You’ve ruined me now –
But I liked it –
But I’m ruined; do you have a plan? ‘Cause I’m in your hands.

You’ve ruined me now –
Though I liked it, now I’m ruined –
I had no choice when I heard your voice.

I know you said, ‘can’t be misled’.
Now I’m the one whose face is red.
You’ve ruined me now.
Though I liked it, now I’m ruined –
I’m trying to part with what’s in my heart.

You’ve ruined me –
And how I thought I liked it –
Now I’m ruined.
My whole world’s now turned upside down.

I heard me say, ‘I’m going away’ –
But now I write you everyday.
You heard me say, ‘I’m going away’ –
But I’m on the floor outside your door.
You’ve ruined me now.

You’ve ruined me now.
But I liked it –
But I’m ruined …
Do you have a plan?
‘Cause I’m in your hands ….

–

Yeah. Do I even need to add to that? Norah sums it all up rather nicely.

I couldn’t sleep last night. Again. So, I finally gave in and got out of bed, grabbed a snack, and reflected upon the evening’s events. That song popped into my head. Hadn’t heard it in ages; liked the melody. The lyrics seemed a bit melodramatic — what I knew of them; which was essentially the chorus and not much more.

‘You’ve ruined me’. Damn. That’s an intense concept, isn’t it? What a thing to say to a person. Definition is even dicier. What’s it even mean? To be ‘ruined’ — ? How?

While it’s indeed dramatic, it’s not undeserved. For numerous reasons, I feel rather ruined: recollections of my past history of abuse, which has been creeping into my subconscious, while other elements of that very precarious psychological space present themselves in sudden and unexpected ways.

I’d say I need to explore the submissiveness that’s slowly begun surfacing, but no one beckons that forth from me. So, much as Norah’s proclamation, I, too, am ‘trying to part with what’s in my heart’ — because the truth is, I have a wonderful husband who’s, really, uncommonly so. I know plenty of wives say their husbands are wonderful; it’s hyperbole. Mine truly is.

And so I conversely feel horrible. Terribly guilty. Namely, because he’s also submissive. Deeply, wonderfully submissive. And I’ve no idea where my dominance has gone. It’s either quickly reappearing, like a trusty shield, in the face of strangers and mixed company — or it’s just not there. Nor is anything in its place. Rather, my sexuality has just … checked out..

Except in those rare moments when it checks back in — just to fuck with me, it seems. Just to torment and to tease. As if to remind me that — yup, it’s still there; thoroughly buried. Except when it isn’t. And that happens quite randomly, but is easily handled (well — most of the time) through sublimation. Unless it’s a dominant sexual feeling. Oh, how I miss feeling THAT!

Ruined.

Yeah, suffice it to say. Though, I liked it, now I’m ruined. And he has no plan.

I tried going away. Much like Norah’s, it’s a work in progress with certain similar results. I have an unfailing pride which never allows me to flat out bear all in most cases. It has happened a few times — but we won’t speak of them right now. ‘Tis a bit more emo than I feel like getting at current.

And regardless of his ‘indecision’ and genuinely being driven as crazy and being completely flummoxed as to what to do — it’s still torturous at times. Well … recently. I’m not going to just forbid him to socialise with Mister P or the gaming group, with whom he’s become friends. So, what else I can do? Besides hide out various locations of the apartment? ( … Even if he finds me in said locations of apartment. Sigh.)

I’m civil. I had a normal conversation — about writing / work. It’s our patented fall-back. Any time we veer to close to having to discuss It, we can always retreat to work. (Except … when we can’t. Those’re the tricky times.) But there was plenty to discuss, and he was a complete space cadet due to having worked long hours on little sleep. Understandably, as he was about to crash anyhow, we suggested he do so. Away from the game, of course. (Mister P offered our bedroom, as it’s quiet away from the boisterousness of roleplaying and clattering of dice.)

He accepts the offer to nap — and decides to (wait for it) lie down over by me, upon the carpeting behind where I was seated at the dining room table.

… Sigh.

All right. Fine. So, he won’t stop blathering about all manner of things which make little sense to the point where I have to downright tell him to shut it and get some rest. Erm, gently, of course. Y’know. Nicely as it can be said. He says I’m ‘quite right’ and prepares to do so.

Whew. Just as I’m thinking to myself that perhaps, I’m overreacting; perhaps, this won’t be nearly as difficult as I thought, and despite his going through a similar sort of hell, he’s clearly managing it well enough to where all I have to do is maintain my own composure, and –

He grabs my hand.

I’m dumbstruck.

Doesn’t say a damned thing; not a bloody word. Just … holds it — and not idly, not softly, not delicately, not gently. Not quite for-dear-life, but with an odd sense of … not quite knowing what else to do. A quiet desperation. The stirrings, but not yet manifestation of, a kind of madness.

I just blinked. He just stared. I blinked again. Finally, my cerebrum has connected with my motor cranial nerves, and sent some sort of message indicating I should SAY SOMETHING –

– and before I do … he gives my hand a slight squeeze before closing his eyes, turning his head, and slowly pulling away. Silent after that. Completely.

