Queen Mab visited me in the night

[danaeris]

There is a plug in my breast, just below where my heart is supposed to be. I think it's still there -- my heart that is -- but it's hard to tell, given what you've made of me.

I gave myself to you, and your evil ways. There was a time when this was my fantasy, to be helpless to someone's will. But the reality of being your thrall is a painful wakeup call, and my dream is a nightmare, my fantasy a horror. There is no wetness between my legs, only a sinking feeling in my stomach.

When I woke to this dream, you were draining me of my lifeblood, leaving just enough so that I would not slip out of life. I understood that it was necessary -- it was a sacrifice I was willingly making, although it wasn't what I agreed to when I gave myself to you.

But as I wandered through the forest, in your absence, I began to realize that with so much blood drained, gone, that I was but a ghost. Not entirely present, not entirely gone, I had become an automaton.

I'm told that, given enough time, blood will replenish. I'm told that with some, the draining goes both ways. I'm told that with others, there is no draining at all. If so, I've not felt it.

The world wavered before my eyes, when you came to me and told me it was time again. Time to die, I thought. You drained too much last time, and I'm not ready. If you take more, I'll die. You wouldn't want that... or would you...

While it's true that a small part of my mind thought these things, my heart went to you, as it always has. It betrayed me; isn't that what hearts are for?

When people die, it's polite to say that they passed away. It makes it sound so calm, so kind and gentle. That's usually bullshit, of course. Death is anything but that.

Drifting away as you pumped my heart's blood away may have seemed peaceful, but I assure you it wasn't. Inside, I screamed. I thrashed and screamed and railed, beating the walls of my mind with my fists until they were bruised and scraped and bloody. All my sacrifices had been for nothing. I gave myself to you to GET something, but all you knew how to do was take, and all I knew how to do was give.

There has to be a better way.

---

By the way, I'm fine. This in no way reflects how I'm feeling.

Comments

[furious-g.livejournal.com]

Wow.

[danaeris.livejournal.com]

I'll take that as, "Wow, that's great," rather than, "Wow, you are fucked up." :)

BTW, I WILL get around to looking at what you sent me; I spent most of the weekend catching up on house cleaning chores, and looking for apartments.

[furious-g.livejournal.com]

Hehe, yeah it was a wow that was great, I really liked the imagery.

[jackspryte.livejournal.com]

Was she Shakespeare's ambivolent and cruel Mab:

And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;
O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on court’sies straight,
O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees,
O’er ladies ‘ lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:
Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail
Tickling a parson’s nose as a’ lies asleep,
.....
That plats the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes:
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she--

Or Shelley's much more romantic but still startlingly morbid Mab:

"All things are recreated, and the flame
Of consentaneous love inspires all life:
The fertile bosom of the earth gives suck
To myriads, who still grow beneath her care,
Rewarding her with their pure perfectness:
The balmy breathings of the winds inhale
Her virtues, and diffuse them all abroad:
Health floats amid the gentle atmosphere,
Glows in the fruits, and mantles on the stream:
No storms deform the beaming brow of heaven,
Nor scatter in the freshness of its pride
The foliage of the ever verdant trees;
But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever fair,
And autumn proudly bears her matron grace,
Kindling a flush on the fair cheek of spring,
Whose virgin bloom beneath the ruddy fruit
Reflects its tint, and blushes into love.

"The lion now forgets to thirst for blood:
There might you see him sporting in the sun
Beside the dreadless kid; his claws are sheathed,
His teeth are harmless, custom's force has made
His nature as the nature of a lamb.
Like passion's fruit, the nightshade's tempting bane
Poisons no more the pleasure it bestows:
All bitterness is past; the cup of joy
Unmingled mantles to the goblet's brim,
And courts the thirsty lips it fled before.

[jackspryte.livejournal.com]

In my mind Shelley's Mab is clearer, her life seems more well intentioned. Shakespeare's Mab just seems far less refined. More banal, more than just the language, her actions seem more cruel and purposeless.