Nightmares

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing…”
Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven

I tear out the page and dip the nib into the ink once more. Black. It could be no other colour. Blood-red, perhaps, but there has never been much blood. Black, on the other hand, has ruled from the very beginning.
It was night the first time. I do not remember what kind of night it was, or what colour the sky might have been. Darkness is all that has remained impressed upon my memory, though perhaps there was a faint light in the room. Torches. Lanterns. A pallid glow, almost afraid to break the darkness, to shatter that perfect expanse of black. The same black I now watch spreading over the page, seeping into the veins of the parchment, tracing sinuous arabesques beneath my hand as I write.
I have always been afraid even to speak, even to think. Why write now? I do not know. For days, the memory of his hand has haunted me. His right hand, I think.

I tried not to look at him while he stared at me, studying me without the slightest discretion. I tried not to look, and yet the memory of his eyes remains indelible. And still the hand haunts me. The right one, the one that struck me across the face and made my lips snap shut. I remember hitting my head. But it did not matter.
His voice went on echoing in my ears, and even now, after all this time, I cannot rid myself of the sound. The words… I do not remember them. Not all of them. I only know that I would not call what passed between us a conversation. Insults? Perhaps a game. With him, I never learned to tell the difference.
But the memory of his touch haunts me. Far from gentle that first time, or any time after. When did the fear begin? He could never reach beyond my body. Not even when I lay on the floor, stretched out in the darkness of a room that was not mine.

Darkness. A smooth, caressing expanse. Now I would want no other embrace. But then? Then I wanted light. I wanted to be somewhere else. I was in a room that was not mine, counting stars, unable to sleep.
How can nightmares infest a waking mind? How can they torment you with the memory of blows, with the shrill scrape of metal against a sheath, with footsteps setting the rhythm of your breath until it quickens with fear and ill-concealed anticipation?
I close my eyes, as I always did in the instant before hearing his voice, before sensing his presence with absolute clarity. I close them and see every instant again. Every moment. I feel each touch anew and must concentrate on the rise and fall of my chest to be certain that air is still reaching my lungs.

How closely are terror and desire bound together?

And yet the conviction that I must resist remains firm. Despite his eyes upon me, following my every movement. He is motionless. Kneeling. He will not be able to move for a while, but I linger. I watch him in the moonlight, searching for his eyes.
Now I know why I spoke to him. I know why I did not run. How could I not have wanted him to return, to come looking for me once more? And what better motive could I have offered him than revenge?
He returned.

How can I long for his touch? I tremble and draw away, though I know I would rather move closer. I try to hide, but my body betrays me. It stays rigid, carrying me where I am more exposed. My gaze falls upon the chain, upon the weighted tip swaying slowly, inexorably. I run my tongue over my lips, and it is strange to taste bitter iron while it is still so far from me.
Far away. Yet not as far as before. Closer now.
I retreat again, and at last the rational part of me, the conscious part, persuades my body. Too late. When I wake, I cannot breathe.
Dry lips. The taste of blood. So much blood. Flesh torn where the chains bite, holding me still. Perhaps pain and confusion explain that feeble attempt at escape, little more than a few tugs against the restraints that bind me to a cot that is not even particularly comfortable.
Pain unfurls again, sudden and violent. Then I sense his presence. Every sensation sharpens, and the pain recedes. But I do not speak. I cannot. Only broken sobs escape me, and the occasional weak denial, directed more at myself than at him. Little resistance. Almost no attempt to push him away.
I remember closing my eyes so that I would not have to see his. And in the darkness behind my lowered lids, I hated him.

When the light returned, he was gone. He had left fresh bruises on my body. I searched for him with my eyes. In vain. Even the chains no longer cut into my wrists and ankles. Once free, I hated him all the more for leaving.