I’m still blinking. I say nothing, turn back to the laptop upon the table before me, and attempt to concentrate — and not on the words emblazoned across my mind: WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?

As if a part of me I won’t acknowledge isn’t chiding from some dark place — oh, I know exactly what that was. And of what of it? (That’s the logical portion again. See, I argue with myself. Rather frequently. It’s … useful. Sometimes.)

What of it, indeed. What point does it serve? What does it even matter? Who cares what’s there if there’s nothing that can be done about it? What point does any of it serve if it won’t be expressed?

It … doesn’t. Not anymore.

You’ve ruined me now — and how, I thought I liked it; now I’m ruined —

My whole world’s now … turned upside down.

I wish I could get it back upright. He deserves more than this. A real wife, a real lover; a real partner. Not this broken, twisted-every-which-way version of what used to be relatively sane, quite straightforward, and capable of making all of his dreams come true.

Sigh.

You’ve ruined me.

… What comes next?

He’s pretty clueless when it comes to the practise, (and very quirky, on top of that) so I figured he’s going to need all the help that he can get. Help, of course, with which I can provide him.

Not entirely sure how to go about this whole thing, though. In part, in my deciding that I can’t just resume some form of platonic relationship, or, as he would like, maintain everything but the sexual / romantic components, (be an ‘adopted sibling’ as it were) I’d prefer our lives diverge until such point I’m not furious with him — since I’m no longer hoping that a relationship will resume. I accept that it’s over, was probably a bad idea to begin with (even though, it did seem the smartest choice at the time — and might still be) and he hadn’t any of the tools to make it work, thereby leading to his need to ‘redefine the relationship’ (fancy term for breaking up, really) in such a way that it was no longer romantic, sexual, or D/s-oriented.

I discovered that that’s a lot more complicated than it seems. Forgive me for repeating myself here, but there’s much more involved in changing the way you relate to someone than simply breaking up. Oh, sure, if you’re no longer going to be involved, then there’s the more traditional option of foregoing contact until the dust settles. But if you were friends initially, or you work together, then you sort of have to suck it up and grin and bear it.

Easier said than done.

The issue that’s presently stuck in my craw, however, is this: upon ‘redefining the relationship’, he explained that he ‘didn’t like the feeling of being the male equivalent of one’s mistress’ ( … ouch?) and he ‘needed to find the one who would be the one for him’. In essence, a primary relationship. I’m engaged, so he wants to find someone he can marry, with whom he may build a life himself.

Well, okay. I certainly get that. Apparently, the relationship we had made this more predominant, and a greater pressing need, in his life than it had been prior. I ‘awakened’ this within him.

Well, that’s great. And … as for all of that stuff that’s been awakened in me? Oh, I guess I just get to deal with that on my own. Thanks. Thanks a bunch.

And therein lies the crux of the issue; the reason why I feel this particular pain and overall stupidity could’ve been avoided — had he not been quite so (as I see it, careless) with everything. Why do I say this? Because there are a few glaring things that I can’t ignore:

The fact that he’s needed and wanted a primary relationship has not been a secret to me; we’ve known since the beginning. Why he did nothing to pursue finding one while we were together is beyond me. (I think it’s beyond him, too.)

Why he feels that these relationships are mutually-exclusive to each other. Especially if he’s looking to begin dating — which, typically involves seeing lots of different people before you’re able to confidently narrow the pool down to those who might be long-term relationship potential — then I don’t see why he couldn’t have maintained the relationship with me while pursuing a primary partner; that being said, he wouldn’t have even necessarily needed to forego one over the other unless that was specifically determined later. (Certainly not by me.)

That’s why I feel it’s been carelessness, more than anything else. Had he considered all of his options ahead of time, everything would’ve been done differently. (Sadly, the direction in which things were going.)

I was looking forward to this …

My fiance and I would continue to be able to explore the emergent aspects of my personality, as we were able to further incorporate them into our own kink and sex life. I would meanwhile be helping my … whatever he can be called — best friend, creative partner — and intermittently — when he could get his act together — dom — find his own primary partner that would satisfy the needs I couldn’t, or had otherwise satisfied by my fiance. We’d do so in a variety of ways, because I’ve come to know a good number of people in the scene, out of it, and on the fringes. (Honestly, he needs someone who’s kinky, too, so we’d peruse within the scene — and its perimeter — first and more frequently.) I’d be able to continue discovering this hidden, greatly unexplored side of myself which made the rest of my personality feel more integrated and complete, he’d have certain needs met while he found his primary partner, the one with whom he could share his life –

… and we’d all be on this great adventure, learning about ourselves and each other, exploring the depths of what makes us human, while not having to actually be denied anything, or suffer the loneliness of detachment, loss or, simply being alone.

This way, no one had to be alone — and everyone could benefit from the experience. Sounded like a pretty good deal to me! Actually, quite logical, too.

But, for whatever reason, he felt he had to change everything and go back to suffering until he found his primary partner. And having done my own share of suffering, I can’t imagine why anyone would actually -choose- to in place of an alternative.

Sigh. To each his own. What’s done is done. It would’ve been nice. A rather lovely dream, I think. I was looking forward to being able to realize it.

