Perdita Pt.3 — the Morning after

This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.

You will find that this makes more sense if you have read the earlier parts of the story

After he had tied me with the knot which he’d said could kill me if I struggled, after he had left me— hooded, naked, wrists tied behind me, still in the face-down, ass-up position he so often preferred me in for sex, I made some attempt to think. I knew I must; must make some attempt to make sense of what had happened, what had been done to me; such a complete shock, such a violation of everything I thought I had known— known about him, about myself, about the world, about what could be done with a girl’s body without actually killing her …

I tried. I really tried, because I knew, with my reason, that my very life was in danger— he had been at pains to have me understand that, if I were to be found dead in the morning, it would constitute an inconvenience for him, something awkward he would have to deal with— but equally, nothing which would greatly upset him, or concern him at all deeply. My death— the extinguishing of everything that I meant in the world, was an acceptable outcome, for him, of his horrific abuse, of the violence he had called down upon me, the sexual depravity, the laughing, sadistic viciousness.

It was not only my physical existence which was threatened, though, but there was a perhaps more dreadful future. I could remain living, but — and I felt very close to the point of it— I could lose my grip on reality— become a babbling, incoherent wreck of a human, all peace, all sense-of-self permanently ruined by the impact of just a few hours of horrific cruelty and abuse.

Somehow, I knew, I had to try to make sense of all this, make some plan, find some way out, some path forward, some understanding, at least, of what all this meant for me.

Otherwise I could well be lost, gone, finished, without even having tried, without any attempt at finding out what I wanted, now, after … after …

It was no good; I was drifting, drifting away, and I knew it; those aspects of me which were shouting, screaming in my head that something, some response, some effort must be tried, were just too small, too weak, too tired themselves, to resist the tidal wave of exhaustion which was taking me, and …

… and I was jerked; shocked back into consciousness— bleary, confused, lost— totally unable to process anything, the stuffy blackness which enveloped my head, the terrible tightness of something at my neck, making every breath a painful effort, multiple aches and shrieking pains all over my body, my wrists tied, discovered as I had instinctively reached upward to pull the immediately hated covering of my head away.

I was cold … sore, dreadfully thirsty, my head ached and I was …

… it hit me.

Not as a shock, not with any force, or energy, but rather as a yawning pit of sick despair.

I had been ended.

Breathing, thinking, feeling, all of those made no difference.

I had been killed.

The girl I was had died, only a few hours ago, and this pathetic, hurting, husk of a damaged body was what was left; this cringing, bleating, miasma of terror that was all the mind I had.

Parts of me were making foolish, stupid, ridiculous demands, wanting ways out, ways forward, something— anything— with any positivity about it, any opportunity for action; but the rest of me knew, far too well, that there was no hope. Not now. not ever. That any efforts at healing would fail, would just hurt more.

Why had I not died in the night? The cord at my neck was tight enough; just a little more, just allowing myself to topple sideways would tighten it— I need do nothing but let myself …

… fall.

I didn’t plan it, didn’t do anything. But I did accept it as my body slowly, softly crumpled, and my weight took me, not like a body at all; more like a sack of sand, just slumping, sideways, some awful pains relieved, others reactivated, in the jumbled, slack heap that was all that was left of what I had been, who I had been. That lost girl.

And the ligature tightened with the weight of me, the force of the slow slump tightening the cruel little knot at the side of my windpipe, and breathing, which had already been hard, tortuous, became all but impossible. The body, the body would not stop, of course; still fought for every teaspoon of air, the chest, assailed by pains (cracked ribs — the words formed in my mind— torn ligaments — but there was nothing to be done about any of this; it weas just the baseline which had to be accepted now) nevertheless heaved mightily, the neck strained to ease the pressure, the hands, the arms writhed in vain, desperate to do their duty and grapple with the ligature that was killing me; all of this shaming, embarrassing, pathetic, meaningless— I was actually hating myself, scorning myself as I died, disgusted by my own puerile weakness, my shameful stupidity, by my crass foolishness in having let myself be tricked by him, everything grinding at itself, wanting, so desperately wanting to be gone, to be deleted, to be freed, my brain in pointless overdrive as it was overwhelmed by a curtain of rising nothingness as it starved, deprived of oxygen, deprived of meaning, and I welcomed it, welcomed the cessation of pain, the end of shame and degradation and fear, the end of …

… consciousness returned with pain, and violent thrashing. Once again, I had no idea of anything except hurt and fear and a powerful feeling of despair and self-hatred.

This time, though, when everything came back, it came fast, like an onrushing train, smashing me with a wave of terror and humiliation and …

Why? The question demanded an answer, before anything else— why was I here, why was I not dead? Was I dead? Did it mean nothing? Would I be in this horror forever? Was this hell?

A hard, bony grip on my jaw, pulling my face up, my head around, my eyes focused, with great effort, enormous lassitude, combined with urgent, heaving breaths which were nothing to do with me— just my body’s doing, wanting to continue, even after everything had been broken, everything was lost. But I was not dead.

