Norventaar
Someone cut the power to her brain. Everything went black. He was so humorous at dinner. Now he was a disaster. She loved it. She had caught herself laughing louder than she meant to. Drinks, drinks, and more drinks. It was a good dinner. He chose the right restaurant. The lights were golden, the walls were chestnut, and the history of the place simmered. She imagined the bootleggers and the Fitzgeralds sitting at these tables. She pressed her palm into the thick mahogany. His hands on the table connected and the sweat of her palms conducted the electricity of his gaze. He was well crafted. His smile delivered promises. He chose items from the menu and ordered them from the server. She looked up at her with her rumpled white shirt and the dingy apron wrapped around her hips. That’s me, she thought. In a past life. She glanced down at her Malibu Suede Azia, dancing at the end of her bouncing leg. He nodded. She was glad to have his approval. He was older just like she had ordered, but he was all curls and silver whiskers and taller than her father. And these were the images that got wetter and wetter in her whiskey. He was going to get lucky tonight. She had made up her mind. She talked in paragraphs on the walk from the restaurant to the lobby of his apartment building. She forgot how to speak once they were standing in front of the elevator doors. The wait was endless. On the ride up to his apartment, he spoke for her. With the lights off in her mind, he threw her up against the wall. She could feel the elevator shift in its shaft. He was strong enough to keep her still and smart enough to know how to be tender. It was like he was holding down a child who needed to have a splinter removed. He blended confidence and passion. He was in charge. She teetered on her heels. He had asserted himself when they were just chatting online. This elevator ride left her breathless and small. Everything inside of her that could melt did, and she was sure that she would leave a stain of herself on the wall. He turned her and pressed her with his forearm and held her there, and she was too excited to wiggle or fight. He found the hem of her skirt and impatiently lifted it so that her well selected underwear would glow like strawberries in the light. He lifted his hand and let it land on her right cheek. The sting sent a choir of howls to her mouth. What came out of her was a sound she had never heard herself make in the past. It was that first hit that knocked out the power. She was completely off the grid. The only light she could feel came from him. His hand scintillated as it whipped through the air and struck her several more times. Hard. Without consideration. Without much fear for or need of consent. He had her consent. It leaked out of her since the moment he ordered her an Old Fashioned. She could not control the shudders or the moans. She was all yes. She was one with it. Having her skirt pulled up on this ancient elevator by a man twice her age was worth the price of the Jimmy Choos. She teetered but he wasn’t going to let her fall. He wasn’t finished using her yet. Not even close.
What do you do when you are born this beautiful? Someone told the little girl you to “play sports” and so you did. Someone else said “let your hair grow out. Pretty girls have long hair.” So you never cut it. They recommended that “you should sit quietly.” You forgot you had a voice. You never squirmed. That was for boys and ugly girls. These are the ingredients. Toss them and mix them and throw it all into the oven. When you come out you delight the crowds at the tables. You are dinner. You are the oven, too. And you have been burning for years. And now that the door has been swung open and the steam leaps out with the heat, someone with oven mitts pulls you out and puts you on the counter. And there you are. Inedible but gorgeous. In the lights of the kitchen, the sweet golden spots of you glisten and breathe. You’re almost too perfect to serve. Because to serve you would mean to cut you into pieces. Put you on plates. Send you out into the party so that the revelers could enjoy you. Swallow you. Ingest you and find your beauty in the consumption. They want you. When you were running around chasing the soccer ball, scoring goals, doing your best to be the best player on the pitch, no one told you that the results would be fine cuisine. All this time spent breathing hard and paying attention to the coach would simply be so that when we ate you, your meat would be tender. And that's exactly what you are. Meat. And every simple thing you did from spending days on the beach or painting your own nails or applying serums all contributed to the five stars that the chefs with their endless suggestions have made of you. They proudly display you tan and pony-tailed in the front window of the bistro. Bon Appetit, little one. Enjoy.