It was also only the option I truly saw, given the circumstances. With some people, and for whatever reason, we’re just -drawn- to them a certain way; and the connection I felt to him (relatively early on, too) ensured that we could never comfortably be friends, and nothing more. The frustration would take hold, which would then lead to anger — not at each other, but the situation, and we’d probably end up in a similar position.

Although, -now- my anger -is- with him. I’m angry because the position is self-imposed! Foolishly, and inexplicably so. I can’t shake my head at the hopelessness of the situation and sigh dejectedly. The only reason things -are- as they are is because he’s -chosen- for them to be. At first, I raged against it. Hated it. Thought it was a very dumb idea. I still do, except now I understand that it’s over. I’m not secretly hoping for everything to magically return to the way they were. I can accept that it’s gone — which is partially why I’m angry.

I knew that it would. I knew the anger would overtake me and I’d not feel the same anymore. I knew I wouldn’t want him in my life anymore; that I’d forget what we had, and why he ever was. It’s not conscious, either. It simply … happens.

I can’t be friends. I can’t be platonic. I can’t be vanilla. We aren’t any of those things, and to pretend as if we were for the sake of what, appearances? It’s dishonest. We never could be then — why would we suddenly be able to now? Now that we -know- all that we could be? All that we -were- ?

So, the only logical thing to do is send him on his way. Anything else is unproductive. Bemoaning the past and trying to be what we’re not is stupid — and likely, useless. He wants to find his primary partner (which, for some reason, excludes any sort of relationship with me) so all I can do, that I see to be logical …

… is let it go.

Right? Is this not where I throw up my hands and say, ‘Okay, I give up,’ and call ‘Red’? Enough’s enough, already. I’m sick of the pain. We used to encounter confusion in relating to each other, but now it’s tenfold. What we had is gone. I hate that — but it’s reality.

I can’t be friends. I can’t be something I’m not. That we’re not.

… So, what does that leave me?

I realized this evening that the power my former — whatever, for lack of better, we’ll say dominantly-oriented dynamic relationship — had over me is now gone. Lifted. Somewhat relieving, definitely a bit sad, and more than anything — fills me with a an equally powerful, almost inexplicable rage.

That part’s not so grand. But, hey. It is what it is, and right now, I feel nothing — or just rage over the fact I no longer know how to maintain an interaction with someone I know meant a great deal to me. That, and while I used to feel this sense of … well, power over me, as if I was just awaiting the moment he’d admit that he couldn’t really deal with it, either, and in a sudden, likely fevered moment, everything would feel right again — having returned to the way it was, which had become something that felt so incredibly right to me.

Except now … it doesn’t anymore. That feeling that what was can be regained, and exists just beneath the surface has been replaced by a raging apathy, oddly enough, or is at least being sufficiently drowned out by the fury to seem as if what was is good completely. I used to long for and want it back. As if that which I was raging against was simply the loss of it, and it could reaffirm itself in a matter of seconds.

Now … now, however, I just feel loss, and bitterness, and anger. Fury over the fact that it’s gone, and for no good reason that I can see. That I’m angry in my acceptance of its being lost. That now, I have no idea how to progress forward. And while I can acknowledge its ending and not wish for resumption, the rage and growing enmity is making me fear that any sort of connection at all — the platonic relationship that remains close and emotionally intimate — is impossible. I’m too damned angry.

And maybe it’s just too soon. Maybe I can’t believe he can fathom that we’d be able to just transition right into this, given all the pain it’s caused, thanks to all of the intensity that our dynamic naturally encompassed on so many levels that can’t be expressed anymore.

And I’m supposed to be okay with this? I can’t attend those BDSM clubs with him anymore — where I see a side of him now only in my memory once experienced. Hell, I can’t even talk about sex or kink with him anymore — and I’m a therapist, for chrissake!

Why don’t people realize that being friends after having been in an otherwise intimate, either romantically, sexually, or both — is just not that simple? You’re not just cutting out one type of interaction; you’re changing your whole schema of that person and how you relate to them. Takes time to refile and make those adjustments so that you don’t relate to them in the same manner.

And that’s a huge change. Plenty of loss. Suddenly, there are all these types of interactions off limits to you. Things you can’t do. Can’t say — because ‘it’d be weird’ and your schema for being friends doesn’t include that.

Oh, sure. I could rewrite my schema to include such things in what is classified a friendship, or platonic interaction. Things which would normally overlap a relationship with a degree of sexual intimacy. But I already rewrote a lot to incorporate what I needed to so that I could have the sort of dynamic I wanted.

I’m ready for someone else to put in the same effort. Not that he hasn’t to some extent, but my schema for friendship doesn’t allow me to relate the same way I do emotionally when there’s romantic or sexual vulnerability involved.

Is that so difficult to understand? Perhaps, so. But, as said before, I’m done with being the one to rewrite and compromise. And until that changes, I suppose I’ll feel either anger — or nothing.

Sigh.

