All right, I actually DO write more than poetry, I just didn't thik I had time to scan both forums. I have enough trouble with all the poetry...I've had to confine myself to almost only dramatic! BUt...I LIKE this. And I want to see what others think about it. A little sick. A little twisted. A little symbolic. And yes, it IS a love story.
One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, one…I whisper silently in my mind, counting the strokes of the hard brush on the stone floor carefully. I can see the harsh soap burning into my hands, flowing along the cracks of my flesh, seeking entry. I will have to use extra lotion tonight to keep them soft, not that he would call me tonight. No, I had been called last night and he never called two nights in a row; at least not after her. They say she had been the only one he had ever loved, could ever love. I have made it my purpose to prove them wrong. Well, my second purpose, my first purpose is always to serve him. To serve him the best I can in whatever he allows me to do. I want only to serve him, to be near him, always.
I love him.
They call me insane for thinking that he would ever allow his heart to open again. Am I? Some days, even I cannot help but think that the only time he will ever look at me with hunger in his eyes are the nights that he calls me to him. And he looks at everyone with that type of hunger. It is not special; not as deep and probing as the hunger I send him with my every thought. Does he know I think of him this way? Of course he does; how could I ever think otherwise? He feeds off of emotions; he delves deep into our minds to bring forth every drop of that sustaining force. So how could he not know, when every second of every day I am blasting it too him with all my heart?
One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, clean the dirt, clean the brown, smelly dirt…clean the blood…I try not to think other than to count. To think is to fall; to fall is to die. I’ve seen it happen, his women suddenly falling to the ground, screaming. I hate it when they do that. Their faces go pale, their eyes go wide and dark, and then they scream. No words, never any words, only a high bestial sound, cracking the nerves of all around them as thoroughly as their own minds are cracking. That’s when he takes them to the rose room; the red rose room. No one has ever left that room after he takes them in there, but he would never do that to me. No, I am safe, because I do not think, I only serve him, obey him, need him, love him.
I hear footsteps behind me, and know it is him; his steps are always so light. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three… I glance at him as he passes, but he never looks down, never sees me. He always stops to at least smile at me, something must be wrong. But he has not called me, so I will clean for him. Unless he calls for me I will continue the task he has set for me. I am a good girl; I do what I am told, not like some of the other girls. They yell at him, try to hurt him; they don’t see how perfect he is. At least not at first; but over time they understand. They always understand eventually; if worse comes to worse, they understand the rose room. Yes, they understand when he pulls him in front of that bright red door; blood red door. They realize that he is perfect, the absolute epitome of all that a woman could ever want. I want so badly to run after him, to gently wipe the worry lines from his forehead, but I cannot, because I am cleaning.
One, two, three, one, two, three, Leigh-an-a, Leigh-an-a… My name; suddenly I remember it again. I don’t even wonder why, sometimes I forget it, but I always remember it. It’s such a nice name, Leighanna, three syllables, perfect for a count to clean by. The only time I forget it is when I don’t work for a while and I don’t need it to count by. I used to know it as well as I knew the warmth of the sun; now I have to work so hard to think of either of them. How long has it been since I saw the sun? When was the last time I felt the green grass on my skin? I don’t remember, it has been too long, but I really don’t care. All I care about, all I need to know, is him.
Leigh-an-a, Leigh-an-a, Leigh… I pick up my brush, and walk down the hall. There is a room that he asked me to clean when I was done with the stones; usually I get a bit a free time, but today he does not allow it. I don’t mind, it shows he has noticed my hard work. I am such a wonderful cleaner that he chose me specifically to clean this room. Second door from the black armor, on the right… I repeat his instructions in my mind, remembering every dip and drawl of his precious voice. Only you can clean this room, and it has to be tomorrow. Will you do that for me?…
Me, he had asked me and only me. He must care for me; how else would he know that only I can take care of his every need? There, the black armor; I frown when I see the rusting sword at it’s side. Tomorrow I will have to clean it. Why hasn’t anyone else? Surely they would be able to see how awful it looked? I shake my head and take careful note of it. As long as I am here to take care of my master, my love, his home will be spotless, as pure as my devotion to him. First door, second door; I freeze. I can almost see my reflection in its brilliant surface. Its glossy, velvet visage, its crimson promise: I am to clean the red rose room.
I gulp, but open the door. He told me to clean this room, and so I shall. There he is, lying on the couch. I stare openly, unable to tear my eyes away. His black shirt lies open across his pale chest, exposing rippling muscles that taper down to a small, masculine waist. I can see a trail of hair peeking over his pants, leading down to treasure that I can only imagine. His icy blue eyes flash with heated lightening, and he motions for me to clean. I walk over to the far corner and kneel. I pick up my brush and begin to scrub. He stands.
I can feel him at my back, standing over me. His hands begin to trace my shoulders, massaging small circles of ecstasy across my back. I continue to clean; he hasn’t told me to stop yet. Leigh-an-a, Leigh-an-a, Leigh-an-… I shiver in unrestrained pleasure as his lips begin to run down my neck. So soft, so precious, so forbidden. He always told us that we were never to kiss him, never to touch him; and he never touched us. His hands begin to tighten on my neck, grasping my chin in his strong, beautiful hands.
“Why?” I manage to whisper as I feel him tense his arms. I am not afraid; I could never be afraid when he is near me. I must have done something wrong; he must have a reason, or else why would he have brought me here? Why else would I be in this room; the red room, rose room, blood-red rose room. He sighs heavily and kisses my neck once more; I begin to cry. I was finally feeling his hands upon my body, and it was in this room.
"Please, tell me why." I ask once more, my voice showing nothing of the torment in my heart and soul.
“You look like her.” I would nod, but he still grips my chin. “You’ve stopped scrubbing.” He murmurs, and I look down at my motionless hands. I pick up my brush.
Leigh-an-a, Leigh-an-a, Leigh-an-a, one, two, three, one, two, three, kill-ing me, kill-ing me…
“I love you.” I whisper to him, never breaking count as he snaps my neck.