Post by Bastille Amtrum on Jan 25, 2014 0:03:28 GMT -8
Mother,
It has come to my attention that all of my letters have a habit of being addressed to you. Frankly, for once, I believe this letter might actually have a reason to be addressed to you.
For isn't it usually a conversation that one partakes in with their mother? Though your life has taught me that you were as much a stranger to it as I currently feel I am. Perhaps even more so, since I can at least keep my husband in my bed and out of others. However, that may not be a result of the topic at hand and in correlation to something else entirely as the more skeptical side of me keeps trying to dictate--but I digress.
So mother mine, let us discuss love.
Leon Miller from Boston, Massachusetts and the client case number 1.
Dead. Killed and raped by my own father, although the order of succession can certainly be called to question. Poor lad, kid was 15- I was 13. Just returned home from the young royal air-force academy to begin my classical training and set on a career path suitable to the outside worlds family image. I dont really remember it to be honest. Most of my memory is fading or blinking through a thick mist- like a sun lit attic with a heavy cloud of dust and muslin curtains covering everything. Bloody dirty attic by the way the sun hits every dust speck in the air. The memories are no longer locked away, but that doesn't mean I can see them- except for the end of course. Regardless, I certainly dont remember how it felt. Everything was numb after that, in that numbness I quickly forgot whatever shattered me into that state in the first place. I guess multiple personality disorder was successful for one thing.
Client case number 2 and the lovely Bastard who stole my virginity.
Giggles. I'm going to call him that because even saying his full name- which I still believe to be a false identity and the rampant day dreams of a deranged psychopath- only give him credit where I have none to give.
He took me off the low life streets as a low level free lance thug and literally chained me to his bed with nothing but a pillow cover to wear for over a month just because I had the balls to bite his cock when he decided it'd be hilarious to wave it in my face. Like I said, arrogant pig. That aside- in the month I spent in captivity I got to learn of his imagined but apparently still relevant past. He took it too seriously- but pity him I did. I guess it was a good way to go, after about a month he told me I could leave and then instead of walking out the door we spent the next month trying out everything in the Kama Sutra. I wasn't the girl he was idolizing or the friend whos name he whispered out when he thought I was asleep like him- but after that he managed to get me better contacts, or at least his name did and from there my career took off. Really, can't blame him- but likewise I dont remember feeling anything. Right sweaty and hot- sure, weirdly protective of him, perhaps. But nothing beyond the subsiding of loneliness because I'd found another who's was greater than my own.
I'm going to skip Client case number 3 until the end since ...well he technically is both client number 3 and 5.
Client case number 4.
After many years of sleeping around with other assassins, clients, targets just to do as I had done and fill gaps if only temporarily- I began to understand that what I felt was no attachment, but only a necessity that begged me to fulfill it so I could further concentrate on other matters. David Blaze was a different matter entirely.
Let me start off by describing our relationship as it stands now. I believe we are at a mutual understanding. At least, in my mind thats where we stand. Friends, sure- I do make it a point to look out for the bloody son of a bitch, but the guy can be a bit much for me to handle. It doesn't change the fact that I am truly (as oddly as this sounds to myself no matter how many ways or times I repeat it) happy.....still sounds weird, even when I'm not trying to say it. Anyway, happy for him. With...whatever girl he chose, I really dont keep track. But I think, we are what most people call friends. I like the word comrade better. At least, I'm always willing to get him drunk or kick him back into shape when he needs to be taught a lesson or needs to be reminded to use that lump of ugly flesh behind his face.
Now, what we had between us- I really can't say. It was different from everything else. Because at first, he revolted me. Honestly, a guy like him should be able to understand and honor code or an elegant system of engaging enemies that does not force one such spectator to release the contents of her lunch out of the boredom and predictability of and ensuing confrontation. That aside, and from my personal point of view- he followed me around like a puppy desperate for recognition. The bloody git bought me a blooming car. If he'd taken six minutes to actually research what an assassin needs and wants, and even a spit of information about me- he'd realize that he not only almost blew my cover, but also found a sure fire way to confuse me. I'm British...I have an accent- I came from England- and the only time I learned to drive was when I was 13 and had just returned home. Leon had taught me- I know I told you I was going out for an art exhibition...but I lied, he was teaching me to drive. So....buying me a car was just plain stupid. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that I obviously can't drive.