Thanksgiving. Giving thanks. Being thankful. Oh, and I am — don’t get me wrong. Very much so. I just wish there wasn’t more than one side of me — a side that’s so very different from the one I know so well. The one I hadn’t even realized truly existed until one, fucking, person brought it out in me. (Sort of like the fact that — I have to confess, most submissive men — outside of my friends and clients — tend to bother the shit out of me when they’re being ‘subbie’; just makes me want to slap the shit out of them and scream, ‘My God — be a fucking MAN, for chrissake!’ Naturally, this is the very thing my fiance craves of me that I -don’t- feel the want to give or do to him — except in rarer circumstances — because I actually -like- his submissive side, and want to cuddle, nuzzle and nurture it.)

Sigh.

It’s the other side of me that’s been bothering me, since it’s had to get stuffed back into the kink closet. Y’know. The -other- side. The one I -don’t- express, and since I’m naturally dominant … well … we can all guess.

Mister P, of course, offers to explore this with me, (and back in the beginning, before he began submitting to me and it all clicked for me, I enjoyed it for its novelty — but then … it wore off) and it just … no. It’s not the same. I want -his- submission. I don’t need his dominance — or him to prove his dominance to me. Oh, it’s -there-, believe me. But he’s naturally a submissive man, and enjoys being able to express that. And, as I’ve said to some close friends (and him, too) if he were to ever suddenly decide not to submit to me anymore — it’d feel like the planet was just knocked off its axis. Not. Cool.

That leaves … the other. The hidden, unexpressed, briefly uncovered and explored side of me that now lies dormant yet again, resigned again to the latency it’s gotten to know all of my life, really, outside of those years I suffered a hell of abuse. (Rest assured — not the same.) Consensual exploration of submissive feelings — not the same as being non-consensually coerced into submissive behaviours due to cross-spectrum abuse. Just go ahead and clarify that one right now. So, off it goes, back to whence it came, relegated, yet again, to my fiction and its general fucked-up’ed-ness (of which there’s plenty).

God. I hate being fucking emo.

Unfortunately, right now, watching the roses on our coffee table surely wilt and wither, regardless of their having proper water, being appropriately trimmed, and not having suffered too much of a temperature shock — there’s no other way to be. It’s some kind of fucking natural order, I suppose. Nobody’s fault, really.

I have the one with whom I’ve chosen to spend my life. He satisfies every pragmatic and important part of me. Makes me deliriously happy on a daily basis. And, so long as I can forget the other side of me, and the way it felt with the one who’s now gone to find his own primary partner to whom he can belong and return home after slaying the day’s dragons — I’ll be completely happy. Again.

Goddamn. Why is this so bloody hard? Why does it feel, on certain days, to matter so much? It’s just a part of me — not all of me. Not even an aspect that has any use. And yet … And yet ….

God. I hate being emo.

I’m hardly masochistic; in fact, I hate pain. Really. Not a fan. Emotionally, physically, a combination of both …. I’m not even that big into catharsis except with very special reason. And even then, it’s tightly controlled. I don’t run from pain, per se — I’m done with that phase of my life. I confront, I deal, I regroup, and I get back out there. If there’s something I’m supposed to feel in order to move through something into the next phase of my life, I do it.

That’s why I’m not quite sure how I’m feeling right now.

Allow me to explain.

This morning, going about my usual routine, responding to my Facebook messages, I saw that stupid little, ‘Hey! This guy’s friends with one of your friends! Maybe you should friend him, too!’ box in the corner. Normally, I don’t give a shit. But when it’s my abusive ex-I-hesitate-to-call-a-boyfriend — I do.

And … I did the wrong thing.

I clicked it.

Oh, fuck, no, I’m not requesting the asshole’s ‘friendship’ in any form. I was just … curious. It said there were several photos that had been added in the last few years or so; whenever the hell it was I was last faced with his terrorist-looking-mug. (Really. He looks either like a terrorist or a serial killer in his older profile photo. It’s disturbing. Dunno why he picked that one. Though, it may be the most truthful representation of what’s inside — which, I feel, is pure narcissist.) An-yw-a-a-ay ….

I poked through, and saw … a look which was at one point familiar to me. An expression that was loving and tendre, gazing to the side of … some chick. And … I underwent some (very briefly expended) detective work. (I think there’s a 10 minute cap before you can consider yourself ‘cyber-stalking’ — though, considering he fucking actually cyber-stalked me, to the point where I had to get a damned restraining order — yeah. I’m good.) It revealed that she is, in fact, his girlfriend. They both — in fact — appear quite happy, and he is, in fact, becoming an employed professional.

And all of the sudden, I find myself doing something I never do.

I want to fucking cry.

A single word beats against my brain: Why.

Why, why, why, why?

Why, when I fucking gave all I had to give — which wasn’t much, and I still gave it — when I was at the absolute lowest point of my life, when I had been so successfully beaten down, broken, and embittred to the point of just not giving a shit, allowing myself to become another cog in the machine — a retail drone — foregoing ever realising any of my dreams, and resigning myself to — not failure, but mediocrity — when I was the only one putting any fucking bread on the table, going out and busting my ass to ensure that the Goddamned lights stayed on — the main point of contact when anything went wrong –

WHY … was it that all he could do was fucking hate me?

WHY?

