I wonder how much time do you have. And if you have it, what makes you wasting it after me.
But, hey, it's your time. I should be grateful.I am grateful.
I felt...it was solid, but peaceful. It was loud around me, there was music going on, and people cheering, I think, laughing, but I was ... far away. Hearing it all but not listening. Trapped but free, inside.
My eyes were close, I had a blindfold. They were hitting me, I don't know with what, and I didn't want them to stop. Because it felt right.
As if, with one more blow, I would have tasted chocolate, sweet and melting on your tongue and perfect and mine. Only mine. I didn't want it to end. I was crying, I was hurting, but I didn't feel empty.
Yes, tell me I'm fucked up. That is 'something', though, isn't it? And I don't mind.
I wasn't acting. In that place. It was me, on that floor. Not some character, or a version of me I invented and showed on tour.
The joke was connected to my last job. I played an inmate in a very shitty place called OZ. I went to an Halloween party, one of those huge events where you don't really know anyone and the few friends you came with vanish in two secs. I went as my character. Other guests were dressed up as inmates or cops or hacks...you drink, you pop one pill, then another...and we started play a cops-and-robbers sort of game. Play pretend. And the joke was on me, not to stop the game, to see if I could take as much as my character did.
I can guess...that I didn't want to be less than a character. Not just a performer. And if it doesn't hurt, it isn't real, right? It never hurts on stage.
You might be surprised to learn how many perfectly sane, intelligent, contributing members of society love getting the shit beat out of them by people who know how to do it. Doesn't mean you're fucked up, I don't think, and I doubt they'd think so either.
I'll tell you this, though: do not do that again when you've been drinking or taking pills or doing drugs that impair your judgment or alter your pain tolerance. Just don't.
Now, did you like the pain? Pain is just another sensation, and they're all interpreted by the mind. It doesn't always have to be interpreted as bad, and not everyone experiences pain the same way. Think about the people you know who pride themselves on being able to eat things like Jabanero chilies. Some of those people might think I'm fucked up for liking the occasional friendly fistfight, but I look at their chili habit and just shake my head. Not my kinda pain.
Did you like the feeling that you weren't the one in charge? a sense of surrendering control? That's another thing that's not fucked up. A lot of people want that, even need it. We spend so much time keeping ourselves under such tight control, always being responsible for ourselves and others, that abandoning that can be a real freedom.
Did you like the feeling of having control wrested from you? Because a corollary to the "a lot of people like to give up control" is "but some people can't let themselves." And some people like the feeling of being wanted that much. Also not fucked up, by the way, either of those things.
When you say it felt right, them hitting you, can you tell me what felt right about it?
Dean has been up all night. Pacing, staring at the screen, wanting to type, wanting to yell.
Discipline is not something is good at. When he wants, he wants now. When he felt like travelling, he just hopped on the first train, the first flight.
And now he has to think. To take the hand that has been offered, and think. Look for the answers in himself.
There's light outside, filtering through the curtains. It's disturbing somehow. He wonders if he should tell Urgayle of this man asking questions, this comment he hasn't answered yet but that he wants so badly to press keys for. Easier, without thinking, just jumping in.
He opens the drawer beneath the desk, reaching out for the little box with the coloured lovely pills inside. Then his hand stops in midair.
He asked for advice. He should follow it. The drawers closes with a slam. The screen is flickering, pale light in the half-darkness.
I asked you a number of questions, and I didn't ask them just because I look so goddamned good at the keyboard. I'm used to getting answers.
So here are the options.
You can answer me. Or you can ask me where I live and get your ass here, and I'll decide then whether we keep talking or find another way to address your questions.
Or I can assume this means you've already chosen another way, and I'll tip my hat to you and wish you all the best.
"I'll get my ass there", are the words that Dean types on the keyboard, deletes then types them again. And again.
Where do you live?
This doesn't seem the easiest way. But if it makes him tremble and shiver so, it has to be the better choice. And Urgayle will decide for him. Of course, he could also be one of those that could just hurt him and then throw him away. Dean breathes deply before getting ready. He only has the car keys with him, no jacket or else. He should have asked if he were supposed to bring something. Now waiting. Waiting, sweat on his palms and his back and between his hands.