But somewhere along the line, he began to remind me of Leon. Small things he did that would send me scared and I guess that was the last straw. I fought myself and faced the fear. Somewhere down the line, I allowed him to touch me and it was if I forgot the reason I was allowing this action in the first place. Looking at it then, I remember that I always felt hot- being around him, his touch was cold..cool, and being around him was oddly calming. My blood would slow, my heart beat would quiet, and my muscles would relax. I was able to focus and able to make sense of things that didn't make sense. Looking on it from now, he became my vital link to re-understanding what it meant to be human...and not just a machine. I had yearned for connection, and I'd learned what the physical connection entailed, but I'd never felt the connection you're supposed to feel during it- and some part of me was screaming for it. Then the Library happened, and the many times after that...and then I had no clue what was going on. I could only describe the way my brain comprehended it then was like I was swimming in a pool after walking on hard desert rocks...my muscles felt exhilarated and relaxed at the same time, my face felt cool and I could feel the air around me all the time. Now I know that it was a small part of me coming to the surface, and I really do have him to thank for it.
Sadly, the bombs fell, and in thinking of his death- whatever door he had managed to make was sealed shut again. It was automatic, like a machine- and I moved on without thinking about the small moments of being human I had had. It was no trouble, like riding a bike after many years- the rhythm slipped back in.
Let us return to client case number 3 and probably more rightly number 5.
My current husband and lover- Mathew Amtrum.
a right mental roller coaster that one. AS client number 3 he was just a guy encouraging me to be nothing more than the machine I was. Something inside couldn't accept him beyond the common role he played. But I can't- as much as I still wish to admit it- deny that there was something there. He was- and still is- a witty son of a bitch with a little too much of a knack for good luck. Honestly, I stayed at his side because of my honor code- but in the path of doing so I began to see something inside him that pressed at the dusty human inside. Perhaps he was the one who made it start screaming in the first place simply for the fact that he encouraged me loss of human feeling. Or at least the understanding of it. I always felt things- I just could never connect my bodies reaction with that it was supposed to be called. To be honest, I never really tried.
After the bombs, I never went looking, but just as something inside that had began to shift went still again- so too did it with Mathew. I wasn't sad- I confess I wasn't sure what sadness felt like. I moved on and went about my life according to business. First survive, then help others, then- well whatever came up.
It was in the moment of seeing him for the first time that something else entirely new grabbed me. I guess, I didn't know what relief felt like because even before I lost my emotions I never felt it. He was alive, he was standing in front of me....and the emotion was pecking at my curiosity- so I explored it as any brave soul might do when it comes to emotions. I poked the flame and slept with the guy. A little bit of a rough start, not the best night I ever had--- all applause to Jaime Blackmoore of Inverness, Scottland. But I can't say it was the worst either.
Poking at connections made me exhausted- I always fell asleep after sex.
And now for the reason I am writing this letter-
A huge concern I seem to be having-
I no longer pass out after sex. I am finding this very concerning.
Last night Mathew and I made love for the first time. I guess that's what I'm going to call it since this was the first time I felt strong emotions overwhelmingly entangle me. To top it off, we ruined David Blazes house in the process. I think we rutted on every surface in that house that it was possibly to do so. And I didnt pass out- once. We'd gotten home and it was when he was fast asleep beside them that I was finally able to stop and comprehend what had just happened.
In all honesty I should probably apologize for crying like a bloody fucking noob on him, and getting fumbly and nervous ....but he held me the whole time with ONE ARM. I dont understand why that thought makes me shiver.
I spent all morning tracing his features with my fingers lightly like a feather....even those wrinkles he's gained and those grey hairs....despite it all he still had me mesmerized. I dont know why I traced him or stared at him all morning. I dont know why when he awoke I was sad and embarrassed- of course I hid this by hitting him solidly with a pillow.
I like his missing arm..It allows me to get close to him without having something uncomfortably lumpy beneath me and without him complaining about a dead arm in the morning. It allows me to trace his shoulders and to feel that odd feeling of burning, but closer to a transcending fire. It really does baffle me and really its out right revolting. Mate, I can't tell you how disgusted I am at myself for being such a bloody girl...
Client case number 6.
My twin girls- nothing more to say about them. But I suddenly feel very happy with them. If you think sex with anyone is good, try holding a child you love in your arms. Better than 6 finished in a row! Seriously...
Oh but I forgot, you wouldn't know. Love wasn't your strong suit...well..Guess I just wasted a bunch of paper. This was a load of rubbish to begin with....but if you could read this. Perhaps I could have made you laugh, or get angry-
Either one would have suited me.