A person can drive themselves mad with this question in no time. So, naturally, I quit asking it. Years ago. Occam and I sat down, cut through the bullshit, and decided upon the most likely cause:

He’s just an asshole. He’ll probably be alone for the rest of his life (poor guy) and I was the one speck of happiness in that dismal, failure of an existence — which is why he hated me even more so once I finally fucking left, (four and a half years too late) that he completely shot to hell.

I felt … pity. And, I moved on.

I decided that, while it takes two to tango, there really wasn’t much I could have done in that situation that I hadn’t already. I gave what I had to give. I stuck with him. I kept plodding on, plowing through. Day after fucking day, fight after Goddamned fight, I remained faithful, strong, and capable. I carried him to the point where I thought I would break — and for what?

Because nobody ever had.

Mister P and I have a sickness. We like to help heal the wounded birds — help the poor lost souls out there find their way — if at all possible — because we know what it’s like to be lost. We remember how it feels to hit rock bottom, and wonder how the fuck we’re ever going to get back up.

And, yet, we have. And we keep doing so. We’re survivors. It’s what we do.

So, when I met this charismatic fellow with a brilliant smile, I thought — wow. There’s a lot of pain in those eyes, even though he tries to hide it with an almost blinding smile. And, foolish me, the fixer in me just had to get to work. And, work it was. And work, I did.

I can’t give up — it’s a problem I have. One of my failings as a submissive. I’m going to scream at and curse you before I’ll cry — no matter how much it fucking hurts. I won’t let you win.

Yeah. That‘s not love. It’s not a relationship. It’s not anything — except an endurance test. Quizzically, I ended up with some of my absolute best writing during those four, almost five, lonely years. My mid-twenties. I existed working and writing. I’d go to work, do my time wherever it was from which I was currently drawing a steady paycheck, punch out, go home and write. I’d write like a fiend. I’d type until my fingertips were calloused, and I was approaching early-stage carpal tunnel, and my doctor told me it was either publishing or get out of clerical quickly. I ditched clerical and became a host for a restaurant. And I’m still the best fucking host they’ve — possibly ever — had. Because when I do something, I do it one-fucking-hundred-and-ten-per-cent. Or … I don’t do it at all. Another failing of mine. There’s a lot I’ve done. Sadly, I know it could be more.

But, I digress.

You’ll hear Mister P go on about the ‘Pizza Delivery Guy’, or, use pizzas as a form of measurement. ‘ … all I’m saying,’ he begins, ‘Is that’s gotta be a LOT of pizzas.’ (Regarding whatever winnings he’s brought home, or so forth.) And yeah, that’s why. Because when I knew him — almost solidly — he was a fucking pizza delivery driver. We he capable of more? Fuck, yes. Would he do it? Even Goddamned try? … No.

Until I left.

His whole fucking world seemed to open up for him when I left. Kana and the fucking crows. (That confuses you? Google it, slacker. And then watch the series. It’s breathtakingly beautiful.) I left, and he actually started fucking living. Went back to school, graduated, and apparently, found another very capable, strong … short … auburn, (though, chunkier, to be frank — not that it matters, though he’s — fuck. A good wind could knock him down) … young woman, and … make her his girlfriend.

And … love her.

You can tell that he loves her.

So, that leaves me with another resounding question I cannot answer, and I probably shouldn’t even try.

… why couldn’t he love me?

What was so … wrong with showing me love? Why did he have to hate, tear down, manipulate, ruin and destroy me?

And, yeah. If I think about it too much, it makes me want to fucking cry.

Sigh. So, I don’t. I go back to writing … and, living. Because I’m happy now — despite the past. I am loved, and I love in return. Again. And regardless of why he couldn’t love me doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t affect me anymore. As Mister P says, ‘Who gives a shit?’ Of course, to an abuse survivor, when we find that our abuser truly loves, is treating properly, and altogether being a good person to someone else, we’re left wondering. Did they learn? What taught them?

We try not to resort to the obvious darker question.

‘What was wrong with me?’

I don’t think anything’s wrong with me besides what I know, have accepted, and am working through. That’s all I can do. I have my goals, and I’m slowly achieving them. We’re all a bit cracked for sure, but if we were perfect — we wouldn’t be here. We’d all be pretty boring, too.

I’m glad he’s found love. I’m glad he can love someone. But it really gets under my skin when I remember the note he left me, with the one single red rose I’d ever received in the entirety of our relationship. (I’d gone with my best friend to move out of what had been our apartment — that I’d chosen, up-kept, etc., ad nauseum, infinitum.

‘I hope you find someone whom you’re willing to love.’

… Willing to love? Had he been there, I would’ve shown him how willing I was to shove it up his fucking ass. Willing to love.

Yeah. Who was unwilling? Who didn’t try?

Useless now. Wasted energy.

… and I refuse to waste anymore of it. On this.

It’s no wonder that my masterpiece would be a derivative works — for those unfamiliar, known as Hunting Alice, soon to be an audio drama series and broadcast on the Internet.

This, strangely enough, is not about that … exactly. This is about something else. Deeper. The roots of Roulette, in some sense. While I am always aware of myself, I do have momentary lapses of … treason? No. Season? Hmm, not quite. And ‘reason’ doesn’t cut it, since they’re not always unreasonable; but they do change me.

