I can't type coherantly. I'm crying too hard to look at the screen. This is being written in a word processor, for the very simple reason that there's so much to say, so many of us to say it... so much going on in here. It... hurts. It hurts, gods it hurts, and so much of the pain I wouldn't give up for anything even though I would beg... am begging... for it to stop.

One of us is damn near catatonic.

And the part that feels the worst is that even though this is misery, even though I want to rage and scream and make someone else hurt for the pain we feel... it was our choice. My choice. Yes, pronoun usage will be flexible today - I/we, same thing at the moment, more or less. And we chose this. We had good reasons, and still have those reasons. They haven't changed. He hasn't changed. The only thing, really, that has changed at all... is how I see myself.

Eyes open, now.

Which is WHY one of us is damn near catatonic. She already saw more than the rest of us put together... when this... happened... she... ehh. I'm taking dictation, now.

- - - - -

I hop into the car already a bit irritable; stress and heat and the simple fact that it is the mother I am stuck spending time with combine to leave me grouchy, determined to get through this just to spite her. I've got my fresh-burnt CDs in my hand and I pop one of them in right away, letting "Just Like A Pill" play through. Singing quietly. I'm enjoying the music, switching from one track to the next, trying to just relax before I get to the clinic. I know what's coming up, and yeah, it does worry me a bit... but it won't be the first time my skin's been broken. I shift in the seat, letting the chest strap rub against my breast, a reminder of how thoroughly it is still broken. I handled that; surely I'll be able to handle this, right?

I tell the mother that once we get there, I'll be dreamwalking, and not to distract me... well, actually, I get as far as "dr..." and cut myself off, shaking my head. "I'll be distracting myself, concentrating on other things. Please don't interrupt me or talk to me." She agrees - hell, she offers to go run errands so she won't even BE there when they're jabbing the harpoon into me. Reasonable, and pleasing; I want her as far away from me as she'll get.

Into the clinic. Up the stairs, and into the tiny back room. Everything laid out, pens and paper, a cup of water, snacks to nibble on... I tuck my arm into the heating pad to help bring the veins to the surface, lean back, and take full control of body and mind both. The drugs are kicking in now, a cocktail of oxycodone, homeopathic relaxants, an antihistamine, and the single-shot pineapple marguerita the mother purchased for me at lunch. She's figured out I am nicer to her if she gets me drunk... can you say pavlovian training?

Waiting. My mind is beginning to dance, free hand already catching up a pen, wanting to write, wanting to speak... and I turn my head. The collar around my throat tightens slightly at the motion and so the first word that touches the page is 'collared'... just that one word. I had intended to sketch, letting words become images as I so often prefer to do.

Collared.

And my hands start shaking.

Control, gotta get control, my mind is racing now as it tries to fight against the drugs that a few minutes ago were so helpful... I weave my way through the tangle of fears that are building and find myself sweating. The nurse is there, careful eye on me... and then the needle.

It... it hurt, yes. Almost satisfying, almost a pleasureable feeling for a split second... then ripping agony that left me with my free hand clenched into a fist, breaking the pen I'm holding. I toss it into the trash, trying not to move, to even breathe, otherwise.

Needle in place. The liquid begins to flow... it's the color of saffron and sunsets, warm golden hues that ripple and reflect oddly in the artificial light. Hard to breathe.

My eyes close. Swallowing... can't quite seem to swallow. Something's wrong.

Lump... no. That's no... ew. Ok, throwing up a bit, I can cope with this, and OW, no, I can't move my hand like that, I can't SEE, what's wrong, what's going on?

The nurse's voice... I have a fever. I can't breathe. Take off the collar, she says, and I am whimpering, it's the one thing I need... but it comes off. Clatter of metal on the floor beside me. I turn my head, look down... staring at black and silver. Can't lift my head back up. Can't look away. Can't move... what the hell is happening to me, I can't move!

It hurts... fire tracing up my arm, staring at the collar, the fragmented prose I had been writing spilled out and finished, black letters on white paper, black nylon on a white floor, black clothing covering deathly white skin. I know I'm not dying. Dying doesn't feel like this.

...please...

...please, I don't want to feel this... why can't I speak, where is my voice? Sleeping? No, I'm not sleeping, look at me, please, look at me...

...don't leave me here like this...

...don't leave...

...gone.

No collar.

I should have expected it to end like this. No collar... so of course they leave. White-hot lances in my arm, my body still shaking, still so hard to breathe... but I am uncollared. Unprotected. I know how this game works, I've seen the Lady and her pets. Lose the collar and you lose everything.

I wore it for you. I didn't wear the pretty velvet and steel, I didn't wear the silver bell that chimes and sings and makes me think of autumn and elves, I didn't let myself be caught up in romance to the point where I would forget THIS reality. I wore it for you and it's gone. I can't see it.

Why can't I open my eyes?

...this hurts...

...maybe I am dying. Maybe I deserve to die. Nobody's slave. Nobody's Mistress. Nothing.

I wish I could breathe.

...I wish...

...I wish you were here. This is yours; the pain I feel, this dark chasm swallowing me, the flames that are devouring me, the still-intense sensations, the terror and fear... this is yours. Can you taste it? Do you even know I still exist?

Do I still exist?

...please...

- - - - -

We came to roughly two hours after the needle went in. Scrabbled on the floor with the one free arm until we found where the collar had been dropped. Put it on... Raven insisted on being the one to fasten it in place; she didn't believe it was real, until she could touch it. We... I... weren't entirely sure it was real even then.

We sketched, a bit - here is the page that I wrote on. Sketched a bit on that, after.

Came home.

No... came back to Dixon household. Right now, right this second, I don't really feel as if I HAVE a home.

Found out when I got back that some company who'd been in the apartment (yes, where Eamon and Candice live now, where Caleb and I used to live) had, just before they were going to be driven out to the bus, gone down into the apartment... and locked the door. And been all grouchy when Deb knocked on the door to find out what was going on. Would you go to a friend's house, lock the friend OUT of their house, then get offended when the friend was upset?

I don't get it.

My hands are still trembling, by the way.

Amazing, that after THAT much time spent with my mom, the guilt trips she pulled and the things she managed to accuse me of and the stress she put on me was the LEAST problem of the day. Hm. I really do need a new life.