“His” or “The Trophy”
Knowing I was vulnerable. He leaned forward. Looked me in
the eyes. The moment of predation had arrived. I looked back through tears. Gently.
Concerned. Carefully. Not to startle. Knowing he was about to suggest something
wicked – a betrayal. Deceit. Ambush of defenseless, unawares friends. “I have a
plan for you. A program. We’ll get
organized. A schedule. Simplify.” All was outlined. And with those whispered
words, close to my face, to my heart, I was saved… and my freedom gone. My
integrity vanished with my will. I’d throw in with a malignant force. In that moment… of my surrender… I became his.
I was devoted. This is how the door closed against the gales of life outside. Blissful.
To be the devoured. How I was corrupted. And once turned, I couldn’t change course.
My freedom… gone. I’d mistaken what he offered to me as freedom. It was the opposite.
It was an iron clamp of commitment, a box with no exit. Henceforth, my abode. Once
I’d jumped, the die was cast. As a pilot reckons the point at which there is
not enough fuel and food to turn back, I passed “the point of no return.” He assured me when I showed signs of doubt.
Power was his and he would “protect” me and my treachery. Reward it even with
his attentions. Deliver me. My conscience
was put down. My instincts, tranquilized under the spell of soothsaying. Now I
was sheltered. Favored by divine attention. Blessed. Shielded from the living
wind streaking across the sun and stars – swept lands. I was inside now. “Relax.”
Life’s energy contained, tamed. My
senses enclosed. We moved a little among the still pieces of wooden furniture
-- fixtures. My destiny was now fixed, corrected, and cemented. It was cramped. A
ceiling replaced the frightening openness. Walls encased me. My independence
was transformed. The magic had universal impact. All fell silent. Calming.
Smooth. All was muffled. Life’s sensations dampened. I was enveloped. Cushioned.
Taken in. I felt deaf, removed from the
sonorous atmosphere of the wild. Depth became flat. Spectra of light and sound narrowed.
Monotonal monotony. Things dimmed. Space
thinned. Emptied. “Here’s an idea already published. Think it again. Rewrite
it. I’ll help.” Recite after me. In his powerful hands, I was rescued from
struggle – effort – survival – life – the choices that constitute creation and
innovation, what would have been my voice became his. Now I was lost in a
chorus of mutes. My “programming,” my mind was funneled, directed by one who
covers a child’s hand to help them write the A, B, Cs. Not even “their” A, B,
Cs. The outcome was blissfully predictable. I became a tool, an instrument. A
terminus. “Do this, this way.” My life,
ordained, I recoiled from the challenge of creation into the womb of apathy… I
don’t, I can’t… care. Salvation was all about me. But then I understood the
savior’s lust for status – I was a hero’s conquest. Risk evaporated and with it
the vital energy of my soul. I relaxed and turned my mind off. No more
surprises to cope with. No possibility of making a mistake. Peaceful repose. “Welcome
to my harem,” he said. “Inside these walls, there are no surprises.” Sleep. Adult coping was no longer necessary. The
need to decide, to think lifted as I willingly gave away my soul and conscience.
Like dead matter following the laws of nature, all that was left was to follow
instructions to the appointed end. The future for my mind collapsed to a point.
What appeared to be progress was secretly replaced with an inextricable
conveyor. Standing still I moved “forward” as on an assembly line. But it was
circular. I would (be) finished. “Here’s
how it’s done.” Nothing left but to wait for the last light to fade. The world’s
luminescent atmosphere vibrating with unforeseen opportunities colors
spectacular, all replaced with cold, steady fluorescence and an endless sixty
cycle hum. Packaged. Redundant. I was
delivered. My small flame, irrelevant. His burned brighter the more I submitted
and surrendered. The god of cold flame. I’d become a Nabokovian character. Everything
settled, sedimented. Motionless. On schedule. No need to live to see tomorrow
because it’s already known. Not a ripple. The fuel was gone. I arrived at my
destination before I’d left. Returned as
if I’d never gone. Domesticated. Trained. No growth. Even redundant tricks are
hard now. I need him to do anything. I can’t move. But that’s good. I move my lips without sound, chanting the
words given to me long ago. Repeat. Repeat. Easy tedium. Recitation without citation. “Home again.” The
journey never happened. Imprisoned in timeless adoration. Frozen by taxidermy. I
am preserved as a trophy on the wall. Forevermore, his.
