Drugged, and writing.

"I don't call him 'Master'. Not 'Sir' or 'm'Lord' or anything else. I... once, I did. Once I would have called him anything he wanted.

"I'm different now. I'm free.

"Why does that bother me?"

Tired, and writing.

"He didn't move, didn't grace me with any response except polite silence, deadly cold and far more cruel than any words he could have thrown at me."

In pain, and writing.

"Running, stumbling, only stopping when I reached my friend's door, collapsing against the wood with barely the strength to knock, tears streaking my cheeks, laying waste to the careful application of black-and-white that was one of the few lingering habits from my Goth phase..."

Lonely, and writing.

"I curled there at his feet, my head pressed against his leg, shuddering with the tears I tried without success to stop. His hand on my hair. His voice, gentle, flowing through me. His warmth. Comfort, all of it, and although I knew already what price would be laid due, I thought it well worth such a tax."

Heart aching, body trembling, mind spinning, and still writing... words are a curse, not a blessing, today.