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Please be aware that this excerpt contains subject matter which may be upsetting to some.  It is based upon the true story of a friend of mine.

Somehow the present correlates with the ancients.  Energies emerge from the one whole realm of existence and we are all touched by the darkness and the beauty of our kind.  Human kind.  The same mistakes, the same fears, the same pain, in essence, as it would be touched by evolution.  The same pain.  Different coffee.

She knew how to make coffee from only one coffee maker.  All other coffee makers never took to her coffee/water ratio.  Each time she would adjust the measurements, but she never got it right.  All except for that one coffee maker.  Rich, black coffee that needed no cream, no sugar.  That’s the way he liked it, black.

She stopped drinking coffee once because it made her feel jittery.  It was too much when combined with cocaine.  She stopped smoking pot because she was tired of looking at it, tired of smelling it, tired of being a zombie.  He liked when she was a zombie.  It was easier to force sex on her.  If she cried and said he raped her, he said no, she raped him.  She made him feel obligated.  He didn’t want to do it.  Her brain, her mind, her emotions, her soul were all too tired, lazy, numb to argue any further.  The routine was mundane.  He victimized her, then accused her of the action.  Somehow her black eye wasn’t proof that she didn’t hit him.  If she was stoned enough, she would feel guilty, as if she were in fact the victimizer.  Or he broke her down to the point that she’d apologize for essentially having caused all the pain, simply by being there and giving him a reason to be violent.  She apologized for being an object upon which to inflict violence.  She stopped smoking pot, but by then her brain had been conditioned and she immediately felt guilt without all the nonsense in between.  He raped her–she apologized.

In the darkness she hears his footsteps, slow, and dragging, dead weight steps.  One would think he is a stupid man, but she knows better.  He is a master at anything he wants to be.  And now once again he’s coming for her.  She can tell by the slither his mood is stable, therefore maybe he will not inflict so much pain.  Always she hopes he might acquire compassion, but it never happens and there is nothing else for her to do but exist within her mind.  There is nothing outside of it anymore, except for him.  He has become her body’s own method of sense.  He has become her body.

The door opens and he enters.  She tries, as always to convince herself that it is pleasure, alter all natural human sensation in order to deal with the pain.  And it is hard, but now, after being deprived of external pleasure for so long, she has lost enough mental sense to forget what good touches feel like, and has nothing left to compare the pain to.  For all she knows, it could be pleasure after all.

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