This is the second of a three part series by prolific author Ancilla Liberatio. Read Part 1 here.
She began to probe, began to question and I prepared myself to run away. I was looking for strangers, and all of a sudden She was looking to be a stranger no more. Yet, the spell was cast, the moving finger had writ; I invited her to a soiree that I knew was underway that night to distract her instead. She hastily agreed to accompany me however she was not deterred from her incessant questioning.
Why are you here? Who are you? What do you do? When do you leave?
Finally, after giving me, what She thought were adequate chances to respond, she held my hand firmly. Not just with love, not just as comfort but as a command, she caught my gaze and dared me to look away with her eyes. I didn’t.
She said, “Why is it that no one can question you, Zatasha?”
I was at a loss for words, yet I said, “You don’t have to be home tonight, do you?”
At the party, we kept a distance, throughout. We didn’t talk at all, yet we looked. We both knew what was coming, or at least that’s what I believed. The idea intrigued and repulsed me at the same time.
It wasn’t long before we were alone in my room, I lit a cigarette and poured her a glass of wine. “Offer it to me” she said, “The correct way”. She had identified me, I had given no warning signs but in all fairness, neither had She. She sat on the edge of my bed and I knelt before Her, between Her legs. I handed her the glass, she took it in one hand and grabbed my hair in another. I felt her nails in my scalp, Her fingers toying with the strands. Despite the fact that she was being hurtful, She wasn’t rough. She raised my chin, sipped her wine, looked into my eyes, piercing me and said, “Talk to me Zatasha”.
Of all the words I had imagined being able to penetrate my icy exterior, those were never the ones I’d thought I’d succumb to. Yet, despite my free will, I had no choice. Perhaps, my mind too conditioned to disobey a direct order.
I told her of the emptiness, the void that had consumed me. I told her of having been a child, but being unable to recall a childhood. I told her of the pain of loss and how it numbs you. How it terrifies me by threatening to nullify my ability to feel it. I told her of faceless strangers who had taken me close to divinity and dropped me back on the ground to shatter. I told her of places I conceived. Emotions, I did not understand. And of Him, Him.. Who I had ached for, who had I longed for, but who I could never have again. Him, who had stopped breathing and convinced me that was reason enough to forget. Who had taught me that our body is just a wrapper. Who we are, is what our soul is made of. Who had purchased me from a street corner and then made me realize I was priceless, yet He could establish my worth. Who had given me wings to fly by enslaving me.
She let me go on for what felt like hours, I looked at her and all she said was, “Admit it”.
“Admit what?”, even though I knew, but I wanted to delay it as much as I could.
The resonating slap that fell on my cheek was far more awakening than it was intended to be and the tears and the words flew out at the same time, “I miss Him.”