And if you have it, what makes you wasting it after me.
But, hey, it's your time. I should be grateful.I am grateful.
I felt...it was solid, but peaceful.
It was loud around me, there was music going on, and people cheering, I think, laughing, but I was ... far away.
Hearing it all but not listening.
Trapped but free, inside.
My eyes were close, I had a blindfold. They were hitting me, I don't know with what, and I didn't want them to stop. Because it felt right.
As if, with one more blow, I would have tasted chocolate, sweet and melting on your tongue and perfect and mine. Only mine.
I didn't want it to end.
I was crying, I was hurting, but I didn't feel empty.
Yes, tell me I'm fucked up. That is 'something', though, isn't it? And I don't mind.
I wasn't acting. In that place. It was me, on that floor. Not some character, or a version of me I invented and showed on tour.
The joke was connected to my last job. I played an inmate in a very shitty place called OZ. I went to an Halloween party, one of those huge events where you don't really know anyone and the few friends you came with vanish in two secs. I went as my character. Other guests were dressed up as inmates or cops or hacks...you drink, you pop one pill, then another...and we started play a cops-and-robbers sort of game.
Play pretend.
And the joke was on me, not to stop the game, to see if I could take as much as my character did.
I can guess...that I didn't want to be less than a character. Not just a performer. And if it doesn't hurt, it isn't real, right? It never hurts on stage.
Reply
I'll tell you this, though: do not do that again when you've been drinking or taking pills or doing drugs that impair your judgment or alter your pain tolerance. Just don't.
Now, did you like the pain? Pain is just another sensation, and they're all interpreted by the mind. It doesn't always have to be interpreted as bad, and not everyone experiences pain the same way. Think about the people you know who pride themselves on being able to eat things like Jabanero chilies. Some of those people might think I'm fucked up for liking the occasional friendly fistfight, but I look at their chili habit and just shake my head. Not my kinda pain.
Did you like the feeling that you weren't the one in charge? a sense of surrendering control? That's another thing that's not fucked up. A lot of people want that, even need it. We spend so much time keeping ourselves under such tight control, always being responsible for ourselves and others, that abandoning that can be a real freedom.
Did you like the feeling of having control wrested from you? Because a corollary to the "a lot of people like to give up control" is "but some people can't let themselves." And some people like the feeling of being wanted that much. Also not fucked up, by the way, either of those things.
When you say it felt right, them hitting you, can you tell me what felt right about it?
Reply
Discipline is not something is good at. When he wants, he wants now. When he felt like travelling, he just hopped on the first train, the first flight.
And now he has to think. To take the hand that has been offered, and think. Look for the answers in himself.
There's light outside, filtering through the curtains. It's disturbing somehow. He wonders if he should tell Urgayle of this man asking questions, this comment he hasn't answered yet but that he wants so badly to press keys for. Easier, without thinking, just jumping in.
He opens the drawer beneath the desk, reaching out for the little box with the coloured lovely pills inside. Then his hand stops in midair.
He asked for advice. He should follow it. The drawers closes with a slam.
The screen is flickering, pale light in the half-darkness.
Reply
I asked you a number of questions, and I didn't ask them just because I look so goddamned good at the keyboard. I'm used to getting answers.
So here are the options.
You can answer me. Or you can ask me where I live and get your ass here, and I'll decide then whether we keep talking or find another way to address your questions.
Or I can assume this means you've already chosen another way, and I'll tip my hat to you and wish you all the best.
Reply
Where do you live?
This doesn't seem the easiest way. But if it makes him tremble and shiver so, it has to be the better choice. And Urgayle will decide for him. Of course, he could also be one of those that could just hurt him and then throw him away.
Dean breathes deply before getting ready. He only has the car keys with him, no jacket or else. He should have asked if he were supposed to bring something. Now waiting. Waiting, sweat on his palms and his back and between his hands.
Reply
Reply
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