Control

State of CI: I've decided that every Monday is essay day and every Thursday is not-essay day! This is to keep me from driving you guys nuts with five consecutive "Things That Annoy Me" posts and it's also a self-experiment for me, because having to come up with something creative every week will push me to actually create and it will also push me to be brave and post things that suck without spending months revising and polishing them. I will not allow myself to make excuses for them or comment on them besides a short introduction. Because there's no better place than the internet to uncomfortably push your personal boundaries! 

(Sketch stemming from the title prompt "discipline"; could be a companion piece to Porcelain)

The kitchen was dark and shining, utensils and white countertops reflecting the dim light. He followed me into the glowing room and our bodies soaked up the light, blotted it up from the darkness, smudges against the sterile shine. The location was mine – my house, my kitchen – but his presence robbed my home of any promise of safety. This was neutral battleground now.

“Just go home.” I wanted him out. Instead he stood in front of the refrigerator, looking at me. I leaned back against the counter, my fingers curling hard around the edge, tips pressed against the rough unfinished marble of the underside. My mind saw him leaving, getting into his car and driving home alone. We would talk later, separated or in the light, somewhere else.

“No. We need to talk about this.” The “we” startled me. There was nothing cohesive about our presences in the kitchen. We were two people very apart from each other. Any needs were individual.

“Get out.” I knew he wouldn’t. I had already anticipated his move towards me, his face momentarily illuminated by the square of light thrown by the streetlight through the small window. The fear was nameless and primal – not a fear of him, but a fear of his closeness, of my situation, of the circumstances. Fearing him was impossible, but my breath caught upon hearing his so close to mine.

“We’re going to talk about this.” He looked down at me, eyes shining with determined emotion.

“There is nothing to talk about. It’s not the time. Please, just go.” My words fell fast and jumbled, my voice quickening with my breaths. His hands pressed on top of mine, the sharp edge of the counter slicing into my palms. I did not push back, refused to acknowledge what was happening by fighting it.

“I’m not leaving.” His knees leaned hard into my thighs. My teeth ground against each other. A strange feeling of double experience overcame me – the certainty that he could not hurt me coupled with the threat that he would. I kicked my heels against the cupboards under the counter, leveraging myself up to sit on it. His hands pulled back from mine and we looked at each other, now at equal heights.

I needed him gone. I found myself tensely caught between fight and flight, without option, desperate. The game had changed and surrender now meant victory. “I’m sorry.” The words were dead, hollow, only a battle strategy, a move to re-establish security. I looked down, trembling, channeling fright and rage into convincing contrition.

It was enough. He turned to leave, flicking the lights on as he left. I lowered myself down onto the tile. Both of us had lost, an inevitability after we crossed the threshold that made a win impossible. I stood in the flatly lit kitchen devastated by the loss, slowly regaining my sense of control. The engine of his car whispered into motion outside my door and I heard him leave.