Best wishes...not really,
Bessie
It has come to my attention that all of my letters have a habit of being addressed to you. Frankly, for once, I believe this letter might actually have a reason to be addressed to you.
For isn't it usually a conversation that one partakes in with their mother? Though your life has taught me that you were as much a stranger to it as I currently feel I am. Perhaps even more so, since I can at least keep my husband in my bed and out of others. However, that may not be a result of the topic at hand and in correlation to something else entirely as the more skeptical side of me keeps trying to dictate--but I digress.
So mother mine, let us discuss love.
Leon Miller from Boston, Massachusetts and the client case number 1.
Dead. Killed and raped by my own father, although the order of succession can certainly be called to question. Poor lad, kid was 15- I was 13. Just returned home from the young royal air-force academy to begin my classical training and set on a career path suitable to the outside worlds family image. I dont really remember it to be honest. Most of my memory is fading or blinking through a thick mist- like a sun lit attic with a heavy cloud of dust and muslin curtains covering everything. Bloody dirty attic by the way the sun hits every dust speck in the air. The memories are no longer locked away, but that doesn't mean I can see them- except for the end of course. Regardless, I certainly dont remember how it felt. Everything was numb after that, in that numbness I quickly forgot whatever shattered me into that state in the first place. I guess multiple personality disorder was successful for one thing.
Client case number 2 and the lovely Bastard who stole my virginity.
Giggles. I'm going to call him that because even saying his full name- which I still believe to be a false identity and the rampant day dreams of a deranged psychopath- only give him credit where I have none to give.
He took me off the low life streets as a low level free lance thug and literally chained me to his bed with nothing but a pillow cover to wear for over a month just because I had the balls to bite his cock when he decided it'd be hilarious to wave it in my face. Like I said, arrogant pig. That aside- in the month I spent in captivity I got to learn of his imagined but apparently still relevant past. He took it too seriously- but pity him I did. I guess it was a good way to go, after about a month he told me I could leave and then instead of walking out the door we spent the next month trying out everything in the Kama Sutra. I wasn't the girl he was idolizing or the friend whos name he whispered out when he thought I was asleep like him- but after that he managed to get me better contacts, or at least his name did and from there my career took off. Really, can't blame him- but likewise I dont remember feeling anything. Right sweaty and hot- sure, weirdly protective of him, perhaps. But nothing beyond the subsiding of loneliness because I'd found another who's was greater than my own.
I'm going to skip Client case number 3 until the end since ...well he technically is both client number 3 and 5.
Client case number 4.
After many years of sleeping around with other assassins, clients, targets just to do as I had done and fill gaps if only temporarily- I began to understand that what I felt was no attachment, but only a necessity that begged me to fulfill it so I could further concentrate on other matters. David Blaze was a different matter entirely.
Let me start off by describing our relationship as it stands now. I believe we are at a mutual understanding. At least, in my mind thats where we stand. Friends, sure- I do make it a point to look out for the bloody son of a bitch, but the guy can be a bit much for me to handle. It doesn't change the fact that I am truly (as oddly as this sounds to myself no matter how many ways or times I repeat it) happy.....still sounds weird, even when I'm not trying to say it. Anyway, happy for him. With...whatever girl he chose, I really dont keep track. But I think, we are what most people call friends. I like the word comrade better. At least, I'm always willing to get him drunk or kick him back into shape when he needs to be taught a lesson or needs to be reminded to use that lump of ugly flesh behind his face.
Now, what we had between us- I really can't say. It was different from everything else. Because at first, he revolted me. Honestly, a guy like him should be able to understand and honor code or an elegant system of engaging enemies that does not force one such spectator to release the contents of her lunch out of the boredom and predictability of and ensuing confrontation. That aside, and from my personal point of view- he followed me around like a puppy desperate for recognition. The bloody git bought me a blooming car. If he'd taken six minutes to actually research what an assassin needs and wants, and even a spit of information about me- he'd realize that he not only almost blew my cover, but also found a sure fire way to confuse me. I'm British...I have an accent- I came from England- and the only time I learned to drive was when I was 13 and had just returned home. Leon had taught me- I know I told you I was going out for an art exhibition...but I lied, he was teaching me to drive. So....buying me a car was just plain stupid. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that I obviously can't drive.
