She feels his displeasure like the ozone following a thunderstorm, unseen waves traveling across the city to her heart, pounding against her again and again. She doesn’t understand it, but she knows it’s there, she feels it and tastes it and smells it all around her. IM’s go unanswered. Her heart-sister has left. Slaves come and they go, they are only slaves, after all! Yet this is so much more than roleplay. Or is it? It that all that she is, in the end? A player, an actress with ridiculous expectations? Can she give so much, sacrifice so much, only to be rendered meaningless in the blink of an eye? The risk is far too great.

Her heart aches with confusion and fear. He is unhappy with her for neglecting her blog, yet what can she write? Her feelings do not always translate to words. Her thoughts come as pictures, colors, impressions and intuition. Communication is important, he says, and she knows this is true. Even so, sometimes she just -can’t-.

The accusing voice in her head nags, “Will you still be a slave when you are truly treated like a slave, a mere possession that doesn’t matter, an occasional amusement that is readily replaced? Can you fight the fear and sadness and even anger, lay them at his feet and submit to his will, even if that means being kicked away?” But she knows that it’s not about “being a slave.” It’s not about options. She knows there is no hope. It’s in her blood and bones. It’s not what she does, it’s what she is.

How does that quote go again? Something about never making someone a priority when you will never be more than an option to them? A slave cannot listen to things like that and expect to remain sane.

And so the storm rages on.

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