''Do you love me?''
And she didn't answer. Nothing at all. She just sat there and stared at me while doing nothing. The time passing was excruciatingly biting of my flesh as I waited and waited for a response that never came. It wasn't the agony about whether she loved me or not, neither if I really had someone to love me. It was rather that I was expecting someone to answer so I could fulfill all my foolish childhood dreams of treating someone differently than expected when they told me that they loved me. I looked deep into her eyes, trying to find the answer but she never spent even a single sentimental dime in order to satisfy my most inner motives. She didn't pay tribute to my world. I could have broken her neck right there, left her there so she could rot and fade in eternity like the worthless being she was.
But I surely didn't. At least then. I was too attached to her, knowing all her dirty secrets made me wake up at night and harbor her phobias and nightmares, made me have breathing difficulties all day, made me feel awful when I watched other kids play. It was a tingling sensation, another fear I had gotten throughout the years, as my psychotherapist said. He didn't bother trying to fix the holes in my soul's roof, he would just rather ramble about them in a rather monotonous and idiotic way and then proceed to take my money like an enormous asshole. I couldn't expect more. I could have guessed that he was a big rip-off just by seeing the way he left his Vicodin pills laying all over the table. He was a junkie, a clear-cut junkie sucker who got money to feed his addiction from people like me. No wonder I was strolling the roads at 3 am looking for, god knows who, in order to get this awful feeling out of my chest.
Enough of this, she was waiting and I couldn't be rambling all day about my problems. I couldn't stop paying attention to how her body was complimented by the tight ropes all around her, how he had gotten burns from trying to escape, how I had beautifully cut her in order to get her to calm down. Maybe that's the reason why she wouldn't answer my question. I could picture her calling me names all over again, shouting at me with all her power, screaming until her lungs would collapse. ''You idiot, you worthless creature, how could I love you with all you've done to me?''. It was rather entertaining for me to think about this. Examining every aspect of her agony, trying to come up with what she would say if I asked her again, another question this time.
''Does it hurt?''
And she wouldn't answer. No, nothing at all. She would just sit there and stare at me while doing nothing. The time would pass excruciatingly slow as I caressed her flesh with my little knife as I waited and waited for a response that would never come. It isn't the agony about whether she was being hurt or not, neither because I was worrying for her. It was rather that I was expecting someone to answer so I could hurt her more. I looked again into her eyes, trying to find her hidden pain but she never moved. Not even an inch. She didn't pay tribute to me. No, nothing at all. I could have cut her neck right there, left her there so she could bleed and fade in eternity like the worthless whore she was.
But I surely didn't. At least for now. I am too attached to her, knowing how to navigate all around her skin makes me feel very warm inside and imagine about what we could do if we were a loving couple. It was a frightening sensation, another fear I had gotten throughout the day, one that I never thought could exist. Who would care? Even my psychotherapist wouldn't care right now. He's all dead somewhere in an alley while someone else is banging his wife, and mistreating his kids. He would be rotting monotonously in a corner. I took all my money back from him. I guess his Vicodin pills can't treat the pain from his bullet wounds. No wonder how I got this awful feeling out of my chest. It was worth the visit at 3 am.
Oh, she's trying to talk. What if I took the rope out of her mouth and let her speak, let her talk to me about how I was mistreating her, about how I was inflicting pain on her and that she would hunt me down and kill me one way or another. And I realized that this felt good. I looked at her and smiled. I smiled and smiled again. She was still trying to talk. She was still trying to convey a message. Maybe the message went off something like this.
''Do you even care?''
Do I even care? Oh I care about my floor and the mess you'd make by blowing your brains out.
I really care about you, I'm just joking. But then, why should I answer, why would I say anything at all. I should just sit there and stare at you while doing nothing. The time would pass excruciatingly slow while you would just run out of breath and asphyxiate, waiting for a response that would never come. It wouldn't be the agony about if I ever cared about you, or if I ever loved you, it would rather be the agony about whether you would ever be let free. This is what I was expecting in order to hurt you more. I kicked her in the stomach, trying to see if she would flinch a bit, but she never moved. Not even an inch. She didn't pay tribute to me. No, nothing at all. I would have stopped right there, if this was a game. But it wasn't.
Every night, we would do the same. I would tie her up and pretend that she was my slave. But today I feel like having there for hours. Having her suffer, would make me very nervous, after all she was my wife. But who cares, who cares. We're all expendable. I could get another one. I could burn her for all I care, and then pretend like nothing ever happened. Oh how would that piss off some feminists. Today it is different. Can you hear me? Today's the day that you would pay the price for your sick mind. The world's full of sick individuals like you. We don't need another one. We don't need another twisted bitch that's ready to fill us up with lies. Lies, lies, lies, lies. You're just messing with your mind. Our minds. Everyone's mind.
But then, at the end of the night. You come at the same conclusion. There's no me. You have no husband. You tied yourself. You're hurting yourself. You're willing to die for your sick fantasies. You don't even care. And then you'd stare at the image of yourself at the mirror and try to see if it would say anything. But it wouldn't. No, nothing at all. You would be waiting, and time would pass excruciatingly slow while you waited for the night to end. Just to begin your normal day. Have you ever wondered about how you hide your cut marks from everyone at your job? But then, there's surely an answer. The answer that comes packed with a gun. The one that's held close to your head right now. Go, on. Ask me one final question.
''Can I end this?''
The gun went off.
She was just another statistic.