I don’t know how to feel.
This may be a redundant statement but seldom have I ever not had a reasonable answer, a means to do something, a way to express myself vocally towards things that upset me. For example, I don’t fare well with invasions of my privacy because I appreciate the knowledge that I am in seclusion, that I can be a recluse whenever I’d like to be, knowing I won’t be bothered when I don’t want to be bothered. When my work is lifted by someone without my permission and is plagiarized there is always something to be done about it. If I need help with something- though I’m very self-sufficient- I’ll get it. From him.
I’m grateful, despite the fact he clearly doesn’t think I am. I don’t know how to even begin mending that because as it is, my senses to those kinds of stimuli are dulled to the point at which they don’t exist. I don’t express myself very well. It’s been brought to my attention before and I’m saying that now because I need to learn to live with it. And I know I don’t express myself very well because I tried to just say something aloud but I ended up whimpering meekly.
Dan is in bed with Francesca and I tried to warn him but he didn’t listen and I feel weak, tame, innocuous. Her skin is soft and tender and warm to the touch from the sound of things, and I am filled with a deep existential dread and it’s so strong I have to leave. I turn on my heel but my legs refuse to abide to me and I curse them under my breath because I can’t turn my head either; I’m staring at her naked breasts and Dan’s movements. Where her legs are, where his body is, the vulgar noises they make upon contact. My efforts to create something, a person, a living, breathing article of my own creation for him are null and void and I choke trying to swallow something desperately trying to escape my mouth. I try to yell ‘stop’ but my voice falters so much that I say nothing at all. His hands are so meticulously immaculate and they look so... like he knows... what he’s doing. I think of the way he administers chest compressions... I have to stop looking. And I feel startled, because accompanying the fact I can’t move at all, I don’t have the option of closing my eyes either. Whenever I see something occur that I wish hadn’t, it enters my memory quickly and I’ll never be able to forget it.
The problem is, the more I speculate, the more perturbed I become, and the more covetous. Confusing thoughts are in my head and they bother me. After what feels like years, I regain control of my legs and leave.
I am going to pretend I never saw this.