Post by Kenzi Grey on Dec 16, 2017 17:06:33 GMT -5
DECEMBER 16, 2017
A drop of water falls. It splashes onto the paper. It smears words written in ink with a hand so shaky as to defy legibility. The tear is born of frustration, anger, self-loathing, and sadness. A hand, small and pale, clenches into a fist and slams down on the table. A second joins it and, hands coming together with the paper in between, crumple up the paper into a ball and throw it, the ball joining a pile of its brethren down below.
Must you do that now?
The high voice of the Lacklanlander is coarse today. The YOU is the man on the other side of the computer screen, Doctor Reznik, the WHAT is the scratching of his pen, the unending note-taking of their sessions.
It IS what I am paid to do, Madam.
A growl from the Lacklanlander.
Just seems a slap in the face. You and your pen. And me...me...not even being able to write a love letter to my wife. My hands shake so much that...and they hurt...oh Light...this must be how Harry felt doing lines for Umbridge.
What?
Nothing.
Wish to tell me what has you so upset?
No.
Come now, Madam. Share. I assume this is about your wife.
Pass.
You cannot hide it forever.
PASS.
So be it. The brunette.
A moment of silence.
Resolved.
How so? What was that…
The shuffling of paper.
...gulf, between you?
A small bark of laugh, though with little in the way of mirth.
Attraction. She...for the lack of sophistication...wants to bone me.
Bone?
Intercourse, Sir. Though, more than that, I suppose. I would imagine, if it were not for my wife, it would be I that she planned on seeing at the end of the isle next year. But that attraction, in essence, is why things were so tense.
And...in the scenario that your wife did not exist...would you return those affections?
Another bark of laughter.
My wife once referred to me as “bottled sex.” What do you think? I am always jumping into bed with people I barely know. Truth be told, in that scenario of no Mackenzie, I probably would have added Milisandre to my trophy case the day we met.
Interesting. And how are things with the blonde?
Which one?
Both. But start with the one you like.
Angelica? Fantastic, actually. Of all the people in my life, I think that my...condition...affects her the least. We send each other cute videos about cats and bunnies, and send selfies we take with our pets. That has not changed.
Still no attraction between you two? Even when you are...um…“bottled sex?”
Another scoff, this one with more humor.
Please. I am still pretty sure that she has no idea what sex is, Sir.
And the other blonde? The one you do not like?
We have not spoken, actually. Which is a good thing. The less she is in my life, the better. She does not come around much, thankfully. Similar to Sativa, I suppose. Though Sativa and I get along grandly. They are just busy. Doing what I used to do. Fighting the world.
You have not spoken much of Sativa.
As I said, our activities are limited, due to schedules. But we geek out over Star Wars when we can. And she has given me what might well be a lifetime supply of herb to help me deal with bodily pains.
Do you have many?
Constantly. While I still cannot feel a damned thing below my hips, I am in full control of everything else...and everything else hurts. All the time. Usually a dull ache, but often enough there are sharp jabs of pain. The worst is after sessions with my physical therapist. My servants draw up an ice bath for me to sit in after those...and then I get high. It helps.
And how are you physically? How are you progressing?
As well as I can, I suppose? My therapist says that, perhaps in a week or two, I can start lifting weights for my arms. Curls, and the like. Biceps were always a weak spot for me, so I suppose if my legs must wither into nothing, I can at least have arms.
Another bark of mirthless laughter.
Maybe then my wife will notice me. Maybe then, instead of leaping out of her seat so fast to volunteer to be Benton’s trainer that she probably popped a groin muscle, she would take delight in me.
Ready to talk about what happened?
PASS.
I understand that your estate is being controlled by Sebastian Hargrave, the father of the boy who kidnapped you, drugged you, and ultimately caused your paralysis. How does that make you feel?
A moment of silence.
Conflicted. Mister Hargrave is not responsible for the actions of his deranged son. Mister Hargrave was as close to my father as the next ten men combined. He has only the good of the compound at heart. But…
A pause.
But, Madam?
But it is a reminder that I am...useless. My mind is fine...I am sound...but I...I cannot even...I cannot even write a goddamn LETTER TO MY WIFE. How am I supposed to make decisions for the compound? I was BORN and RAISED to do so...but I CANNOT. I cannot even STAND UP.
A fist slams down on the table. Another of those drops filled with angst, anger, and sadness falls. The doctor’s pen continues.
Who you ARE, Madam. Not who you WERE.
I am well aware of that, Sir. I cannot be who I was. I cannot fight. I cannot verbally spar. I cannot...I cannot be...me. I cannot be what she wants.
Are you ready?
I suppose.
Your intimacy issues?
Failures. I have attempted two more times since we last spoke. I got further. I asked her directly if there was still desire, as you said I should, and she said there was. We got further. I even set up two scenarios that would be sure to bring her to completion, scenarios that somewhat defined our sexual exploits even before we fell in love.
Such as?
We have a...thing...for biting and being in public. But I...failed...both times. She even fed me the “Its not you, its me” line, and I have not heard that since Blasted Monk dumped me in 2016. I failed...spectacularly. Or...as she mentioned on Twitter for everyone to see if they knew what to look for...epically.
She remarked on your failed intimacy on social media?
Coded. But there. It is not the first time she has made some comment or quip about my condition. About my uselessness. I do not know if she means it to be tough love...or if it is some type of Freudian slip where what she REALLY thinks slips out on accident...or what...but it has happened a few times.
And how does that make you feel?
Silence, as one of those hot tears fall again, this time to a surface which does not feel the heat or wetness.
As lame and useless as my legs.
The scratching of the pen.
