COLD STONE UNDERNEATH
I can see him, through the salty tracks running down my face into my eyes, soaking into my ragged clothes. Clothes torn from struggling, fighting, attacks.
Pain, fiery burning all over me. Each muscle quivering and tensed in an effort to alleviate the pain. I can't relax; the pain grows worse. Sprawled on the floor, half curled into a ball, breath coming in shallow and quick. Whimpering softly as he watches.
Cuts, shallow and long, trace my body, scarring the soft flesh, turning it red. Small burns, on my shoulders, from small fireballs that exploded slowly, like a glass cup falling and bursting gently. Screaming and thrashing, trying to stop it. It didn't. Not until he was satisfied. Satisfied he'd won, that I was in enough pain to sufficiently amuse him.
I was alive. I would live. He knew that, made sure of it. I amuse him. I never begged, never acknowledged his position with anything other that sarcasm. I didn't fall to the floor on my knees. Not until I didn't have the strength or the will to keep standing, that is. I was unique to him, something interesting. A shiny bauble, to be played with.
Breathing fast, trying to move. Arms and legs, broken and healed, refuse to move. He just stands there, staring. His eyes reveal slight pleasure, which only heightens when I manage a painful glare. Why should he enjoy this? I'm weak, robes and black hair matted with blood.
Just standing there, black against black, his pale skin emphasizing his jet black eyes, with stars twinkling in them. Black hair waving silkily down to his neck.
Why should I feel anything for him but hate? It's lust, I'm sure. Couldn't possibly be anything else. Couldn't be.
Yet there's an intimacy in our relationship, something. A feeling I'm the only one he talks to, does anything to, and he has all the time in eternity to stay. Makes me feel it. His voice, whispering soft promises which turn to painful reality. Purring, gentle. Distant, icy and hard. Cold beyond cold beyond cold. Delicate fingers gently on me, relaxing for an instant. An instant before the pain starts.
Looking at him, something flickers in his eyes, before disappearing swiftly. A white dove drowning and gasping for breath in a dark lake. Sympathy? Regret? Could he, a god, have such feelings? Possibly.
Other times I see lust, coldly burning and analyzing, a sudden flash put out for show, something to terrify. It works, I never know with him, what he'll really do. He hasn't, but the thought of that.gives me something to be thankful for. Hard to be thankful know. Bleeding, with the world turning black and red, foggy. I want to sleep, to die, just be removed from this pain.
Do I love him? I don't think so, but my inner feeling whisper, 'maybe'. Maybe if things had turned out differently. Maybe if they end differently. We both learn more of each other each time we meet. I actually learn something of him. Mortals and gods, victims and torturers. I stand up to him. I could don the white robes, be humble, subservient. But could I? No. I come back. Do I like the pain? No. Then why.
Maybe because it's him.
I can see him, through the salty tracks running down my face into my eyes, soaking into my ragged clothes. Clothes torn from struggling, fighting, attacks.
Pain, fiery burning all over me. Each muscle quivering and tensed in an effort to alleviate the pain. I can't relax; the pain grows worse. Sprawled on the floor, half curled into a ball, breath coming in shallow and quick. Whimpering softly as he watches.
Cuts, shallow and long, trace my body, scarring the soft flesh, turning it red. Small burns, on my shoulders, from small fireballs that exploded slowly, like a glass cup falling and bursting gently. Screaming and thrashing, trying to stop it. It didn't. Not until he was satisfied. Satisfied he'd won, that I was in enough pain to sufficiently amuse him.
I was alive. I would live. He knew that, made sure of it. I amuse him. I never begged, never acknowledged his position with anything other that sarcasm. I didn't fall to the floor on my knees. Not until I didn't have the strength or the will to keep standing, that is. I was unique to him, something interesting. A shiny bauble, to be played with.
Breathing fast, trying to move. Arms and legs, broken and healed, refuse to move. He just stands there, staring. His eyes reveal slight pleasure, which only heightens when I manage a painful glare. Why should he enjoy this? I'm weak, robes and black hair matted with blood.
Just standing there, black against black, his pale skin emphasizing his jet black eyes, with stars twinkling in them. Black hair waving silkily down to his neck.
Why should I feel anything for him but hate? It's lust, I'm sure. Couldn't possibly be anything else. Couldn't be.
Yet there's an intimacy in our relationship, something. A feeling I'm the only one he talks to, does anything to, and he has all the time in eternity to stay. Makes me feel it. His voice, whispering soft promises which turn to painful reality. Purring, gentle. Distant, icy and hard. Cold beyond cold beyond cold. Delicate fingers gently on me, relaxing for an instant. An instant before the pain starts.
Looking at him, something flickers in his eyes, before disappearing swiftly. A white dove drowning and gasping for breath in a dark lake. Sympathy? Regret? Could he, a god, have such feelings? Possibly.
Other times I see lust, coldly burning and analyzing, a sudden flash put out for show, something to terrify. It works, I never know with him, what he'll really do. He hasn't, but the thought of that.gives me something to be thankful for. Hard to be thankful know. Bleeding, with the world turning black and red, foggy. I want to sleep, to die, just be removed from this pain.
Do I love him? I don't think so, but my inner feeling whisper, 'maybe'. Maybe if things had turned out differently. Maybe if they end differently. We both learn more of each other each time we meet. I actually learn something of him. Mortals and gods, victims and torturers. I stand up to him. I could don the white robes, be humble, subservient. But could I? No. I come back. Do I like the pain? No. Then why.
Maybe because it's him.