With Strings Attached


  “We are malleable,” he says as he tightens the clamps, “much more so than other creatures.”

  The screws dig further into my flesh, causing fresh rivulets of scarlet to race down my legs, following the dried and muddy tracks of their predecessors. Sun baked riverbeds of past pains.

  “Everyone believes the human condition is so fragile,” – another twist to the clamps around my wrists – “so delicate”

  I try to swallow my screams, try to deny him the satisfaction, but like my blood they pour out of me uncontrollably.

  I’m at his whim, this grim puppeteer.

  I feel the strings I’m suspended from pull taut against my flesh as he takes control of my body again. The hooks in my back wrench me from the floor and I hang, limp and naked. It hurts fresh every time. He makes me wave at him from across the room, my hand flapping against my wrist. I gave up trying to protest a long time ago. I gave up pleading a little later.

  His ‘lair’ isn’t your clichéd dank, dark underground hideaway for the stereotypical mutant psychopath. Quite the opposite, in fact – the psychopath is devastatingly handsome, for starters, and the room I’ve been strung up in for the last week is a white, sterile, well furnished haven. I’ve been here long enough to notice how perfect the feng shui is. There’s a panoramic, wall filling window looking out onto the beautiful cliffs outside, dropping suddenly to the infinite blue below that stretches to the horizon and kisses the sky.

  Deep inside, the budding-crazy part of me – the part I can only hope doesn’t develop into Stockholm syndrome if I ever manage to escape this hell – can’t help but feel bad about staining the white carpet below with the dark splotches of my blood.

Like yesterday, this story birthed itself. I’ve said it before to people and I know how much of a retarded cliché it is, but sometimes, with my very best work, I feel wholly irresponsible. If – like an Olympic athlete – I nail my approach – the mood, the surroundings and a little bit of inspiration on my part – it writes itself. Strange then, that I wrote this piece surrounded by hundreds of people and edited it later whilst listening to Taylor Swift. Am I a budding sociopath, even – dare I say it – a PSYCHO in the making?! I’ll keep you posted. Bates out.

~ by Joseph Blame on October 16, 2010.

One Response to “With Strings Attached”

  1. Taylor Swift? Really?

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