Rope: A Bondage Story (Prologue—Side A)

dsc_4627© 2016 City of Broken Dreams

Control—as in the loss of. That’s where it all began. Unbound, she became undone; torn at the seams, the fabric of her psyche pulled apart, ripped to shreds, and thrown carelessly into the wind. And so she watched her mind blow away like so many dead autumn leaves, a thousand different shades of crimson tainting the sky red with the blood of her fleeing sanity.

Fall apart, fall away. When survival becomes a shadow, not an instinct; she desperately tries to hold on for another day. But desperation soon leads to despair, and despair invites visions of Thanatos to come dancing into her head. She can either choose to continue to suffer in silence, or she can accept the blackest, sweetest kiss—from Oblivion’s seductive mouth to her own eager lips.

So she contemplates to fall, to slip away, to allow herself to drown in the ocean black. All she need do is hold tightly to the two little angels that rest at her side and let the current carry them all away. But the image of sweet, serene faces resting beneath the glass of still, crystalline waters is violently ruptured by four eyes wide open and dual underwater screams. Thus, her own horrible vision of infanticide is enough to push her back from the precipice instead of pushing her in. And so she decides to suffer through another day, with the shadows lurking and jumping on her periphery, and with Oblivion blowing her kisses from the threshold of her darkest dreams.

But if she can’t allow herself to drown, then she must learn to swim—to keep herself above the rough, tumultuous sea of sorrows. The tiny bottles of vodka buried at the bottom of her purse seem to help, as do incessant, sugary lines of blow, surreptitiously snorted up by hungry nostrils. If she is awake, then she is not sober; if she is not awake, then she sleeps a deep, dreamless slumber—a sleep that she never wants to awaken from. Thus, her sad little existence becomes a tragic mosaic comprised of two constituent parts: a life without living, and a death without dying.

However, the cure soon becomes the poison, and the poison tells so many lies. In the beginning, she believes them—the empty promises of reprieve and salvation. If she only continues to believe in the deception, then she can continue to accept the illusory notion that she still swims with her head above the cold black water. But in reality, she does not stay afloat; she is sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss, and the sweet beatific voices of the angels singing grow further and further away. But despite the numbness of her own self-deception, there is still a small part of her that acknowledges that she isn’t far from the day when the voices will finally fall silent—when she will no longer be able to hear the angels sing. And she so desperately wants to be able to hear the angels singing.

So she pulls herself from out of the murk, from the quicksand of denial and desperation, and she heads for the mountains. She moves away—she runs far, far away. She puts some serious distance between herself and the Devil, and the duplicitous lies that he displays and sells as liberation.

She dines on cold turkey. She climbs the twelve steps. She admits to God and to whoever else will listen just how big of a fuck-up she has become. She meditates on Jesus—bloody and dying and nailed to the cross. Eventually, she even has herself an honest-to-goodness, holy-fucking-shit, goddamn spiritual awakening. And for the first time in a very long time, she feels like everything is going to be all right.

And everything is all right. For a little while, anyway.

2 thoughts on “Rope: A Bondage Story (Prologue—Side A)

  1. Impactful compositions! Great control of lighting and tonality. Powerful composition of the human form, and both visually and metaphorical contrasting introduction of rope. The sophisticated lashing and knots, along with the “right” amount of tightness/tension adds drama to the composition. Well done!

    Liked by 1 person

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