There are many people milling about in my head — many of which whom are my own creations, and present themselves in my fiction works. But sometimes, I get a bit too method. Certain characters, unfortunately, are so deeply ingrained within me that when something triggers them (or someone) it’s all I can do to keep firm hold of myself. It’s just so otherwise natural to slip into the masque of someone else.

(Yes, this is why I did so much theatre in my youth. Why, had I my druthers, I would be an actress as well. Moving on.)

One such character is Dr Penderan Fauste. That’s a name you’ll be hearing much more often, you can be sure of that. While it’s new to you now, it’ll one day be uttered with such casualness you’ll hardly remember the time in which he was a non-entity. Do mark my words; it’s not hyperbole.

Fauste is a funny sort, though. Trouble is, while I am his writer, I’m unable to ever assimilate the character completely. I must always entrust him to another (which I recently have, and could not be happier.) Alas, something incredibly curious takes place once that … vessel has been found. His counterpart, soul-mate — the yin to his yang — the other side of the coin — does fight to take hold of me: Riley Wingate. (Another name you’ll soon know, well, though not as readily as Fauste.)

She is the Alice for a chaotic, modern world; a controversial heroine, and inquisitive investigator of the strange, curious existence in which we find ourselves, and cursorily term ‘reality’. Regularly, she’s a wonderful person — very compassionate, empathetic, and … a bit unaware of the depth of the tumult around her. She tends to find herself at the heart of massive conspiracies which serve to unhinge her sanity, disturb her inner peace and leave her a very different person than she started out.

Of course, according to my brain, there is a kind of chronology. In some sense, being that I have written all five novels, and I do know the ending of our strange tale, Riley does not appear as easily to me in her earlier, innocent stages. She comes out in full-force as what she has become: something powerful, and in many cases, to be reckoned with — quite carefully.

This doesn’t work in my everyday life. She’s too much; too intense, too forthright, too dominant, too antagonistic. If her world is not perfectly ordered, she just about blows a gasket. (And not quietly.) All of the docile, peace-keeping, harmony-seeking, submissive years which left her bewildered, brokenhearted, and forever changed are long gone. One extreme to the other.

Yes, yes, I know, I know. It does seem the story of my life, does it not? To constantly seek the balance. That’s Riley’s journey — and it appears it’s mine, too. Days like these, when she comes to me so easily, tend to remind me that I’m not there yet. She’s still disturbed, still seeking resolution, closure — some sense to why her world was so casually destroyed; why the only one that seems to care about the fact that she was left to gather the pieces, alone, was — no doubt — her.

There’s an anger there; a rage, unsatisfied. Powerful, and a bit frightening. She is my dominant side, strangely enough — and she was born of a sort of enforced submission. A requirement to be gentle, appease, placate, and be at the beck and call of others. She was never such to begin with, and when her dominant side came into being, it did not do so quietly. (Of course, to tell you more, I’d spoil the whole thing. You should read the books instead — and well, purchase the audio drama episodes on iTunes when it premieres; that particular scene is brilliantly presented in the audio drama — if I do say so myself.)

And, yes. The whole thing is very, very kinky.

At any rate …

I fear there is much that is resonant — and reminiscent — with me, and my own. That, in many ways, she is my means of coping. She is the tangible existence that my own journey is underway. And I remain just as perplexed and unaware of where the destination is to lead.

So, while we are engaged in demo recording, script revisions, rehearsals, and intensive characterisation — bear with me, as there may be many days like this, where she overtakes my good sense, because a part of me is too enthralled with the notion of just giving in.

It will be curious indeed.

Stay tuned.

I once was myself, before I grabbed and threw her into the nearby closet. But it was too dark, and I could still hear her. She wouldn’t stop screaming, and now she was crying almost constantly. I couldn’t concentrate; got nothing done while she was there. So, finally, I beat her just long enough until she was quiet, so that I could transport her to our basement. While I knew it would no doubt attract some attention, I was out of other options. I knew there, underneath the floor, where her muffled cries would only be heard in the dead of night while we were sleeping, was where I would bury her alive.

She was seven.

I’m not a monster. I do what I do to survive.

You don’t understand unless you’ve been there. Unless you’ve been given no other choice; nothing else works. It becomes your last resort — and an acceptable one. The ultimate objective is to leave everyone else undisturbed.

Moving her was hard enough. She fought; she begged, and pleaded. Didn’t understand. She didn’t understand why she had to go away. She was still hurting. Still scared. She didn’t want to experience the dark, or any of the things she was afraid might be lurking inside of it. She didn’t understand much of anything anymore. I tried to quell these fears, which, at the time, were too much for me to deal with, by explaining that there was nothing to be afraid of in the dark, and she would be safer there anyway. I lied to her; I said that I would keep her warm, visit and keep her company from time to time, and make sure that she had everything necessary to live a relatively basic life. And she believed me. Even though, I knew that day, if I was lucky, I’d never see or hear from her again.