My clothes were little more than rags when I dragged myself out of the room and then out of the house. I cast one last glance behind me before walking away, convinced that I would have to feed on hatred if I were ever to forget him and keep him far from me.
Then why did I defend him? Why, when I saw him kneeling again, helpless by his own choice, did I stop them from striking him? As I helped him, I found myself smiling. The foolish excuse that I alone had the right to hurt him was enough to quiet my conscience while, once again, I spoke to him, turning that smile into mockery. Once again, I made sure he would return to me.
He has grown tired of beating me. And I miss the blows that, however briefly, brought his hands against my skin.

I am alone in a small tent scented with incense, without a single comfort that might make sleep desirable. I am alone when I indulge in a shameful kind of longing, cursing myself all the while for my weakness.
And so, when he returns, I keep my distance. I try to make him leave. I try to create the circumstances that will ensure I never see him again. This is what I keep telling myself, even as my lips part to ask him to stay.
By the time I realise what I have said, my body is already moving of its own accord, fluid and autonomous, showing him the quarters prepared for him. In the silence of my mind, with carefully manufactured certainty, I tell myself that I will not see him again. That I will not be there to bid him farewell when he leaves. That he will starve before I tell him where to find food.
An hour later, I return to him. I curse myself. I try to stop. It is no use. My body does not listen. Neither does my mind when his hand closes over my mouth, pressing just hard enough to silence me. I tremble beside him.
Why? The absence of an answer, or perhaps the certainty of one: that is the source of my fear, sudden and absolute. And so I have him taken away from me. I make sure he stays far from me.
Yet I cannot bear the thought of anyone hurting him. Anyone but me, perhaps. Still, I defend him. And I seek him out again.
I open the door to his house, deafened by my ragged breathing, and flinch at the scrape of my bare feet across the floor. I stare at the door to his room, wishing I could see through it. I cannot bring myself to open it. I want him to wake, to see me. And I do not.
I scribble a note in haste, carelessly, without thought. Then I am free to run, to leave, to find somewhere to sleep and dream of returning, of learning not to flee from a closed door. I drag myself through narrow streets and cramped alleys, choosing the least frequented paths by instinct.

My slow, reluctant steps halt at a sudden thought. How many people suffer because I cannot stay away from him? A shiver passes through me, and I begin to walk again.
I leave the streets behind in search of grass and trees. In a moment of clarity, I realise my steps are not as aimless as I believed. I am looking for a particular place, somewhere I know I will find someone capable of distracting me, though I do not know for how long. And once again, I find myself in a room that is not mine, where I cannot even count the stars.
There is something in the condition of a prisoner that inclines me towards apathy and sleep, leaving others to concern themselves with my fate. A prisoner is seldom expected to do anything. Yet the prospect of captivity in the service of enslavement is enough to restore a faint desire to fight.
Futile.

I find myself in a world turned upside down, where trust brands my skin with red-hot irons and nightmares are the ones offering help, speaking of freedom. The memory haunts me. Not the memory of his touch this time.
I linger and let my gaze travel across the black expanse of the page while my mind contemplates the indelible image of two figures looking at one another, speaking. A faded image, because sound dominates the memory, along with the knowledge of the answer that rose unbidden to my lips.
But I stopped myself from speaking. Why? I could not say, even now. When he left, the stillness of my body spoke of disappointment, and I made no attempt to conceal it.
The memories grow more recent. The smiles, more frequent. Smiles of mockery and pity. He writes, and I go to him. I do not try to stop myself. I offer myself no excuses I no longer need to invent.
When I see him, I make no effort to hide the fear, the concern, the affection. Once again I speak to him, choosing my words with care. I seek his closeness, answering a thirst I am tired of concealing even from myself. My body no longer trembles at the touch of his hands.
I look at him, studying every detail before I leave, knowing my absence will not be long. I do not turn back. Instead, I lose myself in the darkness.
It is always dark.

I look again at the page, where the ink has spread into a wide black stain beneath my suddenly motionless hand. And I find myself closing my eyes, longing for sleep.
Dreams or nightmares, it makes no difference. Both are born of the mind’s desires. Both leave traces of themselves throughout the day, making us long once more for the night. Once more for the dark.