The tension is drawn. A rope loops around the chest, once, once again. The body trembles.
Tossing and turning again. How such situations occur I'll never know, but they keep on repeating themselves. When the mind quits, there is always something else. A word.
At each and of the rope there is a slight pull. The naked skin finds momentary pleasure as the rope scratches at it.
You tear a word apart and you find new meanings through Greek, Latin, Roman, French origins. You see their journey, their history unfold. That is a general 'you' that is a 'one'. You break a word into pieces and you find your own interpretation. Now it is you that I am addressing. A history.
A repetition. A pattern. A something on the tip of your tongue that will never pass the lips.
The scratches start to pinch. The breath that leaves the body has become more difficult to find.
It is not the rope causing this difficulty. It is panic. Now the body begins to sway.
The word sits on your tongue and you begin to kick out like an addict. The sweat down your back is thick thick thick. Another kick. Turn. Breathe. History and the repetition of it caused a momentary attack. Not everyone is a predator. I am not a predator. Yet the heart beats like it has ran as prey. It is not adrenaline, it is not blood. It beats vomit. And it is hot. And it burns.
The pinch is on fire now. It glows redness. Soreness. The earth beneath the feet is shaking with tension. As the rope tightens the legs become unstable, then they go, unable to balance on the unsteady ground. The body slumps, supported only by the rope. And it hurts.
Why the repetition has occurred is unknown. It slips out occasionally, the guard is down, honesty is up.
There is an explosion, like an emotional time bomb. It releases an anthrax of vocabulary which attacks it's audience and poisons their response. Their infected response then becomes another form of the repetition. That was when it happened again.
Now is when the breath really starts to struggle. The heart pounds irregularly, but that is panic associated with, but not directly caused by, the rope. The body twists but the rope ceases not. The fire breaks the skin.
Anxiety is perhaps to blame for the restlessness. For the forced attempt at sleep.
Once again it seems sleep is a fortress from reality. Then it is the turn of the subconscious to bite. Dreams are nightmares, and nightmares, in one form or another, are of the repetition.
A rib breaks and the body turns blind. A fuzz of warmth caresses the retina. "You don't need to see anymore," it whispers. The warmth travels down the body and tingles at it the arms.
It is now only the head that aches. All that is heard is a slow, irregular, heart beat. And it kicks.
There is not much more that can be done. Waking up bruised and ill is another repetition. The thoughts will not be leaving you today. It seems in a permanent residency. The world is still shaking. The heart is still swollen with sick. Distraction is necessary and is sought. Though the word still sits on the tip of your tongue, you are distracted, and the biggest challenge is making sure that you do not accidentally spit it out. Then there are those words that help to keep it concealed, the ones that hide it's true meaning, those uttered with delight, as a brief respite, in repetition. But the world still trembles. The heart remains swollen, the legs still kick, and sweat still lines your back.
The hands at either end of the rope rest. Gentlemen stand at either end. One marked lust, one marked desire, another marked despair, and the last marked time. No one has won this tug-a-war, but the still and contorted body in the center proves that something has been lost.
It remains in a painful stasis, until the rope once again becomes taut.