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