I'm choking.

I'm choking.  I'm sitting in front of a blank page, that little cursor mocking me with every blink.  Words teasing me like children with their thumbs in the ears, daring me with waging tongues to pluck them out of the air and strap them down onto the page.  I want to string them together like pearls.  Carefully selecting each word, turning it over between my fingers, my eyes squinting in search of imperfections.  Setting them on my tongue to taste their bitter-sweetness.  Artistically arranging them into tightly constructed threads of thought. 

And then I want to choke you with them.  I want to torture my protagonist and make you cry.  I want that little ball of hurt to well up in your throat and steal your breath from your lips.  I want to yank empathetic tears from your eyes and watch them roll down your cheek and wet the page so that my words bleed.  A little breath play.  A little pain play.  A little mindfuck.  I want you to get to the last word and beg me to hurt you again like the true masochist I know you are. 

Because you don't want a story about blonde-headed little girls who play with dolls and have a happy life and grow up to be well rounded republicans who do laundry every Saturday and have sex in the missionary position.  No.  You want me to make her a coke addict.  Or a topless dancer named Thumper.  Or a victim of sexual abuse.  Or kill her mother just as she's reaching puberty and needs her the most.  Or all of the above. 

Admit it.  You want her to suffer.  You want her to suffer so that you can cry your swollen cathartic tears and turn pages and hurt right there with her.  Because you see yourself in her.  Because the behavior I give her, the words I place on her tongue are things you could have done or said the same situation.  And because maybe if she endures the torture I put her through on the page, then maybe you can endure whatever is torturing you. 

Besides, who doesn't like a good train wreck.  We are all sick twisted little fucks craning our necks to see the dismembered bodies.  We are all voyeurs, intent on watching the pain of other people.  Especially when those people are safely contained inside the dog-eared pages of a book. 

If only I could spit her out - this girl I'm going to torture for you.  Create her out of thin air.  Draw her inside your head with prosy descriptions of the elegant line of her collarbone, or the child-like dimple she gets on her left cheek when she smiles, or the three-inch scar on her hip that she dismisses with witty one liners, even though you can see by the way she fidgets how uncomfortable she is with the subject.  If only I wasn't choking on her.  We could watch it together.  Watch the blood pool in her cheeks, flushing her face red.  Watch her panic in her eyes.  Feel her claw at her own throat with those freshly manicured fingernails. 

Admit it.  You want to see more, don't you.   

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