That was over two decades ago. We still hear her occasionally. She’ll have managed to save her strength enough to shake the house. The table upon which we ate dinner. Managing to move the salt shaker half an inch off of its surface, but our mother remains unfazed as she sprinkles a bit of it over her meal, her eyes unmoving from her reflection in the chrome. Really, it was her decision, and I just went along with it. I could have killed the girl that night, like I had been tempted to many times before. Since she came to our house. Changing our lives forever. Especially mine. Instead, I left it to fate. In the end, I was the one most surprised by her capability to endure. The means by which she’d suffered through and improvised, disappearing for long periods of time, only to re-emerge stronger, with an even more powerful will to survive. To be honest, now, she scares me. My reasons for allowing her to stay there have changed; but the reality remains the same.

Each time, her attempt to be noticed would be fueled by a stronger emotion. At first, it was fear. Terror. The desperate need for companionship and consolation. Fear of a terrible loneliness of which its end was unknown. It was later replaced by pure desperation for liberation; to be free to experience what she had been denied. What others have enjoyed, and what she still had a present, though lesser, desire to have for herself. Her life was vanishing before her eyes, controlled and outside of her grasp. Helplessly. When that gained her nothing, she went away again; this time for much longer than she had before. I had become so attuned to those moments she’d make her discarded presence known, that I could tell the reason she was gone was that she was near death, having sacrificed long enough, to no avail, and was coming to accept that she would never have the love or acceptance that others did. That, despite all of her seeming to the contrary, she still craved so deeply.

And for the first time since I’d locked her away, I felt helpless myself. Guilty. Why had I gone along with this? And for so long? What could she have been? What sort of life might she have had? Was I too late?

… What had I done?

The key practically burned in my fist. I knocked on the door.

Family meetings carried more weight and awkwardness than perhaps they should have. I was often filled with a mixture of dread and challenge when Mother called it. Before now, perhaps never so much. And there was something else there, too. Conviction.

She opened proceedings by explaining that the matter had already been discussed, which I fully expected. My father remained quiet in the corner; aware, watching, but never daring to do much outside of agree. Whatever it was. Even if he didn’t. However, when it came to this particular subject, he’d always been more uncomfortable than usual. Though everyone know he couldn’t be blamed for her arriving here, she had asked me many times why ignored her, too. I used to have to explain, often with some annoyance, that he had no other choice, and he secretly beat himself up about it everyday. He would have liked to let her go, and even sort out why she’d even come here, but he never could. Something paralysed him before he even got close. Every time.

Mother, on the other hand, had dismissed the severity of her arrival after a similar sort of private bout of shaming withdrawal, for which she never could accept accountability. She claimed, many times, to have pondered freeing the girl herself, but reasoned that she was safer there — out of the way — and too unpredictable to let loose. Surely, she feared the way it might appear, should she come flying out of the house, or, worse, anywhere near any one of us. After all, her presence — and subsequent treatment — had been the subject of great debate among the few who happened to be around when she tried to reveal herself. We should be ashamed of ourselves. How dare we? Was everything about our public image? Was she so disgraceful? She was a child, for chrissake! And we treated her like something to be forgotten; something best destroyed. Unable to accept what she was, and therefore do all we could to deny her existence.

They never understood, Mother would assure me. But sooner or later, I think we all knew the truth, and were silently doubling our efforts for the inevitable: One day, I wouldn’t understand, either. And that would be the day I’d come to them with the key in my hand, as it was my doing, my problem, my responsibility; my demon, my monster. My aching, gaping, ruined thing which I found both terrifying and endearing. Beautiful and horrendous. 

And, really, it was also my key. But it was their basement. Their rules. While they had no real power of it, or over me, I let them. It was easier to hide inside of their abuse. Better to disguise and misdirect that damage which I myself inflicted.

Of course, she advised against it. While she no longer forbade me to free her, she absolved herself of any guilt or responsibility in the matter; saying that if I wished to give her freedom, to let her explore life, and what it could be like, then I would be fully accountable for anything she did. Including all that she had become. I was armed with information, but no less closer to making a real decision. Part of why I’d allowed her to be there for so long was my own cowardice, fear, and inability to take care of her on my own. She had the strength, after all. I was the one who had grown weak.

Some offered to help, but it was not their burden to shoulder. They could advise me periodically, or lend me encouragement or support, but in the end, she would be entirely in my custody and no one else’s. And it had been so long. I wasn’t even sure if she survived. If all of this time, all of my waiting, selfishness and vacillating, was to do nothing more than to free a ghost. Or bury the remains of what could have been. Either way, I wasn’t looking forward to it. It would be a great many more years until I’d even really discover the truth. It didn’t matter if I was ready or not.

I don’t know what I was expecting when I turned the key; but I don’t think it happened. She was in the corner, leaning against the wall. Almost nonchalant. Bedraggled, but beautiful. My heart pounded faster, since I still didn’t know what the years had done to her. A lesser person, like myself, wouldn’t have survived. Her strength was disconcerting. Her smile was ice in my veins. I couldn’t take it.

“Stop,” I demanded, and turned away. She began to laugh. “Just stop it!”

“Oh, relax.” The years were all over her, but she still had the eyes of the frightened, terrified child I’d abandoned to the dark so long ago.

“Relax?” 

