The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Wednesday

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal

This Wednesday's therapy session started to pull out some interesting feelings and facts from my past which bring me to the idea that I was dwelling in that morbid grey area of life, only I refused to recognize it, apart from it's very surface.

The therapist asked me whether I had encountered suicide as an act ever committed by any acquaintance or friend before in my life. To my surprise, I realized that I've seen death in quite a few forms, either we stood shoulder to shoulder witnessing the sudden proof of mortality, or we had met as antagonist characters on live's stage,  but I never bothered to give it too much thought so far.
Today's chapter might as well be called 'Pride', it's about a girl I used to know. Here goes.

Christie was one of those weird religious type characters. In terms of religiousness, she was holier than thou, if there ever existed anyone like that. She was really serious about the mumble jumble about the one who is actually three and how he came
upon a woman as a ghost and impregnated her in order to give birth to himself. That was my understanding of all her luxurious explanations of the bible and some of the Christian teachings she sometimes tried to practice on me. I liked to practice something else, though.

In everyday life, she used to be a completely normal, even prude person: she loathed foul language, attended mass regularly, attended a prayer's club or some sort of a Christian study group. She had a job as an assistant manager, lived in a decent neighborhood with people who jogged and walked their dogs. In my opinion, her life should have followed a common course: get married in less than five years to a decent guy she'd probably meet at one of those study nights, give birth to at least one child and then let life pass her along rejoicing in the only pleasure provided by watching her children grow while praying and thanking her imaginary friend.  I've already labeled her: the next religious house wife. Everything about her life is so boring that isn't even worth mentioning. I almost fell asleep myself recollecting and writing this paragraph.

What lied underneath this pale, uninteresting shell, was actually a tormented being in human form. I met her on one of my rare occasions when I went into a church in search of some quiet time. She must have been the local saviour on duty on that day, because she approached me and tried naively to inquire about my issues and show me the light. I let her speak and for some strange reason I kept in touch. Long story short, but we ended up having some sort of functional dysfunctional sex based relationship.

Weird as it was, I was happy to get laid without too much involvement on my side. So much for the introduction, let's get to the interesting part. She used to be one of the screaming types. She usually started up quite slowly with a very smooth and convincing blowjob. Halfway through, when she felt my complete interest in how she was swallowing me, she used to abruptly get up and climb on top of me, always in the reverse cowgirl position. She always brought two things with her: a crucifix she would hang up on the wall she was facing while riding me and a cat o’ nine tails. This cat o’ nine tails was a whip with nine tails she had customized with tiny shards of glass at the end of each tail, so, when she made me use it (and she came vigorously every time I did), it would leave not only flogging marks, but deep, bleeding wounds on her back. Fucking way to redeem one’s self, but who was I to judge as long as it completely fulfilled my craving for sadistic acts?

That was fine with me, but her monologue while being penetrated by me really intrigued me. Although she was in a dominating position and usually rode me like there was no tomorrow, with screams and scratches and all, she would cry out things such am: “make my heaven weep!” or “nail me to this never ending dream!”, “don't wake me up, I want to drown in your light!”, “fill me up with grace”, “bathe me in your blood” or other confusing things. I used to call this 'God fever'. 

Then she'd suddenly jump off me and have me pull her hair and do her doggy style until she came again. She never came facing me, until once when I got fed up with her and choked her while pounding her and she was facing me. She came so violently like never before: the uncontrollable twists and muscle contractions, the mumbling and the squirting I found OK, until I looked straight into her eyes. They never lost focus and yet somehow I was under the impression that she was looking both through me and piercing my core as if she could see everything inside my being. Terrifying was that look, I tell you, as terrifying as the blood dripping from ten deep scratches on my chest, mixed with sweat and other bodily fluids.

A few moments later, while recovering from the exhausting and sweaty ordeal (that really wasn’t your average intercourse), she was really silent had this inquisitive and somehow content but rather blithe look on her face. I mocked her, saying the her orgasm while facing me might have shown her God’s image. Before I could tell her it was a joke, she'd already run and locked herself in the bathroom crying uncontrollably. I heard her through the door crying while the shower water was turned on. I also heard some words, saying something about pure and slime and redemption. When she came out, she looked through me and left without a word. That was a glimpse of pure darkness, it was, I thought to myself, but I didn't pay much attention at the moment. I only knew her for a few months, so we didn't get into deep conversations about our lives or other significant ideas.

I did not hear from her for a couple of days. I tried to ring her up, but she wouldn't answer. I waited for a few days and I rang her up again: a female voice answered and relayed to me that she had hung herself and had been buried one day ago. 

So much for redemption. Hers? Mine? From what? It must be from ourselves, because those guys in the skies are surely some of our own worst projections. Those angels and saints in heaven are surely the demons in most people's lives. I only hope she found her freedom.

                                                                              "I hold you in my arms
                                                                               Dimmed by scarlet morning red
                                                                               I whisper in you ear
                                                                               Do you dream of me"

                                                                               Tiamat - Do you dream of me

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