Nothing could be as painful as this; as life, as having to continue to live when everything had been ripped from me.

The hood is gone I realised, dully.

My vision swam, the grip tightened …

Norah

His servant. Obviously ancient, without looking particularly old; expressionless, inscrutable as always.

“I cut the knot. You had your chance, in the night. You were breathing when I woke you, so you’re his, for now.”

“It took a push with the scissors to cut the the cord; the only way. You’re bleeding from the neck. Just another thing to be fixed. He’s gone to work— left you to sleep. Unneeded kindness for a cheap whore. You’re to be made presentable, be ready for him at lunchtime. I will manage you. You will make it easy for me, or suffer.”

I had never made friends with Norah; never even made small talk, after the first few awkward tries. She was an enigma. A servant, and yet almost autonomous. When he spoke to her, it was as if to an old friend, but when she spoke to him, it was with immense deference. She ran the house, and as far as I could see, various other day-to-day aspects of his life. He expressed preferences, but gave no orders, she got the detail right. They spoke relatively little; he did most of it, often the only response a nod. He rarely called for her, and yet she was always there when it was appropriate.

She had never, not once, smiled at me. Even her smiles for him were small and dry, even though they were obviously genuine— I had seen that the only times her eyes softened was when he gave her some small thanks or compliment.

Apart from that, she might have been carved from centuries old olive wood, dried in a slow kiln; dense, close grained, hard as nails, obdurate, persistent, permanent as only a living, determined thing can be.

I made no trouble for her.

She freed me from my restraints, helped me stand by taking a handful of my hair and pulling up. She was short, slight, and as strong as braided steel cable. Her will, alone, was stronger, physically, than I have ever been— that, at least, was how it felt to be under her control, which until then I had never been.

Without seeming effort from her, or decision by me, I was at all times that morning, under her control.

Honestly, shamefully, I was grateful. Heartbroken that I was so weak, pathetically willing to let her be what I could not be for myself; decisive.

She knew at every moment, exactly where her will, her purpose, her meaning was going. I had no will, no purpose, no meaning, and yet I was not dead; life was my burden; life, with its endless minute by minute, second by second demands on us to act, to choose, to be.

She took all of that burden from me. I had only to be what she required me to be, and all would be numb. If— and it was often— if I failed, then her fingers would dig straight in to whatever flesh of mine was nearest, grip and twist; savagely distort. She was not punishing, so much as impelling immediate response, immediate compliance, immediate improvement. And it worked.

That morning, I experienced, for the first time, what it was to be nothing— or at least as nothing as a human can be, and yet still be in the world. I was hers; her creature, her material, her canvas, her resource. She conquered me, that morning, conquered me utterly; not through force, not through punishment or reward, not through anything active. Rather, she conquered me by showing me that she could control me on his behalf, and achieve perfect outcomes, with nothing more than her iron certainty as to what he deserved. For I was nothing, that morning— a ruin of a human being, the ground-zero of an explosion of cruel violence which had obliterated the person who had previously animated the body she was working on.

Yet when, after several hours of steady work from her, and helpless obedience on my part, she showed me what the body looked like in the big mirror, I was filled with wonder; with awe, with the first glimpse of who I might become; must become, if this body was not going to let me leave the stage.

For the creature in the mirror, although clearly a victim, clearly a wounded soul, her eyes full of pain and shame and fear, that creature was also gorgeous; sexually intriguing, and exquisitely presented.

The black eye, the upper lip swollen at one side, the contusions were all discernible, but did not detract. They seemed more like Hollywood make-up versions than the real wounds they represented; the little dress, demure in its soft grey; almost formal, but very definitely sexy with it, the rather few buttons at the front implying easy access, the implication true, as beneath the dress there was only a painfully tight waist-cincher corset cum garterbelt— no bra, no panties. Norah seemed to be an artist with first aid, little adhesive butterfly patches doing the work of stitches, paint-on skin for the messier injuries, including the torn nipple.

I recognised myself, almost; the girl who had gone shopping with him only 24 hours before, filled with sexual fizz and girlish delight at being taken shopping by her sugar daddy.

Something in me wanted to live up to the image, and was more than obedient, but actively complicit, in trying to walk well, to live up to the mirror image as I allowed the chauffeur to hand me from the limousine, as I walked into the chic and exclusive restaurant I was to have lunch in with my debaucher, with my abuser-in-chief, with the de-facto owner of my life, since I had not had the strength to end myself in the night.

For no reason that made any sense, save that, still alive, there was some basic drive to make sense of that fact, to create some mneaning, however empty, delf-destructive, shaming. Still, I could not help but attend to my walk, my posture, my face, managing to smile at the Maitre’d who showed me to a table for two in a quiet booth at the back of the place.

To sit, awaiting his pleasure, knowing that he is always late for me, to wait with at least the appearance of complaisance, while inside me the question ‘why aren’t I dead’?’ is the only one which means anything.