The Race.

I drove into the darkness, in anger and pain, with a dead end in mind. But there you were, with that burning torch. The same one that burnt my skin in glowing circles, its grey warm ash that blinded me every night.

You carried that torch into our bedroom that night, our first night, and painted me with fire. You loved hearing what I had to scream. You enjoyed the sea of anguish that burst upon the pillows. You liked the smell of me, of my fresh, beautiful, live flesh. That was just your appetizer. What used to follow will not fit the pages of these scrolls. Every night, there was something new, something primitive, something to let the steam off that head of yours.

When did I stop crying? When did I stop screaming? It must have taken years. How easy is it for one to forget the whens and wheres.

I remember deciding to change. I remember that. But I don’t know when. The chain had come loose. The hold was open.

You were there, lighting up that dead end. The directions were right. All I had to do was drive through.

You saw the shining madness, the determination in my lost eyes. Where did you start running off to? Let me punish you just one time, like the million times you did me. But I want you to run. Run.

Where do I go when you’ve occupied the panic room?

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