I find myself telling him everything.
Things I never tell anyone, in ways that I think but that I have never shared.
This is very dangerous. This is very open, very vulnerable. How can I be thinking this way, now? Am I that desperately reaching out that I trust when I have no cause to?
I blame this blog. I began blogging before I met him. I became accustomed to laying my soul bare upon a digital page. Now we email, he and I, about so many things that I would have once blogged about. And I spill my inner world to him as I would spill to this space.
Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him critical pieces of my nightmare.
I didn’t tell him that I was dreaming of having intimate relations with T, then with L. It was very dark, but I could just barely see. My bed was almost bare, no upper sheet, no blanket, and I felt exposed. I had planned on having sex with T, but L was better, he understood my pressure points, even vulnerable ones like above my eyeballs wherein he commanded a relaxation from me that was scary and a release. But I didn’t want to have such close relations to him. I could feel his skin, smell him, even the hairs upon his arms. HE was in the next room, so I was being silent, like when I would sneak a boyfriend into my bedroom long ago. And I felt guilty the whole time, guilty for Him, guilty for T, guilty for L’s wife, guilty for my desire to be with someone else entirely, someone who wasn’t there. And I knew that, somewhere downstairs, people had entered my home without my permission, like a postrevel in my downstairs I had not approved.
Somehow I disentangled myself from L and moved over to the one I had implicitly promised sex with. He wasn’t nearly as intriguing, his hands small, his kisses bland, and I felt little emotion toward him, but I felt a little less guilty. I could hear HIM in the next room, moving and snoring. I opened the door to slip T out. I could hear the party downstairs.
I became angry, worried they would wake Him and He would find out what was going on and become hurt, maybe even angry. I slipped down the staircase. There were people in the shadowed light. I went first to the family room, my grandmother’s family room. Three shadowy men were there. First I asked them to leave, then figuring they wouldn’t heed me, I became more demanding and said ‘Get the hell out, now!’ One, in a motor cycle mask, white and faceless, stood up and walked over to me where I stood near my grandfather’s chair, grasping my arm. ‘You should have been more nice about that,’ and I could tell he planned on raping me, allowing the other three to take their turn.
I reached out and grabbed his throat, and squeezed. He didn’t even fight back as my hands tightened around his throat, and I could feel cartilage and bone beneath flesh. ‘You weren’t expecting me to fight back, were you?’ I asked mildly. ‘No’ he croaked out with little breath. I had a hard time getting my fingers just right, but I held on until he began to look unconscious, hopefully dead. Then He came down, and he proceeded to say that they owed us and he was forging a check from the man’s checkbook to pay for expenses of the damage. I said nothing in defense, just watched. We went into the kitchen, I don’t recall why, and I thought to check and make sure the man was dead. I went back to the stairs where we had stacked the bodies, and there were two of them, the short motor cycled man and another man, much larger, his brother (?). They looked at me, eyes blood shot and necks red. I had to strangle them again. He took the larger and showed me how much space should be between my finger and thumb for an adequate strangle. I had to use both hands, and I had to keep adjusting them because my thumbs were growing tired. I know I didn’t squeeze long enough the first time, so I kept squeezing, and the cartilage and bone squoze down to feeling like thin flesh. His eyes stared at me, bugging and afraid. His head started to become a chicken’s head, his head a chicken’s mouth, his eyes white like long dead, empty eyes. I heard my thoughts, I wondered how much it hurt, how his lungs must burn. I knew I was really strangling him when he began to struggle for air. I watched thought leave his face, and his last whisper as his brain shut down ‘unicorns and kittens.’
He died in my hands.
I don’t know why, but those words still are making me cry. That his last thoughts would be so childlike. Like a curse, that I was killing dreams of unicorns and kittens, childhood loves, by killing him. That this was sanctified by Him, how he aided and abetted and coached me in this heinous act. How I saw the thoughts end, the final thoughts, of a bad person, yet a person I had come to know so well by staring him in the eyes while I killed him.
And I didn’t tell him about T, or L, or Him. I kept my sexual worries to myself. I don’t want to. I want to be honest with him, in all things.
I am afraid. What will happen when I do?
I want to be so open with him!
I am afraid.