(no subject)
Ants Marching
Get out of my house, get out, get out, get out.
She repeated it over and over again like a mantra meant to protect her from harm. And it worked, a little; the wave of nausea and pain that rolled over her receded, just a little, just a tiny little bit. Just enough to keep from doubling under it. Just enough to survive, as it always was.
Her mind replayed every crime he had committed against her to steel her, to straighten her old bent back and dry her acrid tears, two armies of ants marching down her cheeks and pooling in a war on her breast. Replayed in brutal detail every ghost of a wound that had once danced on her burning heart. Played and played and played, to prove to her she was better off without the pain, without having to sell herself as a slave every morning and accept a delicate little death every night. Over and over again. But all it ended up serving to do was turn her into a clawing beast, a wildcat never meant to swim in the ocean, struggling for a hold in a sea of despair and hope and if only. Of what if.
As much misery as all of those things had caused, and still caused, she found herself unable to see them as anything but small crimes. Grievances that, while perpetrated by him, were still her fault. Somehow. If only she could see what she had done, if only she could learn her lesson, then the punishment he’d cursed her with would lift. But she couldn’t understand. She couldn’t see what she had done. And that was all right of course, or had been, back when he was still around to tell her each and every fault he found. Then, it was simple; she could merely accept them all and bend her neck for the blow that would befall as her sentence. Now, she was adrift and alone, and unable to see where her crimes lay, or what they were, or how she could properly be shrived and given penance.
Even as flawed as she was, as ugly and common, as cold and petty, as cruel and ill-tempered, he had taken her and allowed her to bathe in the waters he had blessed with his own blood. Not that she had not paid dearly enough for them. Her own veins had opened to darken those baptismal waters as deeply as his had, in a different manner. He had beaten her soundly, but she had beaten herself. He had held the lash, the angry god scourging her soul for whim and dream and desire, but she had never buckled, a slave queen, teeth gritted in an animal grin, praising the heavens that she would not rot after all. He wad wept, but she had offered her freedom and life, her heart and soul, her service and hope, at his feet.
He had taken up all of those things, once, with a caress as often as a slap. The wildcat inside her purred and was tamed, curling itself around his legs as the benefit of her sex provided. He allowed her to flourish under his ownership, chained as surely as she to the slave he could not live without. And as long as she knew these things she was content. As long as he needed her, he would not cast her aside.
But now his cheeks ran dry, and the ring he had promised her rested on someone else’s finger, his fortune 'round wound someone else's neck. And she wept, crying out into the silence, because there was no one left to be her confessor. She wept, the ants marching once more down her face, hot and stinging in response to the cold breaths of the tomb that would be her home. She wept, but all that was left to her was silence.
What was wrong with me?
Not even an echo came through the darkness to answer her.
What is wrong with me?
Get out of my house, get out, get out, get out.
She repeated it over and over again like a mantra meant to protect her from harm. And it worked, a little; the wave of nausea and pain that rolled over her receded, just a little, just a tiny little bit. Just enough to keep from doubling under it. Just enough to survive, as it always was.
Her mind replayed every crime he had committed against her to steel her, to straighten her old bent back and dry her acrid tears, two armies of ants marching down her cheeks and pooling in a war on her breast. Replayed in brutal detail every ghost of a wound that had once danced on her burning heart. Played and played and played, to prove to her she was better off without the pain, without having to sell herself as a slave every morning and accept a delicate little death every night. Over and over again. But all it ended up serving to do was turn her into a clawing beast, a wildcat never meant to swim in the ocean, struggling for a hold in a sea of despair and hope and if only. Of what if.
As much misery as all of those things had caused, and still caused, she found herself unable to see them as anything but small crimes. Grievances that, while perpetrated by him, were still her fault. Somehow. If only she could see what she had done, if only she could learn her lesson, then the punishment he’d cursed her with would lift. But she couldn’t understand. She couldn’t see what she had done. And that was all right of course, or had been, back when he was still around to tell her each and every fault he found. Then, it was simple; she could merely accept them all and bend her neck for the blow that would befall as her sentence. Now, she was adrift and alone, and unable to see where her crimes lay, or what they were, or how she could properly be shrived and given penance.
Even as flawed as she was, as ugly and common, as cold and petty, as cruel and ill-tempered, he had taken her and allowed her to bathe in the waters he had blessed with his own blood. Not that she had not paid dearly enough for them. Her own veins had opened to darken those baptismal waters as deeply as his had, in a different manner. He had beaten her soundly, but she had beaten herself. He had held the lash, the angry god scourging her soul for whim and dream and desire, but she had never buckled, a slave queen, teeth gritted in an animal grin, praising the heavens that she would not rot after all. He wad wept, but she had offered her freedom and life, her heart and soul, her service and hope, at his feet.
He had taken up all of those things, once, with a caress as often as a slap. The wildcat inside her purred and was tamed, curling itself around his legs as the benefit of her sex provided. He allowed her to flourish under his ownership, chained as surely as she to the slave he could not live without. And as long as she knew these things she was content. As long as he needed her, he would not cast her aside.
But now his cheeks ran dry, and the ring he had promised her rested on someone else’s finger, his fortune 'round wound someone else's neck. And she wept, crying out into the silence, because there was no one left to be her confessor. She wept, the ants marching once more down her face, hot and stinging in response to the cold breaths of the tomb that would be her home. She wept, but all that was left to her was silence.
What was wrong with me?
Not even an echo came through the darkness to answer her.
What is wrong with me?