Page 14 of The Sound of Him

God, I'm so tired.

My blue bunny is on the bed, left behind after I woke up and got dressed. One of his ears is flopped over his face like he’s hiding.

Hiding sounds nice.

I’m not supposed to be here. In this room. On this floor. Not right now.

That wasn’t the right time to leave. I don’t think the therapy was done yet. I think everyone might still be down there. The doctor promising to help us wasn’t finished.

Will there be more chances? He said something about meeting with him one-on-one, right? Or was that something I imagined?

Will I be in trouble?

Should I go back?

Has anyone even noticed I left?

You’re not a ghost,I tell myself as a familiar chill creeps in. There is no reason to be chilled. I am full of hot blood. I am human. I am real.

I’m real, I’m real, I’m real.

I can reach the bunny if I stretch my arm out. I manage to get it to tumble off of the bed, landing so I’m face to face with the little creature as it settles on the floor. I tuck it close, right under my chin, and take that floppy ear between my thumb and fingers. The blue fur is the softest thing I’ve felt in a long time. The last time I felt anything like it was when Master Jason was dating that woman with the long red hair and the pretty laugh. She wasn’t like most of the significant others, just wanting to watch their man get all worked up by hurting a slave before forgetting about the slave entirely as they moved on to having great sex together.

No. She liked toparticipate. To touch.

She liked to do truly awful things, her pretty laugh never once turning cruel, everything so much more surreal and terrifying because of it.

She liked silks.

She liked me best.

She liked to lay me out on a bed full of silks. They were sometimes warm colors, all reds and oranges and yellows. Other times they were pastels, or they were simple and colorless, just whites and creams. Sometimes she layered them until a collage of color formed my backdrop.

Her silks were never green. Never blue. Not even the softer ones, the pastels. She didn’t like my skin tone against cool colors. I didn't care. She was allowed to pick whatever she wanted. I was just a canvas. It wasn't for me to decide.

She liked for my body to match whatever aesthetic she had in mind that night. I was her art piece, so pretty for her, so quiet, just something to be painted. They would take turns drippingme in colors. They’d bruise and cut and burn. They would spill red wine and stain me with lipstick. Cover me in cigarette ash. Splatter me with thick white cum and wads of spit.

Sometimes, if she was having a craving, there would be food. Melted chocolates and whipped creams. Juicy berries. Ice cream so cold that it burned. Champagne that did the same as it seeped into my cuts.

She’d laugh when my stomach growled.

Well,sometimesshe’d laugh. Sometimes she’d punish me instead. Then she’d remind me that I was only her favorite because I was quiet and pretty. Remind me that there were others that were pretty. Others that could be quiet if they were enticed to be. Others who would give anything to take my spot in their room.

A slave just died, isn’t that right, darling?she’d ask Jason. Or,Maybe we should give him to Mica tonight instead. What do you think, my love?

And Jason would agree and say something like,You’ve got it easy with us, pretty thing. Stop being so naughty.

Sometimes she'd take photographs.

I was allowed to cry. Tears were clear. They didn't ruin the aesthetic. Sometimes, if the light caught just right, they’d even glisten in the photos. She always did a happy little shimmy when she’d get those shots.

Jason loved her so much. He was patient with her. He'd smile and chuckle and say things like, “Last pose, baby, then I want all your attention to myself,” as he moved my body where she directed.

It always ended the same, me being shoved to the floor in a tangle of wet fabric, where I was to remain still and quiet until Master Jason dealt with the mess I had made. I sometimes think that was her favorite part. She enjoyed the art, I could always seeit in her eyes, but her smile was always the biggest when she got to remind me that filthy boys don’t get nice things.

“Look at these,” she’d say, never sneering or frowning. Always smiling. “I tried to make you pretty. What a shame. You’veruinedthem.”

She’d say it in a way that never failed to make me feel guilt and shame. She’d say it in the same tone someone would say, “This is why we can’t have nice things,” or, “It’s disappointing that he never rose to his potential.”