Obsession Without Direction

TW: MISTREATMENT OF HUMANS

Here, even the sound of gale mercilessly tearing a branch from its tree in one instantaneous motion was tremulous. Here, it was always deathly cold unless we were inside His stone cottage.

He fancied seeing us huddled on the freezing-cold ground, our skin paler than carnivorous caterpillars, our cheeks and lips plump and rosy. He fancied us untended, wretched, miserable souls. Real-life Bisque dolls with our prepossessed bodies and seemingly perdurable, tight smiles ruined under His sovereignty. He fancied us with our fingernails scraping along the grooves on pyrite and knees trembling whenever we stood for too long. 

He fancied girls with porcelain skin and soft, glowing eyes. He would take beddable bodies so other men could not get a chance to occupy them, He would steal talented girls so the rest of the world would not be able to enjoy her — only Him. He would tell us in His deep, husky voice that the only person we would ever entertain was Him, and who were we to disagree? We didn't want to anger Him, we didn't want to be thrown outside again, where the strong gusts of wind could rip hair from our scalps. If we were good, He would treat us "properly," giving us an ample amount of food to eat three times a day and letting us clean ourselves and care for our skin. Lurching from the ground upwards in jerky, irregular movements, this messed-up, one-sided trust would begin to build — your devotion to Him. 

He'd show off His impressive black organza cape that He had stolen from a world, and we would marvel at it, undeterred by the fact that He prized the fabric more than He adored His girls. He would flash His staff at us and we would drop to the ground, noses quivering, nearly within contact with the cold, dark stone floors. Our minds were asleep, unconscious while we toddled around being ordered by Him. Did He think we looked good, cut hands and lips? Did He think we were cute, oblivious to the suffering that we were receiving?

We were His dolls. He could play with us, mess us up however He liked.

We were blood and frozen dirt.

We were beating hearts dropped into wrinkled plastic bags and souls that were dipped in a witch's cauldron.

I used to be an urban city girl, often mistaken as a missy due to my fresh-faced look and rather short height. In my world, when I was freezing, I wore short sleeves to an hour-long class when the air conditioner was on. When I was starving, I skipped breakfast so I wouldn't be late for an appointment. When I was terribly injured, it would be an open wound that would leave an inconspicuous scar. In my world encased in hardened clay and homemade play-dough, He could not burn us all at once with His cold touch.

In my world, both the innocent and deadly would begin as something so infinitesimal, yet incredibly significant. Somewhere safe and isolated, we would grow into something soft and vulnerable. Whether we were adorable or a nuisance would be up to the parents to decide, if we were lucky enough to even have parents. Some of us would be born to rich parents who would, instead of spending valuable time with their children, hire nannies to pamper them with all of the goods in the world that one could ever desire, a life that would be delectable like Cloudberry — slightly bitter accompanied by an overwhelming sweet tartness. Others were borne of loving parents who would work themselves to death just to keep their children thriving, lives slathered in hazelnut butter — sticky, somewhat irksome, but good-tasting. And there were others that would be born from parents that would neglect them. Those children would either slowly rise and wash off the goo that dragged them down for the majority of their childhood or give up, laying on the concrete until their eyes glazed over. There were other types of parents, too — some may start by keeping the child fit as a flea, in high spirits, and then jump to the conclusion that they were better off nurturing themselves, and others may act cold and demanding for the child's own good. In my world, parents were mainly in charge of raising their child up properly. It was customary to treat your child well and teach them discipline, as my parents did.

Children. There were three types in my world: Ones that would stand and thrash about wildly on chairs if given the opportunity, sit on chairs, or not dare to interact with chairs at all; demanding, civil, and abstruse, one-sided personalities and all. At this stage, He could only touch their flesh, brush it with His fingertips ever so slightly so the faint discomfort they felt could not, would not, break them as long as they were not too sensitive. He did not want them at this stage, anyway; He had to wait to see how they would mature — would their hair stay soft and retain its lush hues, their tongues remain rounded and ripe like lingonberries, their teeth still whiter than the corolla of multiflora? 

When those children would grow up, they would start to pair off. But sometimes, before a pretty girl goes off to find a man who desires her, He would swoop in and steal her away. He would force her to serve Him, admire Him, and love Him with all her heart until at last, the manipulated feelings of passion would blossom into something deep and completely real. Had He not treated me terribly the first week I stayed at His cottage, my affection for Him may have also burgeoned, but I could not easily forget the way He had starved me, mocked me, those first couple of days.

The embodiment of death and twisted obsessions, blunt bullets for eyes with its capacity to break soft flesh. He'll take all the pretty girls as He took me. I still remember Him wrapping His arms around me in a tight embrace, yet it was not an embrace — aggressive, unrestrained, agonizing all at once, sharp pain had pricked at my thorax, threatening to swipe across my chest if I moved or struggled against His rough caress. He was absorbing my youthful energy, and something else...