marielmia

Mariel is MIA
2019-06-24 17:14:19 (UTC)

Sanctuary of Home...NOT

i'm not a stranger around guns. There was only one thing that my father and i enjoyed together. Shooting. i liked the feel of the power in my hand, the precision in which i learned to shoot. He probably liked the control he had of me, setting rules that i religiously followed about safety and about handling the weapons. For that reason, i thought i could speak to my father before dinner, about my first hunting trip where i actually shot something. My mother, of course, hates that he taught me how to use firearms. She fled the room, leaving us alone to talk.
After a bit, i realized, it wasn't a good move to talk to him about it. There was this sarcasm in his voice, that i could do something with what he had taught me, that he never did. And the fact i did it with M. He's met M. They are about the same age, give or take. He cared not a whit about the animals, nor my feelings. He was jealous. He solicited the details. When his questions bordered on pornographic, i ended the conversation. i would find no solace here.

Dinner was quiet. Until the doorbell rang and in walks Javier. It was soon to be 2 on 1 over coffee. My father belittling me for my feelings but Javier defending me, as if he was my white knight. Javi the Camel was nosing under my tent. The hunger in his eyes scared me. Truth, it wasn't Javier really. It was me, my mind conscious of lowering my resistance to him. He knows how to play me and on the rare occasion after his release , he has played me to check, though never to mate. My deep primitive brain prevents that by recalling the fear. Fear doesn't calm my lust, it replaces it, undoing his check and quitting the game. i left after dinner, talking my way out of my mother's entreaties to drive Javier home.

So my nightmares would continue, unresolved, But they would be fresh nightmares. Not the ones of my past, of the awful nights in the groves where part of my self still resides. Thursday can't come soon enough. Decompression.




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