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Okay so this is another week of me writing really weird shit. I swear to the gods I actually can write other things *thinks a second* okay I take that back. Anyhow I'm actually rather happy with how this turned out over all. I have a few issues but those are issues I always have with my writing. While the subject theme is a little dark I think it ends up being, in a truly screwed up way, a very positive story. I'll shut up now. Oh yeah the prompt was It hurts when I do this.
Benediction
Agony. I think I'm a pain junkie. No, it is more than that, pain is my religion. Not like one of those crazy people who hang themselves up on hooks by strips of skin. Not yet anyway. But I like pain nonetheless. Any type of pain. When I was a kid it was the same. One day it was a kick in the ribs from my daddy, the next a punch in the face from some stupid girl at school. But it was all good to me. Late at night I liked to look at my body naked in the mirror; no one awake but me an' the cats. The tapestry of black, blue, yellow and green made me look like a tattooed harlot but I didn't care. Every mark was gorgeous to me, every drop of blood lost--benediction.
Fast forward 'til I'm all growed up--17 years of sin etched on my skin. I crawled the clubs looking for my fix. On the good days I went to a sex club round the corner to play with friends who liked to hurt pretty girls in school girl outfits. Fake IDs are a pain slut's best friend. On the bad days I went to the crap section of town where they didn't care who you were just how loud you could scream. I'd make a of game of how far I could push the drunks before they'd snap. One day I pushed a drunken cowboy too far; he put a knife to my skin while I screamed, cried, and finally passed out.
Waking up hurt so bad, an early Christmas present from my drunken cowboy. When I could finally focus enough to hold a conversation, a pretty little nurse with the plain undecorated skin came smiling to check my vitals. She said, “You're lucky to be alive.”
“Yeah I know,” I croaked around the bruises from being choked half to death.
“They caught the guy who did this to you. He's in jail now, you're safe.” She smiled at me and I smiled back; all the while wondering if my sweet knife happy cowboy had a brother I could visit.
But that was the day my life really changed. There I was 17 with no real care for if I reached 18. What was a crack baby like me gonna do with her life anyhow? Best thing I knew how to do was take my daddy's cock up the ass without crying. Shit, that's not really a marketable skill to put on your brag sheet. But that was the day I learned how a knife feels carving off pieces of your skin. That you can lose more blood then you'd think before passing out cold. That was also the day I met, Mark.
Mark was one of the hospital's head shrinks. The doctors seemed to think that some of the bruising could not have come about from my cowboy. They blathered on about depression, suicide, some other nonsense. But in the end they left to go treat someone else who cared about what the shiny people say. The doctors were far too busy with paying patients to bother chasing down a “strung out whore” as daddy used to say. Funny, I never really did get into drugs--too whimpy. I'll take an ass beatin' any day before I stick some horse shit needle in my arm. I got a little lost limpin' out of the hospital an' ended up in the shrink house anyhow. That's where I met, Mark.
He was beautiful. I don't believe I've ever met a prettier man, nor will I in all likelihood. I thought my cowboy was hot but Mark nearly took my breath away. He was tall, so clean, a skyscraper done in flesh. Normally even the thought of fucking him wouldn't be enough to sway me to one of the shiny doctors but there was something that made me want to speak with him. That made me look past the clean white coat to the man underneath. It was how his eyes darted down to the black and blue fingerprint necklace I wore. It wasn't like a doctor examining his patient or someone's morbid curiosity. No, it was the way other men look at my little titties or ass. Mark had his own religion.
“Are you lost miss?”
“Well yes but I think I was supposed to come down here anyhow.”
He cocked his head to the side then shrugged. “Well I'm glad you made it here anyhow. Is there anything I can help you with? Do you want to sit down and talk for a while? I'm really good at listening.”
I was gonna say no but then he did it again. How can men not know we can follow where their eyes go? I've never understood that but I liked it now. “Well I don't know...” I looked around like I was uncertain if I should stay or not. At the same time I was tuggin' the collar of my shirt over to show another bruise peeking out. Would his eyes follow? Yep.
“Well how about we go to the cafeteria then? I could buy you a nice cup of coffee and we could chat there.” He smiled at me with dimples, pale blue heat in his eyes.
“Okay.” I smiled, “That sounds good.”
After that it was easy. Men are all the same really. They all want something from your body and if you give it to them they get mighty nice. It took me five dates to get him to hit me. Five long dates where I showed up with new bruises and his eyes kept wandering. Any normal man would ask where the hell I got so many bruises from but not my Mark. People don't ask about the things that they are ashamed to notice. A normal person would ask about that pained noise you make when you put pressure on a freshly sprained wrist but a normal person would not have to adjust their pants from that sound alone. Normal people don't hold your arms tighter and your hands harder every time you whimper. No, normal people don't do those things, but I didn't want a normal person. And when finally I was riding his cock and punched him square in the face he didn't get upset like a normal person. He beat me bloody and fucked me raw; we've been dating ever since.
Now only Mark plays with a knife on my skin. Only he sees the tapestry we've created. Each mark is a prayer to our gods, each bloody lip a sign of passion unabated. He proposed to me the other day and then broke two of my fingers; I've never been happier in all my life. We're planning a life together, Mark and I. I've gone back to school with Mark's support. We're planning on getting married and movin' in together, maybe one day having kids. These are the things we talk about late at night, Mark and I, while he holds me close and strokes fingers across my purpling flesh. At night when I stand in front of the mirror and touch myself it is his eyes I watch as my fingers dance through a rainbow of flesh. His eyes that follow my hands, a drowning man after sweat slick flesh. I am no weak girl begging for scraps and handouts. I am a woman born of pain, baptized in blood. He is the worshiper at the chapel of my body and I am his priestess. Together we celebrate pain in all its forms and love in the perfection of one another. We celebrate god in the anguish which consumes us; religion born of agony, absolution born in broken flesh.
