From the Ashes (Possessed 2.50)

Lost in pleasure, I almost do as he commands, and then I remember my body is a mess. Fresh cuts, old cuts, unfinished cuts. I have them all. Disgrace washes over me as I stand frozen.

“I. Said. Strip.” Each of his labored words resonates through me. I feel compelled to do as he says, except I can’t.

Tears pool in my eyes as I look to him. “I can’t,” I cry out softly, unmoving.

“Why?” His eyes narrow on me. “What are you hiding that’s so bad?”

“I can’t,” I repeat, sounding like a broken record. “We can’t.” His sharp inhale makes me think he might give up on me. I wouldn’t blame him.

“Strip. Right. Fucking. Now,” he demands again, and my fingers twitch to do his bidding. My body, mind, and heart are waging war inside me, and I don’t know which direction to follow.

My heart screams he’ll understand.

My body is dying for the pleasure only he seems able to give me.

My mind, however, is beating the other two back and telling me he’ll reject me, and I can’t face that response from him, as well.

I watch him considering me with narrowed eyes, and I see a fight in them. He’s engaged in his own battle. Storming towards me, his hand finds it’s much-loved spot in my hair and tightens his grip. His free hand goes to the neck of my shirt, and before I know what’s happening, there’s a loud ripping sound echoing in the room.

My eyes slam shut.

My heart stutters.

My body vibrates with the pain of his feared contempt.

“What the fuck is this?” he snarls.

I’m frozen in shock; I can’t respond. What would I say if I could? So I stare at the wall and wait. For what I’m not totally sure, but I know it’s not going to be pretty.

“Why?” he whispers, horrified.

I give my head a slight shake. Words are crowding in my throat, and I can’t force a single one out.

His hand goes to trail the newest and deepest cut on my stomach from last night, and I flinch, not from fear or pain, but from humiliation. I have disfigured my body, and now he knows.

“Look at me!” Fury seethes behind his words.

My eyes meet his, and what I see has tears streaming down my face. “I told you I can’t do this,” I falter, mortified that I’m the cause of the pain I see.

“Fuck that. That’s a fucking cop-out, and you know it.”

I flinch at the harshness in his tone. His own feelings are compounding mine, and I feel the tell-tale itch. My fingers twitch, my body tenses, and my eyes drop so he doesn’t see the desire I feel to add yet another blemish to my once perfect skin.

“You cut yourself,” he says, more to himself than me. “Why?” The direct question throws me off guard. I think long and hard about how to answer that, so he understands my pain. “Is this punishment for what you did?” He pulls my hair, so I’m forced to look at him.

“Partly.” I realize it is.

“What else?”

“To purge.”

Disgust colors his eyes, and I feel I’ve lost anything we might have had.

“Purge,” he repeats. “Purge what?”

“The fear and pain.” More tears leak from eyes as I confess this. I know honesty is my only option now.

“Fear and pain of what? Of who?”