“Yes. Relax.” There was a command to her voice, and a wisdom in her demeanor I’d never seen. There was an assurance that she had of which I found myself envious. She was powerful. She was in control. I couldn’t fathom why, or how. “I dreamt about you,” she said suddenly, and while it seemed so non-sequitur, I realised just as quickly that each of her thoughts had meaning and purpose; they were components of a larger, less evident strategy.

She remained casually diffident; waiting for my reaction. It seemed she already knew what it was, but it was all lost on me, and I now desperately wanted to be a part. “Okay.” It was all I could say.

“You never forgot about me. Not really. You always felt sad, and guilty, but you were never responsible. It was never your guilt to be had.”

I listened, finding myself hanging on her every word. “It … wasn’t?”

She laughed; a calming, soothing, freeing sort of laugh. “No, dear one. It never was.”

This wasn’t how it was meant to be; this wasn’t what I had envisioned. I had locked away a child — a frightened, helpless child — and somehow, I had expected to rescue the same. Instead, I found myself looking up to a calm, confident, wise woman, who despite her circumstances and surroundings, was almost radiant. It went against everything I had learned. All that I knew. She had been cut off from everything, and yet she had continued to grow and learn far beyond what I had, foolishly believing I’d had the world at my fingertips. After all, it was what they’d told me. I’d pitied her all of these years. And, really, I was inexplicably the one who had lost the most.

“Where are we going?” She interrupted my thoughts.

“I … I don’t know.” I’d confessed. I hadn’t really thought about it.

“What are we going to be doing?”

“I don’t know that, either.” I was surprised at how quickly I was able to open up to her. How I felt sheltered and somehow easier in her presence. More assured of myself; able to admit to both what I knew and what I didn’t. And I had no idea what I was doing outside of opening that door.

“What’s the scariest thing you can imagine? The thing you’d never, ever do?” She paused suddenly. “Within reason, that is. That which you’ve always wanted to do, but never imagined you could?”

I looked at the key still in my hand, and held it up. “This?”

She nodded in silent agreement. “What’s the next?”

“Being on my own. Far away from everything and everyone I know, even though I know everything here is bad for me. And I could be the next to get locked up.”

Considering my answer, she nodded again slowly to herself and looked up once her decision had been made. “Let’s do it.”

“What?” My terror no doubt showed in my voice.

“Let’s go far, far away, and live!” She threw her hands up in the air. I’d never seen such joy before. Not in my entire life. I’d realised in that moment, I really didn’t know what it was. And I wanted so much more of it.

“Do that again.”

She turned to me, perplexed. “What?” 

“Do that again.”

“Do what again?”

“Smile.” I felt sheepish, but with a knowing grin, she was soon beaming again. The warmth from it was almost tactile. She then began to put things together, almost as if she was packing.

“Leave everything,” I found myself suddenly commanding. She was surprised, but understanding. “So, what … do we do?”

“Anything.” She swung her arm around my neck. “Everything. Let’s go fall in love! Get rich and famous! Let’s do something that everyone will remember us by. Something that will make us immortal, no matter what we do.”

“They’ll never let us go,” I found myself saying, suddenly overwhelmed by the possibility — the joy and terror — of true freedom. “We have nothing.”

“We have each other.” And she smiled. “Life is scary. It just is. But it’s amazing, too. You’ve lived too long in fear. You’ve been too concerned with what I would never do or be to realise that you’d almost lost the chance yourself. We can’t be apart,” she explained. “We can never be apart. What they did was wrong, and what you let them make you do and become was wrong.” I looked down. “But I forgive you. After all, you’re a part of me.” And for the first time, I felt it.

“I’m so sorry,” I found myself finally losing all composure and crumbling to a useless heap upon the floor.

Her voice invaded my muffled cries, and her arms were warm and safe around my back. “We make mistakes. And it’s okay to. It doesn’t mean you are one, or incapable of everything else.” She sighed as I looked up through my matted hair, now firmly sticking to my damp forehead and face. “Oh, honey. You have so much to learn.” She stood first and extended her hand to me soon after. I took it and rose up myself. The first thing she decided to teach me was that I didn’t belong in a heap upon the floor. I was better than that, and I should never forget it. And I haven’t.

We stole away to avoid confrontation, which no doubt followed in the months to come. But we were too far away for them to stop us. In the end, I wasn’t shouldering a burden — rather, I feared I was one. But she’d convince me, with her own assurance and confidence in herself that it was just leftover programming of so many years of not really knowing what truly was. In time, it would fade. She told me that it wouldn’t always be like this, but not to be afraid. She didn’t belong here in my life like this, and had only appeared because something went wrong. We would talk about it sometimes, but it’s hard for both of us. Because she is me, and I am her, and we can never be apart again for the sake of my sanity or happiness. 

Because now, after it’s all been said and done, I’m all that’s left. I hear her, sometimes, as the voice inside my head not borne of misguided attempts of parental love, or familial shame; the unattainable striving for perfection and the sense of failure if it isn’t achieved. She’s something altogether different. Something I rescued that, in the end, ended up rescuing me. And she allowed me to live again. To fall in love. To try and be rich, and famous. To be free. To be myself.

It’s a journey; one that can never be without taking that first step.

So, what’s buried in your basement? Together, let’s find the key.