How did I get
here? It’s always the same, yet
surprisingly unexpected and here I am again.
Home. In my down covered bed,
safe and warm with the sun barely peaking above the horizon. I stretch my arms over my head. Sore but not damaged. Same with the legs and back. My scalp aches, hair pulling. I smile.
I’ll remember later. Many times
over and over again, I’ll remember.
Sleep pulls me into white haze-filled dreams of his scalding breathe
exciting the hairs on my neck.
This must be the
fifteenth time; I blush furiously as I shower.
I should keep a journal but fear keeps me from confiding in anyone, even
myself. Fear of my face on the cover of
the Enquirer magazine. Fear of the splashy
headline: “My Lover is NOT the Devil—says Hellfire Concubine.” No one is going to call me Satan’s playmate.
My lover is not a
demon. He’s a hot blooded man
alright. A virile, tall drink of water
of a man. Electricity cramps my stomach
and I shiver in chills thinking of him.
How long he stalked me I don’t know. I only know that three years ago when the
elevator door opened to him standing there, I recognized him. I had
been expecting him, waiting for him. I
could picture every glimpse of his muscular frame and scowling clenched jaw in
a flash before my eyes, the department store dressing room, the locksmith in my
building, the swimming pool at my gym, the week my car broke down and he was on
the bus; thousands of sightings that lit my insides on fire as I recognized
them in that moment. It was nothing
short of rape, our first pursuit.
Notably distinguished as not rape by my rasping screams. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Oh yes. I suffered complete laryngitis for nearly a
month. How I must have screamed to
damage my vocal cords so severely.
I woke as I did
this morning. Alone, naked, exhausted,
utterly sated, tucked into my bed. My
collar bone was broken. The doctors in
the ER pressured me to fill out a police report when they saw the bruises and
assumed bite marks. I refused. No one saw me go into that elevator or come
out. I know. I asked.
Everyone. I even bribed a peak at
the security cameras. I knew there would
be nothing, just like I know we weren’t in that elevator or the park or the
stairwell of my apartment or the other twelve or so places he’s been waiting
for me. He’s strong and passionate, my
raven haired lover who does not try to hurt me.
His hands blister like fire and I’m called to worship his flames.
My apartment is as
it should be with the keys on the hook in the foyer. The doorman will not recall seeing me
return. His eyes will narrow if I ask. My body is all the proof I need or will
get. Red welting ribbons, four to a
side, etch from my hips to breasts.
Agonizing ecstasy. He will not
return until they are faded scars. I
know this too even as it breaks my will.
I cannot wait. I will see him in the
checkout line, at the subway station, as a passing cyclist and a hundred more
places. I will not know it until I see
him standing waiting for me next. He
stalks me. He stalks me when I would go
to the ends of the earth to find him. He
will take me when I have all but given up hope and he will burn me with his
desire.
The elevator
deposits me in the lobby. “Good
morning.” Says the doorman cheerfully.
I nod.
“Laryngitis again,
Miss?”
“Yes.” I rasp, smiling to myself.