Benediction
Agony. I think I'm a pain junkie. No, it is more than that, pain is my religion. Not like one of those crazy people who hang themselves up on hooks by strips of skin. Not yet anyway. But I like pain nonetheless. Any type of pain. When I was a kid it was the same. One day it was a kick in the ribs from my daddy, the next a punch in the face from some stupid girl at school. But it was all good to me. Late at night I liked to look at my body naked in the mirror; no one awake but me an' the cats. The tapestry of black, blue, yellow and green made me look like a tattooed harlot but I didn't care. Every mark was gorgeous to me, every drop of blood lost--benediction.
Fast forward 'til I'm all growed up--17 years of sin etched on my skin. I crawled the clubs looking for my fix. On the good days I went to a sex club round the corner to play with friends who liked to hurt pretty girls in school girl outfits. Fake IDs are a pain slut's best friend. On the bad days I went to the crap section of town where they didn't care who you were just how loud you could scream. I'd make a of game of how far I could push the drunks before they'd snap. One day I pushed a drunken cowboy too far; he put a knife to my skin while I screamed, cried, and finally passed out.
Waking up hurt so bad, an early Christmas present from my drunken cowboy. When I could finally focus enough to hold a conversation, a pretty little nurse with the plain undecorated skin came smiling to check my vitals. She said, “You're lucky to be alive.”
“Yeah I know,” I croaked around the bruises from being choked half to death.
“They caught the guy who did this to you. He's in jail now, you're safe.” She smiled at me and I smiled back; all the while wondering if my sweet knife happy cowboy had a brother I could visit.
But that was the day my life really changed. There I was 17 with no real care for if I reached 18. What was a crack baby like me gonna do with her life anyhow? Best thing I knew how to do was take my daddy's cock up the ass without crying. Shit, that's not really a marketable skill to put on your brag sheet. But that was the day I learned how a knife feels carving off pieces of your skin. That you can lose more blood then you'd think before passing out cold. That was also the day I met, Mark.
Mark was one of the hospital's head shrinks. The doctors seemed to think that some of the bruising could not have come about from my cowboy. They blathered on about depression, suicide, some other nonsense. But in the end they left to go treat someone else who cared about what the shiny people say. The doctors were far too busy with paying patients to bother chasing down a “strung out whore” as daddy used to say. Funny, I never really did get into drugs--too whimpy. I'll take an ass beatin' any day before I stick some horse shit needle in my arm. I got a little lost limpin' out of the hospital an' ended up in the shrink house anyhow. That's where I met, Mark.
He was beautiful. I don't believe I've ever met a prettier man, nor will I in all likelihood. I thought my cowboy was hot but Mark nearly took my breath away. He was tall, so clean, a skyscraper done in flesh. Normally even the thought of fucking him wouldn't be enough to sway me to one of the shiny doctors but there was something that made me want to speak with him. That made me look past the clean white coat to the man underneath. It was how his eyes darted down to the black and blue fingerprint necklace I wore. It wasn't like a doctor examining his patient or someone's morbid curiosity. No, it was the way other men look at my little titties or ass. Mark had his own religion.
“Are you lost miss?”
“Well yes but I think I was supposed to come down here anyhow.”
He cocked his head to the side then shrugged. “Well I'm glad you made it here anyhow. Is there anything I can help you with? Do you want to sit down and talk for a while? I'm really good at listening.”
I was gonna say no but then he did it again. How can men not know we can follow where their eyes go? I've never understood that but I liked it now. “Well I don't know...” I looked around like I was uncertain if I should stay or not. At the same time I was tuggin' the collar of my shirt over to show another bruise peeking out. Would his eyes follow? Yep.
“Well how about we go to the cafeteria then? I could buy you a nice cup of coffee and we could chat there.” He smiled at me with dimples, pale blue heat in his eyes.
“Okay.” I smiled, “That sounds good.”
After that it was easy. Men are all the same really. They all want something from your body and if you give it to them they get mighty nice. It took me five dates to get him to hit me. Five long dates where I showed up with new bruises and his eyes kept wandering. Any normal man would ask where the hell I got so many bruises from but not my Mark. People don't ask about the things that they are ashamed to notice. A normal person would ask about that pained noise you make when you put pressure on a freshly sprained wrist but a normal person would not have to adjust their pants from that sound alone. Normal people don't hold your arms tighter and your hands harder every time you whimper. No, normal people don't do those things, but I didn't want a normal person. And when finally I was riding his cock and punched him square in the face he didn't get upset like a normal person. He beat me bloody and fucked me raw; we've been dating ever since.
Now only Mark plays with a knife on my skin. Only he sees the tapestry we've created. Each mark is a prayer to our gods, each bloody lip a sign of passion unabated. He proposed to me the other day and then broke two of my fingers; I've never been happier in all my life. We're planning a life together, Mark and I. I've gone back to school with Mark's support. We're planning on getting married and movin' in together, maybe one day having kids. These are the things we talk about late at night, Mark and I, while he holds me close and strokes fingers across my purpling flesh. At night when I stand in front of the mirror and touch myself it is his eyes I watch as my fingers dance through a rainbow of flesh. His eyes that follow my hands, a drowning man after sweat slick flesh. I am no weak girl begging for scraps and handouts. I am a woman born of pain, baptized in blood. He is the worshiper at the chapel of my body and I am his priestess. Together we celebrate pain in all its forms and love in the perfection of one another. We celebrate god in the anguish which consumes us; religion born of agony, absolution born in broken flesh.
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