I think that is enough for today, Madam.
Thank you, Sir.
A drop of water falls. It splashes onto the paper. It smears words written in ink with a hand so shaky as to defy legibility. The tear is born of frustration, anger, self-loathing, and sadness. A hand, small and pale, clenches into a fist and slams down on the table. A second joins it and, hands coming together with the paper in between, crumple up the paper into a ball and throw it, the ball joining a pile of its brethren down below.
Must you do that now?
The high voice of the Lacklanlander is coarse today. The YOU is the man on the other side of the computer screen, Doctor Reznik, the WHAT is the scratching of his pen, the unending note-taking of their sessions.
It IS what I am paid to do, Madam.
A growl from the Lacklanlander.
Just seems a slap in the face. You and your pen. And me...me...not even being able to write a love letter to my wife. My hands shake so much that...and they hurt...oh Light...this must be how Harry felt doing lines for Umbridge.
What?
Nothing.
Wish to tell me what has you so upset?
No.
Come now, Madam. Share. I assume this is about your wife.
Pass.
You cannot hide it forever.
PASS.
So be it. The brunette.
A moment of silence.
Resolved.
How so? What was that…
The shuffling of paper.
...gulf, between you?
A small bark of laugh, though with little in the way of mirth.
Attraction. She...for the lack of sophistication...wants to bone me.
Bone?
Intercourse, Sir. Though, more than that, I suppose. I would imagine, if it were not for my wife, it would be I that she planned on seeing at the end of the isle next year. But that attraction, in essence, is why things were so tense.
And...in the scenario that your wife did not exist...would you return those affections?
Another bark of laughter.
My wife once referred to me as “bottled sex.” What do you think? I am always jumping into bed with people I barely know. Truth be told, in that scenario of no Mackenzie, I probably would have added Milisandre to my trophy case the day we met.
Interesting. And how are things with the blonde?
Which one?
Both. But start with the one you like.
Angelica? Fantastic, actually. Of all the people in my life, I think that my...condition...affects her the least. We send each other cute videos about cats and bunnies, and send selfies we take with our pets. That has not changed.
Still no attraction between you two? Even when you are...um…“bottled sex?”
Another scoff, this one with more humor.
Please. I am still pretty sure that she has no idea what sex is, Sir.
And the other blonde? The one you do not like?
We have not spoken, actually. Which is a good thing. The less she is in my life, the better. She does not come around much, thankfully. Similar to Sativa, I suppose. Though Sativa and I get along grandly. They are just busy. Doing what I used to do. Fighting the world.
You have not spoken much of Sativa.
As I said, our activities are limited, due to schedules. But we geek out over Star Wars when we can. And she has given me what might well be a lifetime supply of herb to help me deal with bodily pains.
Do you have many?
Constantly. While I still cannot feel a damned thing below my hips, I am in full control of everything else...and everything else hurts. All the time. Usually a dull ache, but often enough there are sharp jabs of pain. The worst is after sessions with my physical therapist. My servants draw up an ice bath for me to sit in after those...and then I get high. It helps.
And how are you physically? How are you progressing?
As well as I can, I suppose? My therapist says that, perhaps in a week or two, I can start lifting weights for my arms. Curls, and the like. Biceps were always a weak spot for me, so I suppose if my legs must wither into nothing, I can at least have arms.
Another bark of mirthless laughter.
Maybe then my wife will notice me. Maybe then, instead of leaping out of her seat so fast to volunteer to be Benton’s trainer that she probably popped a groin muscle, she would take delight in me.
Ready to talk about what happened?
PASS.
I understand that your estate is being controlled by Sebastian Hargrave, the father of the boy who kidnapped you, drugged you, and ultimately caused your paralysis. How does that make you feel?
A moment of silence.
Conflicted. Mister Hargrave is not responsible for the actions of his deranged son. Mister Hargrave was as close to my father as the next ten men combined. He has only the good of the compound at heart. But…
A pause.
But, Madam?
But it is a reminder that I am...useless. My mind is fine...I am sound...but I...I cannot even...I cannot even write a goddamn LETTER TO MY WIFE. How am I supposed to make decisions for the compound? I was BORN and RAISED to do so...but I CANNOT. I cannot even STAND UP.
A fist slams down on the table. Another of those drops filled with angst, anger, and sadness falls. The doctor’s pen continues.
Who you ARE, Madam. Not who you WERE.
I am well aware of that, Sir. I cannot be who I was. I cannot fight. I cannot verbally spar. I cannot...I cannot be...me. I cannot be what she wants.
Are you ready?
I suppose.
Your intimacy issues?
Failures. I have attempted two more times since we last spoke. I got further. I asked her directly if there was still desire, as you said I should, and she said there was. We got further. I even set up two scenarios that would be sure to bring her to completion, scenarios that somewhat defined our sexual exploits even before we fell in love.
Such as?
We have a...thing...for biting and being in public. But I...failed...both times. She even fed me the “Its not you, its me” line, and I have not heard that since Blasted Monk dumped me in 2016. I failed...spectacularly. Or...as she mentioned on Twitter for everyone to see if they knew what to look for...epically.
She remarked on your failed intimacy on social media?
Coded. But there. It is not the first time she has made some comment or quip about my condition. About my uselessness. I do not know if she means it to be tough love...or if it is some type of Freudian slip where what she REALLY thinks slips out on accident...or what...but it has happened a few times.
And how does that make you feel?
Silence, as one of those hot tears fall again, this time to a surface which does not feel the heat or wetness.
As lame and useless as my legs.
The scratching of the pen.
I think that is enough for today, Madam.
Thank you, Sir.