But somewhere along the line, he began to remind me of Leon. Small things he did that would send me scared and I guess that was the last straw. I fought myself and faced the fear. Somewhere down the line, I allowed him to touch me and it was if I forgot the reason I was allowing this action in the first place. Looking at it then, I remember that I always felt hot- being around him, his touch was cold..cool, and being around him was oddly calming. My blood would slow, my heart beat would quiet, and my muscles would relax. I was able to focus and able to make sense of things that didn't make sense. Looking on it from now, he became my vital link to re-understanding what it meant to be human...and not just a machine. I had yearned for connection, and I'd learned what the physical connection entailed, but I'd never felt the connection you're supposed to feel during it- and some part of me was screaming for it. Then the Library happened, and the many times after that...and then I had no clue what was going on. I could only describe the way my brain comprehended it then was like I was swimming in a pool after walking on hard desert rocks...my muscles felt exhilarated and relaxed at the same time, my face felt cool and I could feel the air around me all the time. Now I know that it was a small part of me coming to the surface, and I really do have him to thank for it.
Sadly, the bombs fell, and in thinking of his death- whatever door he had managed to make was sealed shut again. It was automatic, like a machine- and I moved on without thinking about the small moments of being human I had had. It was no trouble, like riding a bike after many years- the rhythm slipped back in.
Let us return to client case number 3 and probably more rightly number 5.
My current husband and lover- Mathew Amtrum.
a right mental roller coaster that one. AS client number 3 he was just a guy encouraging me to be nothing more than the machine I was. Something inside couldn't accept him beyond the common role he played. But I can't- as much as I still wish to admit it- deny that there was something there. He was- and still is- a witty son of a bitch with a little too much of a knack for good luck. Honestly, I stayed at his side because of my honor code- but in the path of doing so I began to see something inside him that pressed at the dusty human inside. Perhaps he was the one who made it start screaming in the first place simply for the fact that he encouraged me loss of human feeling. Or at least the understanding of it. I always felt things- I just could never connect my bodies reaction with that it was supposed to be called. To be honest, I never really tried.
After the bombs, I never went looking, but just as something inside that had began to shift went still again- so too did it with Mathew. I wasn't sad- I confess I wasn't sure what sadness felt like. I moved on and went about my life according to business. First survive, then help others, then- well whatever came up.
It was in the moment of seeing him for the first time that something else entirely new grabbed me. I guess, I didn't know what relief felt like because even before I lost my emotions I never felt it. He was alive, he was standing in front of me....and the emotion was pecking at my curiosity- so I explored it as any brave soul might do when it comes to emotions. I poked the flame and slept with the guy. A little bit of a rough start, not the best night I ever had--- all applause to Jaime Blackmoore of Inverness, Scottland. But I can't say it was the worst either.
Poking at connections made me exhausted- I always fell asleep after sex.
And now for the reason I am writing this letter-
A huge concern I seem to be having-
I no longer pass out after sex. I am finding this very concerning.
Last night Mathew and I made love for the first time. I guess that's what I'm going to call it since this was the first time I felt strong emotions overwhelmingly entangle me. To top it off, we ruined David Blazes house in the process. I think we rutted on every surface in that house that it was possibly to do so. And I didnt pass out- once. We'd gotten home and it was when he was fast asleep beside them that I was finally able to stop and comprehend what had just happened.
In all honesty I should probably apologize for crying like a bloody fucking noob on him, and getting fumbly and nervous ....but he held me the whole time with ONE ARM. I dont understand why that thought makes me shiver.
I spent all morning tracing his features with my fingers lightly like a feather....even those wrinkles he's gained and those grey hairs....despite it all he still had me mesmerized. I dont know why I traced him or stared at him all morning. I dont know why when he awoke I was sad and embarrassed- of course I hid this by hitting him solidly with a pillow.
I like his missing arm..It allows me to get close to him without having something uncomfortably lumpy beneath me and without him complaining about a dead arm in the morning. It allows me to trace his shoulders and to feel that odd feeling of burning, but closer to a transcending fire. It really does baffle me and really its out right revolting. Mate, I can't tell you how disgusted I am at myself for being such a bloody girl...
Client case number 6.
My twin girls- nothing more to say about them. But I suddenly feel very happy with them. If you think sex with anyone is good, try holding a child you love in your arms. Better than 6 finished in a row! Seriously...
Oh but I forgot, you wouldn't know. Love wasn't your strong suit...well..Guess I just wasted a bunch of paper. This was a load of rubbish to begin with....but if you could read this. Perhaps I could have made you laugh, or get angry-
Either one would have suited me.
Best wishes...not really,
Bessie