I don't need to know what you can see. I don’t care about your eyes. I know what I can see. I can see you. Are you looking at me? Stop. Because I want your eyes useless. Keep them shut. Turn them off. I’m going to make this easy. Your job is to listen. Look at me with your ears. Hear me and imagine the things I am telling you to do. By listening. Not looking. My words will be your eyes. Mt words will be your will. And right now all my words are saying “let me look at you.” Of course, there are more words coming. I want to do more than look at you. My voice is leading the way. My voice will be all of your senses. The temperature in this room and the color of the lights and that scent of the chamber maid’s cleaner, these things all flow in and out of my mouth. I’ll tell you you’re warm. I’ll tell you you’re hungry. I’ll tell you if the ropes are too tight. They’re not, by the way. I like the grimace, though. It’s my imagination that will stimulate your senses. Reality has nothing to do with you right now. Don’t try to imagine which of your senses is being stimulated. Everything inside of you is forfeited. Everything inside of you is mine. Smell the hint of sweat. Should I cut inside of you I would find that you are whole and clean and perfectly raw. And my attention will cook you. The heat of hand and the char from my toys will sear you and you will sizzle. That's what will happen. Feel how flat and hard my hand can be. . And you wondered why I didn't want to see your eyes? Yes you did. Shaking your head no doesn’t stop me from climbing inside of you, my love. If I take a step back, it’s because I am taking panoramic pictures. I am capturing you from head to toe. Your muscles are forgetting how to fight. I am the camera, and you are a thing. A thing doesn't look at the camera. The thing is a bowl of fruit or foggy field. . I compose you. I crop you. I am the guts of the camera, and I am the way the camera works. It’s not for you to worry about the way that I work. You should be worried about the way the air conditioning in this room makes that light shirt of yours sit perfectly on you like a bib or a waterfall. That's why I can crop. Because if I were to see your eyes looking at me I might not like what I see. Because then I might be your object. And you could be the camera. Only your camera isn't a machine. Your camera was human long before I met you. And the things of this room - the television, the mirror, the bathroom sink - they don’t care about you or me. And I don't want that. I don't want to be seen by them, but they are not mine to control. Everything sees me, and that's part of why I'm here. That's my fantasy. You asked me to reduce you. You wanted to be small. You wanted to be a pebble in my pocket. I told you I could erase you, but I don't want to be seen either. Your fantasy might not have allowed for that. You’re not the only one trying to unleash your ugly fantasies. I’ve had my traumas, too. How do you think we wandered into this scene? And so I need you broken down in the bathroom or crucified to the bed that’s been stripped of the filthy comforter. They never clean it, you know. No matter how much the maid scrubs this room, there are always germs everywhere. That’s why I take pictures. You can’t get sick from a picture. I am going to infect you, my dear, but nothing is allowed to get inside of me.
No matter what color the lights are, I know I am powerful. This is the damaged and distorted world in which we live. And every little ounce of power it gives me, I swallow it and make myself stronger. These aren't gifts. I didn't unwrap a damn thing. I came into this world breathing, and that's all I've done. Somehow between then and now I discovered that my insides are diminished but everything else about me is a temple. I am coveted. I am cherished. They tithe and they pray and they kneel for me. And all I have to do is take deeper breaths. Fill the cavity of my chest. Make that shape they love. Depending upon where the air goes determines where the eyes go. I'm not afraid of this. I'm not afraid of these eyes. What are they to me? How do they match me? I am the well. They are the bucket. And deep inside of me a river flows. And beyond that I come from the lakes. And the lakes are full because of the heavens. I am created in the sky. And I fall to the earth. This is what happens when you trace my power. It’s not what happens when you look at me with your eyes. Do you see how empty they are? These eyes? They want me to fill them. I am better than a summer's day. These pilgrims will prove it. They walk by me plastered to a subway wall. They flip through a glossy magazine and see me selling shoes or scarves for the fall. And they see me and they want me and they thirst. They lower themselves down past the ancient stones and they find that their rope is just a little short. And while they swing and hang above me wishing I were at hand, that's when I live past the pages or the posters. That's when I become immortal. It's not that my YouTube videos or my runway walk might get viewed into the millions. It’s that when they see these things they hunger. They desire. And that's how I live on. When we talk about power we talk about permanence. We talk about things that last. Those are the things that have power. An oak tree or a waterfall. The sun setting and rising every day. And the fantasies in the minds of the humans who will always want to touch me every time they see my face.
We found the way to unravel you. You and me together. You gave me the end of the string and I pulled. Hard. And as the string came from you, I ate it like linguini. And so all of your complications became my satisfaction. And when I was done there was nothing but you. Raw you. Wet you. There in the middle of everything with nothing to protect you. I ate you. Everything that has ever been you is now inside of me. And I ate you for a reason. You gave me you for a reason. You wanted me to untangle your mess so that you could finally find out what it's like to feel happy. But I can't promise that. That's not my job. I am here to tell you that what we are going to do is not happiness. It's something, but it's not happiness. When you smile with me the smile will not be the smile of happiness. It will be something deeper than that. You will go down lower than the layers of happiness. We will reach our hands into the middle of you until we find the parts that make you smile without happiness. The parts that make you smile because the nerves in your face can't help it. The parts that make you smile because it's connected to the things that I have undone. The things that I have uncovered. The things that I have made into me. Because you are mine. That's the thing that you now have to realize. That's the thing you knew before you met me. That you would meet me and you would be mine. But when you realize it’s happening, don't be surprised. Don't try to squirm. Don't try to talk your way out of it. Everything that has ever been dry will be wet. And everything that has ever been lonely will have a partner. Because all of the parts of you that have been singular will now be a duet. Because I will open your legs and I will sing. I will sing into you so many different songs. They will be songs that you didn't know you knew but now you remember them as if they are the only songs you've ever heard. And you will sing with me. You will sing your part. You will sing when I point to you. And you will sing on key. And then all of the work will have been worth it because there won't be a center of you anymore. The center will be the universe. It will be everything that we are. It will take us to the outer limits of this new kind of relationship because you've never been here before. You never had the chance to soar. You never had the chance to explore. And together we will climb into the rocket ship and I will seal the door. And we will see the earth we knew not once more. Not once more.