I sit watching the sunlight dance off the black sand as the hot breeze rustles the leaves that my prison has grown to protect me. Why the architects protect me I am not sure, why I am not impaled on the cross or pinned to the earth with spikes to be burned and torn apart like Prometheus.

There was a time before here. At least I think there was a time before here. There are vague memories that float through my mind things that when I try to hang onto them they slip like mercury through my fingers. It had to start somewhere right?

Tonight I give myself a headache trying desperately to remember what came before but they whisper to me, their hissing voices seem to overlap making it impossible to distinguish reason from sanity or sanity from hope.

As the day burns bright I lay on the floor of my prison trying to listen to what the voices are saying no longer sure that they are talking to me or each other. I want to ask about the beginning, the start of things, how I came to be locked in this world kept safe even from myself.

I remember the monkey, his laughter and playful nature, how he would make me smile even when the world was falling apart.

I remember the jackal, his quick wit and subtle mind along with his viscous nature, how I felt safe and terrified at the same time, feeling his strength ripple under my finger tips and the sharpness of his teeth as they tore into my flesh.

I remember the horse who was my strength, my loyalty, my heart, and my hope, and my peace all wrapped up in a massively powerful body. A mane that I could wrap my fingers into  to pull him close and hold him against my heart.

I remember the cat the inscrutable one who always had a cheshire grin. The one who taught me what it was to feel fear and enjoy it.

They created the quiet. The precious calm that wrapped itself around me the same way they wrapped themselves around me until there was nothing left of me. Sometimes one at a time and sometimes they would all be around their hands on me and bodies pressed close.

In the end the horses strength failed, the monkey slipped into madness, and the jackal like his counterpart in the Inuit legend ate himself and the cat lost his grin and his drive and ultimately any feeling he had for me, I think his quiet is gone just like mine is.

I miss them more than I miss myself. It is only a matter of time.

So true!
So true!

34 thoughts on “The Beginning

      1. Yes, there is a huge difference between house trained and broken… unfortunately most of them are broken and not the wonderful eyes downcast kneel at my feet sort of broken but the ex-girlfriend snapped in half kind of broken.

      2. Shit, those wounds just take a little time and deprogramming. Maybe administer a little aversion therapy of your own design. Could be downright decadent and gloriously depraved.

      3. I knew there was a reason I enjoy the way that you think. Unfortunately the slightest sign of aggression and manipulation however delightful it may be tends to make the broken ones bolt even if it is all in fun. They are so used to being used that there is no fight left in them.

      4. Binding and then asking tends to be viewed at kidnapping and it is unfortunate that at least here it is still illegal. There are not many that are worth the time to help them rediscover the reason for fighting, binding, or any of the more painful pursuits of pleasure.

      5. Keep your head on a swivel, you may stumble on some nice boy who you can unmercifully condition to be a fierce man. Something tells me, if anyone has the skills…it would be you.

      6. You strike me as one of the few who could elicit a beg from me. So either one. Unless or until. Be warned, I will surprise you, when you find that I have coaxed a beg from your lips, as well. We both play this sport and only at high stakes.

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