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[typerope]

6

It's not bad, just different.

It's not bad, just different.

It's not bad...

And it was always getting better, he thought. It really was.

Because this was his path towards redemption. Rest assured he would arrive safely to the peaceful future that had once seemed so obviously destined for him. A beautiful and boring contentment lay ahead of him, or so he had thought. But now there was uncertainty.

A fear of sudden finality. No closure. No calm. No front yard. No back. No two story, painted white, with a dark-colored front door. No dog, no drive, no rose bushes, no sidewalk. No stepping stones or dirt or dreams or sky with clouds or sun or rain or snow shovels. 

Melodrama? He could never be sure.

But this was only a temporary affair. At least, this was supposed to be nothing more than temporary. Yet for some reason he couldn't help but wonder what might happen, what could happen, what will happen.

His head was unclear-- his thoughts erratic and paranoid. Were they drugging him? How long had it been since he got here? He didn't know. No calendars or windows or television or computer or radio or--

He smiled and spoke to no one: "Good morning, afternoon, evening, night. Good night."

[typerope]

5

Even her voice set him on edge.

He felt the darkness close in, and felt the familiar tingle down his spine. Sweat beads clustered around his forehead, and with a great sigh, he rose up and prostrated himself in front of her.

He shivered, not with excitement, but with fear.

It had always been so.

The phantasms of the night prey not upon me because they are strong—he repeated—but because I am weak. I give their mere whispers power; I hear wails where there would be whimpers.

On the dingy, clammy floor, he surrendered, his head touching the floor, at her feet.

"Mark, you don't have to do this every time."

Oh, but he must.

His love—parted from him—his freedom, sold like one would sell cattle—his family, torn apart—his agency destroyed. It was a strange, misanthropic world, he thought—one where his sex was more important than any other part of him. He thought of his love, Lexie, and how she had taken care of him. How she never would have let this happen to him if he had said yes. 

Now, his mistress, triumphant with his signed release and her own pending, loomed over with a whip in one hand and a brutal, spiky tube in the other. He gulped, and steeled himself, because  this was his life, and this is what he was expected to do.

[typerope]

4

And when he opened his eyes, it was not her face that met him. Instead, the sunfaded woman stood there waiting, rocking on her feet. 

"By what date do you need first payment?"

She grinned. "I'm not sure you completely understand our agreement. This document absolves you of all financial responsibility."

The man closed his eyes again and saw nothing but white. Those words sounded like freedom, but he knew better than that. Knew better than to believe the empty promises of a single, well-crafted phrase delivered by the lips of a stranger.

"Pardon me if I'm being curt, ma'am, but you and I both know that I wasn't talking about money."

And the wrinkles around her lips deepened as she smiled once more. "Pending your signature, your completely voluntary services must be completed by the end of each month. And remember: you agreed to this. No one has forced you here, and no one is responsible other than yourself. I do hope you understand."

She left him at the table, walked towards the kitchen, and shouted, as if she had just remembered, "Once you've signed the document, you're free to go. Leave everything where it is and expect a message from me in the near future." She paused. "And Mr. Ryles... I look forward to working with you."

[typerope]

3

He cringed, and shut his eyes tightly.

He could see her now.

Her long, glistening hair cascading down her back. The tilt of her shoulders. Her crinkled eyes. Her throaty laugh. The way she touched his arm when she talked to him.

It hadn't been for nothing, he reminded himself. She was the reason. She was every reason.

It had been summer; it had been bright and hot and humid. He had seen her at Max's garden party by the beach. She had her long hair in a bun and wore a long green dress. This was how he pictured her, now, years later, in this chilling room.

He ran into her at an antiques store a few days later. He did a double take when he saw her smile. It seemed ridiculous that something as trivial as a smile could make him feel so much.

Weeks later, he had woken up with the impression of her body on his bed. She had left, taking away her smile and her shoulders and that odd laugh. He knew exactly why she left, and he hated himself for it. 

He was dragged down by her memories; her absence was more of a weight than anything ever had been. He felt a resounding emptiness inside. He ached. He woke up at night and felt around for her. He tried to recede into a fantasy where she was still around. He dreamt about her. He woke up in tears.

They had loved and they had lost.

[typerope]

2

A spot of bother. That's all this was. Itching at his temples, the man accidentally drew on his head in pen. Cold, wet ink stained his skin, and his pulse was visible under this new temporary tattoo. Incessantly, the distant clicking marched on.

It was the clock from the kitchen. The 50s era timekeeper had grabbed his attention as soon as he entered the building. "Right fucking noisy clock, that is," he thought to himself, or at least he had intended to keep this to himself but realized instead that he had spoken it out loud. 

The woman who had met him at the door just seconds before stared quietly. Her silver hair was in short curls, and creases lined her lips. Each morning she woke up, put on her slippers, and went to the bathroom mirror where she would examine these wrinkles which only grew deeper and longer each day.

So that was the story of the clock and the woman and the kitchen.

But now is the story of the man and the paper and the blue ink on his temples-- the ink which he hastily attempted to rub off with little success. He managed only to smear the stain, getting blue on his fingers as well as his head.

The paper in front of him was a two page document, printed front and back on a single sheet of paper so thin that the man could see the text on the other side. The document had been hastily typewritten and was riddled with errors which had been either wholly ignored or lazily corrected with a handwriting that said, "I do not ask forgiveness for what I have so poorly done."

A knock at the door. It was the woman. She asked him whether he had any questions for her. He looked at her sun-faded dress, wondered how old it was, and knew that this was not the type of question that he should ask her.

"Yes," he said, "In fact I do."

[typerope]

1

"What was that?" he asked, turning his head slightly. Nobody responded, and he turned back to the paper in front of him.

"I'm not so keen on signing this." Again, no response. He bit his lip and waited. His senses seemed elevated: the windows trembled, the tiles glistened, the distant clicking became louder, his breath grew more haggard.

"Why am I even here?" he whispered, and then he was spent.