My hand was numb from holding a bag of
frozen peas to the side of my face. My head ached and it was
difficult to open my mouth. But it was my own fault, wasn't it? I'd
consented, I'd said it was okay. And now... he was gone and I was
left nursing my wounds. There were marks around my wrists where he'd
tied me with cord. Did I trust him? Did I trust myself? Sexy and
mysterious. It was just a game. No it wasn't.
The safe word.
I'd said it once and he hadn't stopped.
Then I screamed it. I was scared and crying. He cut me loose and then
he left.
I was alone and hurting, inside and
out.
It wasn't anything like it was in that
damn book. And it had sold millions. I was sick in my soul.
There was no gray, only red, it was the
blood on the sheets.
I fell back onto the bed and curled
into a ball and cried. I was afraid to get up, afraid to try to walk.
I was injured, and I wasn't sure how badly. I was going to have to
call someone. I had no idea who. I was ashamed and embarrassed. Who
could I tell?
I was going to have to tell someone....
I needed to tell everyone. To make sure that it wouldn't happen
again; to me, or to the countless other girls that had believed the
lie. The real story held within the pages of that now famous book was
subtle, and no one ever noticed; it was fiction after all. It had
seemed romantic and glamorous, yet it was very convincing on a whole
other level. It was a demented fantasy, and I'd bought it, I'd read
it, and I had loved it. I was learning something very dangerous.
But mere knowledge just wasn't enough,
I'd sought it out in real life; I wanted the dark mysterious man with
an all consumming desire for me, a love beyond compare. He would make
me feel special and cherished, and I would do anything he wanted. I'd
sought him out because I'd made myself open to it, open to be abused.
I had said it was okay. I had been wrong, it wasn't. It was a twisted
fairytale I'd read and wanted to live, and he had taken it even
further. Where was the line? It had been blurred.
It was 'okay' he said.
We had a safe word.
I ended up calling my dad. I will never
forget the look on his face when he walked into the room and found me,
his little girl, broken and battered, sitting on the edge of my bed.
I'd been used by a man I thought I knew, that I thought I cared
about, that I thought cared about me. A man who had called what he'd
done to me 'love'. I think my dad was even more hurt than I was.
It was a lesson hard learned; I will
never again put myself into a position where I need a 'safe word'.
Because there isn't one. None that will
protect your heart and your spirit once they have been broken.
©2015 Garden Summerland
