F-S-M

I’m taking an environmental science course right now, and thoroughly enjoying it. It’s kept me pretty busy, though, so I haven’t had the time or energy to write much. I have, however, been cooking up lots of environment-related story/setting ideas.

I had never heard of this band before, but I saw someone share this live performance a while ago and liked what I heard. Listened to it today and really enjoyed it.

(Not sure what’s with the weird formatting in this post, sorry. I copied it from Google Docs and I guess that messed it up somehow.)

~

No, no, it was her thing, I wasn’t into that but I did it because she wanted me to, I didn’t want it, she made me… She made me, with her looks and pleas and glimmers of pleasure.

They came and took her away, and they looked at me with eyes widened with derision. There were a couple sympathetic looks from those that understood, that saw me for who I am, and saw what happened for what it is, but the rest took me to the station and sat me down and questioned me. And I may have even answered them, I don’t know. Some part of me went on autopilot mode, while the rest of me was thinking frantically about something.

No, no, they were right. I had killed her. It was my fault. I wasn’t sure how, but I could have – should have – known that she was truly struggling. The evidence was irrefutable, even to myself; it was my fingerprints on her neck, it was my semen in and on her skin.

“Sir, what happened on the night your wife died?” he asked me. From that I realized it was no longer that day, and from that, in turn, I realized that I was in a holding cell.

“She… She had always been into kinky kind of stuff. I wasn’t, but I loved her, so I… I did it.”

“Please stick to details about the night your wife died, please, sir.”
“I did it. I killed her. I choked her with my own hands.”
“Why did you do it, sir?”
“Because she liked it, and I loved her.”

“She made you kill her?”
“No, no, not really. She didn’t know it would happen. Neither of us did.”

“I think I’m beginning to see what you’re saying, sir. But how did you not realize you were killing her until it was too late?”

“Because that’s how she played. She usually acted like she was going limp and unconscious. She liked giving all control to me. That was… her fantasy.”

“I understand, sir. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Shortly after that, my consciousness flipped a switch. I suddenly changed from existing only within my own mind, just faintly aware of the outside world, to being hyperaware of everything happening, but to a degree that, ironically, my mind couldn’t handle it. I was aware of everything, every sound, smell, color, feeling, but they came to me so quickly and in such high quantity that, thinking back on that time, I couldn’t really describe any of them.

Any of them, other than one. One sound, heard at specific times each day. The buzz and clank of metal doors opening. That stuck with me.
Sure, I could remember other things. Certain smells and sights and feelings that I didn’t want to smell or see or feel. That, compounded with the emptiness without her.

But those doors. Those were my alarm. Those were my only source of certainty and regularity. Those were the only things that kept me sane in the whirlwind of senses.

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