kind of friend or – I imagined – significant other, that you’d really want to say ‘no’ to. Not because you’d pay for it if you did, but because she had a way of making you want to see her happy. Of making you willing to expend a decent amount of effort in order to make that happen.
That was how, when you had Megan Arden – now Megan Rodriguez -Arden, apparently – in your life, you’d find yourself happily devoting hours and hours of what should have been your free time to the attempt to widen that pretty smile of hers, just a little bit more: only to, at some point in the middle of it all, have this moment of sober clarity where you realised that you’d...well... you’d ‘been had’. Part of me admired it. But, as I said, a bigger part of me couldn’t help but breath a sigh of relief that I wasn’t in Eli’s shoes. It was probably part of the reason she liked young guys so much: too young to realise that there were better things to do with their lives than being the Head Priest of the Cult of Meg.
Fairly sure he’s getting enough out of it to make it worth his while, though.
No doubt.
And, I guess...every relationship has some elements to it that mirror that dynamic. The see-saw never quite sits horizontal: it’s always up on one side and down on the other, even if the weighting shifts from time to time. Some people swear by submission to an equal, or however you want to phrase it. Some people take it a step further, and seem to actually want an unequal dynamic: either on the one side or the other. I, personally, can’t fathom either – at least...I can’t fathom either if I’m meant to be on the bottom – but then, loss of control seems like insanity to me...so I’m hardly an objective commentator.
“Just meet me outside after the first speech, okay?” She pleaded.
God. That pout.
It was disturbingly easy to forget that I was a good seven years younger than her. Her whole strategy was premised on her ability to make a person feel as if they were dealing with a teenager in need.
“Of course.” I nodded. “I love that dress, by the way.” I commented, making an illustrative, up-and-down gesture with my hand. She looked a little confused.
“I’m the Maid of Honour.”
“Mmhmm.” I nodded. Her eyes narrowed.
“ You picked it.”
“Mm - hmm .” I nodded again. Realisation slowly began to cast light over the shadowed horizon. She smirked.
“I love it too, Kayla ...you have such great taste.” She cooed with syrupy, exaggerated sweetness. “You’re the best.” I tilted my head towards Naithe.
“So this one keeps saying.”
§§§
It goes like this:
The fight or flight reflex activates deep in the subconscious mind as a response to the initial trigger...desperately trying to reposition your focus away from the torn and bloody – the desiccated and desecrated – remnants of those parts of you that were once whole. So while the trigger pushes you to focus on these parts...your mind, defensively, pushes back.
The pressure builds to intolerable levels more rapidly than you might think. Sometimes it runs out of steam. Often, in fact...but that’s nothing to rely on. Sometimes, coping mech anisms can defuse you. Sometimes not. Sometimes you don’t have time to pull yourself together. Sometimes you don’t even realise it’s coming. It can come on fast, and the symptoms may hit you before your awareness that something’s wrong does. And as soon as the symptoms hit? Game over.
This is b ecause the tenuous house-of-cards that is your psychological coherence, simply...collapses: a loud, messy ‘hard reset’ of your system in slow motion.
And h ere’s the kicker: if you can’t defuse it; if you don’t know how or don’t have time...then – whether or not you have any awareness of what begins to overtake you – you won’t care. One possibility is that you’ll be a puddle of incoherent mulch – babbling; laughing; crying; screaming; lashing out – which is, of
That was how, when you had Megan Arden – now Megan Rodriguez -Arden, apparently – in your life, you’d find yourself happily devoting hours and hours of what should have been your free time to the attempt to widen that pretty smile of hers, just a little bit more: only to, at some point in the middle of it all, have this moment of sober clarity where you realised that you’d...well... you’d ‘been had’. Part of me admired it. But, as I said, a bigger part of me couldn’t help but breath a sigh of relief that I wasn’t in Eli’s shoes. It was probably part of the reason she liked young guys so much: too young to realise that there were better things to do with their lives than being the Head Priest of the Cult of Meg.
Fairly sure he’s getting enough out of it to make it worth his while, though.
No doubt.
And, I guess...every relationship has some elements to it that mirror that dynamic. The see-saw never quite sits horizontal: it’s always up on one side and down on the other, even if the weighting shifts from time to time. Some people swear by submission to an equal, or however you want to phrase it. Some people take it a step further, and seem to actually want an unequal dynamic: either on the one side or the other. I, personally, can’t fathom either – at least...I can’t fathom either if I’m meant to be on the bottom – but then, loss of control seems like insanity to me...so I’m hardly an objective commentator.
“Just meet me outside after the first speech, okay?” She pleaded.
God. That pout.
It was disturbingly easy to forget that I was a good seven years younger than her. Her whole strategy was premised on her ability to make a person feel as if they were dealing with a teenager in need.
“Of course.” I nodded. “I love that dress, by the way.” I commented, making an illustrative, up-and-down gesture with my hand. She looked a little confused.
“I’m the Maid of Honour.”
“Mmhmm.” I nodded. Her eyes narrowed.
“ You picked it.”
“Mm - hmm .” I nodded again. Realisation slowly began to cast light over the shadowed horizon. She smirked.
“I love it too, Kayla ...you have such great taste.” She cooed with syrupy, exaggerated sweetness. “You’re the best.” I tilted my head towards Naithe.
“So this one keeps saying.”
§§§
It goes like this:
The fight or flight reflex activates deep in the subconscious mind as a response to the initial trigger...desperately trying to reposition your focus away from the torn and bloody – the desiccated and desecrated – remnants of those parts of you that were once whole. So while the trigger pushes you to focus on these parts...your mind, defensively, pushes back.
The pressure builds to intolerable levels more rapidly than you might think. Sometimes it runs out of steam. Often, in fact...but that’s nothing to rely on. Sometimes, coping mech anisms can defuse you. Sometimes not. Sometimes you don’t have time to pull yourself together. Sometimes you don’t even realise it’s coming. It can come on fast, and the symptoms may hit you before your awareness that something’s wrong does. And as soon as the symptoms hit? Game over.
This is b ecause the tenuous house-of-cards that is your psychological coherence, simply...collapses: a loud, messy ‘hard reset’ of your system in slow motion.
And h ere’s the kicker: if you can’t defuse it; if you don’t know how or don’t have time...then – whether or not you have any awareness of what begins to overtake you – you won’t care. One possibility is that you’ll be a puddle of incoherent mulch – babbling; laughing; crying; screaming; lashing out – which is, of
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