by neko

I love the pain. I live for it. It's the reason I continue to exist, craving that wonderful torture.

I know what you're thinking. You pity me that I could want such horrible treatment. You wonder what happened to me to make me the way I am. Perhaps, in all your kindness, you wish you could save me from myself.

Don't bother. I don't want your salvation.

I know what he did was wrong. I know it wasn't my fault, he had problems, he needed help. I know I could have done much better than him. I have heard all the cliches intended to boost my self-esteem and help begin my recovery, so much that I have stopped listening.

I belonged to him, and for a time, I was happy. The rougher he got, the more I both loved him and hated him for it. I soon discovered that a small part of me was not his, yearning instead for freedom. It grew steadily louder, screaming defiant discord against his passionate cries, until one of them had to be silenced.

The abrupt cessation of sound surprised me so much that I wondered if that violent clamour had deafened me. It seemed that one could not exist without the other.

In the absence of the voice, I once again longed for the agony and the ecstasy that he had given me. I wanted those sensations with every fiber of my being. I tried to satisfy these desires myself, but it simply wasn't enough.

Then I found the theatre.

At last, I found a way to answer the craving: two people who could give me everything I needed. They are so different, yet so alike. They know what I want.

I beg them to hurt me.

Hurt me.

Don't stop.

Don't.

Don't hurt me.