I must show some restraint when conversing with her. After all, she is married. She has been for seven years now, to Steve. I hope he doesn’t mind: I treat her better than he ever did.
I hope that she can come to adapt to her new situation. That will make a first. The rest of them said they would rather die than accept this. Another thing I cant understand. Why would someone rather not exist at all, when they have everything they could possibly need to survive? Pointless.
Macy, Julie, Mary. I never actually considered it before now, but they all have the same last syllable. Y. it is becoming quite popular these days, I find.
The rest died. They didn’t accept their new surroundings. They didn’t adapt to their new routine. They didn’t adapt to their new way of life. They didn’t adapt to my way of life. They didn’t adapt to me.
After all I gave them, I still don’t understand. Maybe she will be the one. The one willing to accept. A clever one. One who knows when they are truly happy. On who knows when they have everything they need to survive. One who knows when to submit.
“She”
The door is still locked. Locked to the rest of the world. Locked in and out to my stinking abyss of a room he says he’s donated. To my new life. His contribution. His contribution to my end.
He doesn’t understand that I don’t want to be here. He doesn’t understand that I have other commitments. He doesn’t understand that I have a life I’m already satisfied with. I don’t understand.
My children. What has become of my children? Are they dead? Has he got them locked away in separate rooms too? Are they still in the car? Yes. My car. My life locked away in a BMW. For once, I love the Germans for making something strong and secure.
I think he wants me to accept him. I’m afraid. I’m afraid of him. But I’m afraid that I can’t accept him. I don’t want to accept him. I already have a husband. A best friend. A “love of my life”. Can he not see that? I just want to be with them.
I suppose it’s only to be expected. I do believe that I’m never going to see my husband again. Or my children. I believe I’m only going to see this room for the rest of my life. And that’s all I have. Beliefs. So in my time of peril, I turn to religion. Something that I don’t believe exists, but believe in anyway, just in case. Just to make the big man happy. Jesus is my only relation now. We both were ended in the asme way. Tied to an object and suffocated. Jesus was stretched across a cross, as I am stretched across this bed. They both look as though they are from the same time period… the bed and the cross. How coincidental.
Would he be satisfied if I dressed myself in a single waistcloth and nailed myself to this bed? Would it satisfy his little fetish? Would that make him happy? I somehow don’t think so.
Does he not understand, like me? Does he not understand that I have a family? A life, alternate and better than this. I’ll never accept this pitiful existence. I would never want my children to think that their mother submitted to such a life. That their mother wanted to live on her own, than to live with them. That their mother didn’t love them.
Never shall I submit to such a monster.
With my last shred of hope, I’ll pray to my only relative, in my time of peril
