Love is God or How I Gained Control by Losing It
“How can you believe in love if you don’t believe in God?” he asks.
I am tied up as he asks this. Literally. I am bound with rope and placed in a very exposed position. He has a cane in his hand and he has just finished putting welts on my ass and thighs.
I don’t say “I love you” often. Except to my mother because I do love her. I used to say it with less hesitation but with the experiences that I’ve been having lately, I’m not sure I want to be making those kinds of claims yet. Or anymore.
“I care about him a lot” is as far as I got when asked. I return the question to him.
He runs his hand on the now sore skin. And then he hits me again and I yelp, eyes shut tight. The pain is sharp and inescapable. I see him getting ready to hit me again and I keep my eyes closed. The sound of the cane hitting me is masked by scream.
“My love has died”
I’m not exactly sure what he means by that. I try to listen to him explaining it and I think he means that there are feelings that are more important than love. I’m not sure.
I’ve told the other I love him. I told him four months after meeting him. I told him some weeks after he hurt me in ways that I, to this day, haven’t fully fathomed yet . I told him him days after kissing someone else and realizing that it’s his lips I want to kiss.
I didn’t feel it immediately. There are days when I question it. I don’t admit it to anyone. Well, I can’t talk about it with anyone.
“Does he love you?” he asks as he unties me. The pillow under me is completely soaked. I would shrug at the question but there is rope around my torso. We stay silent, he is focusing on undoing knots. He then asks me if I need to smoke. I nod.
He slaps me. Three times. As payment for one stick.
I go to the dresser where my cigarettes are and I proceed to put one between my lips. I catch his reflection on the mirror as he approaches me from behind. He puts his arms around me and then one hand makes its way to my neck. Choking me.
“You know who controls you?”
“You?”
I thought it was play.
He smiles, loosens his grip around my neck and places a light kiss on my head, “No. You. You always have a choice.”
He tells me I am beautiful. He tells me that he knew I was special the moment he saw me. I let him hold me for a while. He needs a nap for now and he tells me to wake him up after I finish smoking.
I go to the corner where the small window is. I grab a chair, face the wall and smoke by the window.
I think about the other, as I often do. I’m not sure if I believe him but he claims he will crumble to the floor if I ever do what I had just done. I close my eyes. Tight. The pain is sharp and inescapable.
There is no view from this window. Just more windows and a lot of darkness. I stare out, blind to the emptiness. I know that I did something for myself. I needed repose.
I continue to think of the other, as I often do. This is the last time that I will be here. And now it’s not because I was told I can’t but because the thought of doing this to him has such a disgusting, malevolent taste that I don’t think I can bring myself to do it again.
We hug each other before I leave. We know this is the last. We both know now that I love the other.
And though the other loves another and maybe another after her, what I feel for him – whatever this really is – is real. Even during the days when I don’t believe. For such is the nature of truth.
Like oil on water. Clear for all to see.
Fictionalized Facts 