Anything
“Why are you so bothered? Just leave it be.”
“Because when I act like a child you hit me, and when you act like a child I apologize,” Clara snapped at her. “I can’t win.”
Long night. Stupid bickering.
“You don’t have to win,” Jen told her.
She’d been in a dark mood all day, insisting at every minor inconvenience that Clara just didn’t care, that she wasn’t paying attention to her, that she wasn’t thinking of her. And when she got like that, Clara’s job was to bear it until the arbitrary mood passed with a bit of extra sleep or extra aggressive sex. Tonight, she’d done a poor job of it.
“You keep telling me that I don’t care, but I’ve spent the whole day trying to fix your problems. You complain that the dishes aren’t done, so I do them, and then you complain that I wasn’t spending time with you while you were sulking upstairs. What do you want from me?”
Jen went to leave.
“Hey.” Clara grabbed her arm, an impulse, and she knew it was a bad idea well before her back hit the wall. She cringed. “Come on,” she said, softer. “I’d do anything for you. I just need to know what you want. You know that.”
Jen fidgeted with the lock on Clara’s collar. “Anything?”
It was a dangerous statement with her on a good day. And she could recognize the sadist in her perking up. She wanted to say it was in her eyes, but more likely it was a subtle set of body language she hadn’t placed. “Anything. I swear. Name it.”
Jen considered, then fished a knife out of a jacket pocket. Lucky, probably, she hadn’t ended up with it at her throat when she’d hit the wall. Jen traced a circle with her free hand on the low inside of Clara’s left forearm. “Put my initials right here. Facing you.” She held out the knife.
Clara swallowed and took it from her gingerly. Took the blade out from where it folded into the handle. Hesitated. Her eyes flicked up to Jen’s one more time for reassurance, for the I’m sure. She held steady.
All right. Anything.
She steeled herself and cut the first line, the top of the J. Reflected that she could’ve gone without it, but didn’t want to be called on leaving it out.
“Deeper.” She was barely bleeding; it was more of a deep scratch.
The rest of the letter. Two motions, meeting at the curve. It hurt, stung, like a burn. Mostly, it was nauseating. To self inflict this was a powerful drug she had never touched. But this first dose wasn’t up to her.
M. There was a reason she'd never touched this. It was hard to stop. Easy to keep going.
The L was two simple lines. She bit her tongue and didn’t cry out. Blood pooled on her skin, dots becoming lines becoming smears blurring the cuts themselves. One line done. Tears came to her eyes unbidden. She felt… what? Vulnerable? This wasn’t new. The order was unexpected but the underlying potential for it had always been there. What was the thought she felt too aware of? I’d destroy myself if you asked?
Humiliation? No, she’d borne nearly identical marks before. They were easily hidden when need be. They would fade quickly; she was very good at healing. She had never felt ashamed of her role or whom she belonged to. The letters felt as natural as the collar around her neck.
Second line done. She offered the knife back to her with a shaky breath, pulse racing. The look she gave her would have been defiant under different circumstances. And? Now? The slightly raised head and questioning eyes.
Jen didn’t take it. She examined the marks. She wasn’t sure why that was what she’d wanted—but there was something to self inflicted pain that was stronger than letting someone else do it. It felt more suiting to the, I’d do anything for you. It wasn’t, I’d let you do anything to me. And all day, Clara had let her and let her do things, and it was different, to bear it, than it was to actively follow self destructive orders.
Clara let her examine the marks now, the knife still in her shaking hand. She hissed when Jen pressed near the letters, a few tears escaping, but she didn’t pull away.
“Network symbol,” Jen murmured, tracing an oval nearby on her skin. “Here.”
“I’m sorry,” Clara whispered, not sure why, but it felt right. Regret and self loathing to go with self destruction.
Jen stroked her cheek. “It’s all right, sweetheart.” Her voice was soothing. She seemed calmer now. Well, she always felt better when she released things on her favorite outlet, didn’t she? She tapped Clara’s arm. “Go on.”
Clara cut the first curve, then adjusted her grip. It hurt differently with the skin in the area sensitized from prior pain. Second one. She could picture the symbol and had doodled it enough and had it cut into her skin enough to know what to do. Where to place the lines. Third. Fuck, it hurt. God, she felt sick. The circumstances were all wrong. Pinned down after a struggle, turned on and warmed up and endorphins flowing, Jen cutting the lines and shushing her, made this much easier. Fourth. The tears flowed easily. Fifth. Choking on a small sob, not so much the pain, terrible as it was, as the emotions that came with it. An overwhelming feeling, to break your own skin and draw your own blood and take a weapon to yourself. Every evolutionary instinct screamed, What are you doing? Breathe. She could do this. Sixth and final line.
Her eyes flicked up again. She didn’t offer the knife but the marks to examine. This is fucked. She prayed Jen would take the knife back. Let this be over. She prayed she wouldn’t. She’d gone this far and felt like something wasn’t over. She needed… something. This felt too controlled, now, for the emotions flooding her. Carefully cut little lines into familiar letters and patterns for the mental mess, the quiet in the room for all the screaming in her head.
Jen was calm, eyes running over the marks. She held Clara’s wrist and hadn’t gotten any of Clara’s blood on her hands. How suiting. This was all her own doing. If only it was that simple.
Jen released her, feeling sated. Her frustration throughout the day building and building and Clara throwing her anger back at her cued certain instincts. Just made that anger build faster. When Clara was angry, she got angry back. But when Clara was hurt, it came naturally to soothe and comfort her the moment she was done inflicting the pain, and that instinct tended to also calm herself. And making Clara inflict the pain herself let that instinct kick in faster.
“Shh, sweetheart. You’re okay.” Petting her cheek, her hair. “I’ve got you.” Running a finger over Clara’s lips, feeling the vibrations of the whimpers falling from them, tracing down to her collar, hand closing around it. “Good girl. All mine.”
“All yours, Mistress,” Clara whispered.
“And I wouldn’t let anything happen to you that you couldn’t take, would I?”
She gave a small shake of her head.
“No,” Jen murmured in agreement. “You should put some antiseptic on that.” Her eyes flicked to the cuts, not producing much more blood at this point. “And then come to bed.”
Clara nodded, but stared at the floor as Jen left. It still didn’t seem right. The pounding heart and strangled feeling and sickness hadn’t faded. The tears still on her face. The overwhelming flood of emotion and her hand clenched into a fist around the knife and she felt like something in her head was screaming, screaming, screaming—
She cut another line, just a straight slash near the others. Another. Another. It felt like oxygen. Another. The flood quieted. One more. Shaking.
Cleaning the knife. Forgetting the antiseptic. Wandering towards the bedroom. Her heart rate slowing. Nausea fading. Tears drying.
Jen looked at her when she came in, then at the extra lines. Paced over to her. Clara swallowed, avoided her eyes. She felt like she’d done something she wasn’t supposed to.
“Did you get the antiseptic?” Jen asked her.
She shook her head. Maybe that was what felt wrong. “I forgot,” she said, though she wasn’t sure that was the word. “I cleaned the knife.” Her head wasn’t working.
Jen all but pulled her along by the hand to the bathroom, cleaning the wounds gently, and sat with her on the bed, petting her hair. “I don’t want you doing this on your own,” she told her. “If you need that, you'll come to me.”
“Okay,” Clara said, not looking at her. Not really looking at anything.
“Clara.” Tilting her head back towards her. “Promise me.”
“I promise."
Jen kissed her. “That’s my girl.”