She is mine. My property. My love. My pawn, with which to do as I please.
Her name is wholly irrelevant, as is her past before my possession. Suffice to say, the person whom occupied her porcelain skin no longer exists; replaced by a creation of my own design, beholden to my whim above any other.
Alive, but not a person. Aware and emotionless; the perfect companion for a man willing to embrace an empty, haunting world. I watch her vacant, icy-blue eyes – beautiful as they may be – stare into the gaping maw of oblivion, reflecting only my own image as we stand inches apart.
What you see before you is no longer a woman; it is a thing. My thing. My pawn.
I loved her once, in what seemed a lifetime ago, but she spurned my affections in a vain attempt to seek greener pastures. There is no better soil in this life than the dirt where we already wallow. She returned to me as a shell of her former self; broken, but a vision of grace nigh untouchable by any other foolish enough to walk this earth in her wake.
It was not I that made her dead inside. My influence cannot take blame for the endless tribulations my pawn endured. Her own ambivalence is the culprit. There are no deeper scars than those we mark upon our own flesh.
I received her homecoming with disdain.
“I have not the time for flippant fools!” I condemned as she bared what remained of her soul unto me, tattered and alone. She may be the pawn, but I am the one without a heart. The last memory of what she had become, before my ministrations, manifests itself as a thin, crumpled form splayed upon the floor of my mind’s eye. Even now, I shudder at the remembrance of her quivering body, trembling beneath the weight a lifetime of failures brought.
I lifted her off the floor and she acquiesced to my embrace.
“Fear not, my love,” I whispered into her ear with soft breath, “For I will repair your fractures.”
Under my watchful eye and tender care, together we stripped away the remnants of a past I loathe. One cannot simply discard learned behavior; it must be ground out into dust fine enough to part with a passing breeze. I methodically laid a patchwork of ideals in-line with that of my own accord, filling the cracks with a plaster I found infinitely more appealing. Where once stood a beacon of defiance now remains the effigy of my perfect soulmate.
My pawn feels no pain; can no longer suffer through another heartbreak like those that had besieged her previous incarnation. I, too, will never need to want any other than what sits before me. And when we fuck, never again will there be insecurity or worry she longs for another’s touch.
For she is mine. My love. My pawn, with which to do as I please.
Artist - I Must Be Dead
Writing - Chris Branshaw
Model - Laura New
MUA - Tina Che