You sense the danger. Your nostrils
flare. Your eyes amok. Your hands so restless. You know me for a
bilker, you realise I'll break your heart. I know you comprehend we
both are choiceless.
It's not about money. Emotions are at stake. I share your depths of
loneliness and pain. Sitting opposed, I see the child in you, the
adolescent. I discern the pleading sparkle in your eyes, your shoulders
stooping in the very second you've decided to succumb. I am hurting for
what I do to you. My only consolation is the inexorability of nature -
mine and yours, this world's (in which we find ourselves and not of our
choice). Still, we are here, you know.
I empathise with you without speech or motion. Your solitary sadness,
the anguish, and your fears. I am your only friend, monopolist of your
invisible cries, your inner haemorrhage of salty tears, the tissued
scar that has become your being. Like me, the product of uncounted
blows (which you sometimes crave).
Being abused is being understood, having some meaning, forming a
narrative. Without it, your life is nothing but an anecdotal stream of
randomness. I deal the final, overwhelming coup-de-grace that will
transform the torn sheets of your biography into a plot.
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