After || Self-Para || 12/02
A submissive who hadnât taken part in the punishment helped get him out of the infirmary. He didnât have anyone else, and after what heâd done, he couldnât have asked Blaine or Elliott to help him out. He knew with absolute certainty that he couldnât have remained in the infirmary. He felt like a caged animal. Heâd felt like that since Tuesday morning and the feeling had increased sevenfold as the punishment passed. He wasnât entirely convinced heâd have been able to control himself if someone had tried to touch him again.
The guilt was cloying. He could taste it. Like syrup. Sickly sweet and something he didnât realise was too much until it was too much. It suffocated him. Every breath he dragged through chapped lips brought with it another wave of culpability. His hands hadnât stopped trembling since heâd first been told to pick up the knife. What sort of punishment required you to mutilate another person? What lesson was that supposed to teach? It probably wouldnât be the first time he caused scars for Blaine or Elliott. That was the nature of rough and tumble play when they were younger; but those scars had never been caused intentionally, heâd never had to look anyone, let alone his siblings, in the eye before and choose to cause them pain. And heâd had to look them in the eye. Anything else would have been cowardly and he hoped knowing how internally wrecked he was about having to do it, might have made it easier to swallow. Heâd needed them to know he didnât want to do it.
Heâd tried to say that verbally, tried to reach out to touch Blaineâs hand before he started but that had been met with a firm boot in the back, reigniting fiery pain in his back that had only just dulled to a consistent ache because of the cold. He hadnât cried until that point.Â
This wasnât what being a Dominant was supposed to be. Or was it? Was this the truth of the system? If it was, he didnât want it. Didnât want to participate in it. Didnât want to live in it. That train of thought prompted another. One about how easy it would be for someone like him to get something that would make it all go away. The guilt, the pain, the humiliation, the anger, the sadness. He thought it wouldnât be difficult.
His hands wouldnât stop shaking. He fumbled with his phone. He wanted to text his brothers, but what could he say? Did sorry mean anything? He didnât think he could physically do anything either. He could see the betrayal they must have felt -- it was smoky, an ever increasing shadowy presence that filled the room. He could hear how he hurt them. It replayed in his head on a constant loop. When he moved, his whole body ached. Bruised, burned, bleeding. He didnât even know where to start. How did a person fix themselves after something like this?
He felt cold. Too cold. Too everything. It was all just too much. He turned the shower on, and ducked under the heavy stream. As it turned out, there was such a thing as too much pressure and the water pricked his skin like a barrage of needles. The water drowned out the sound of the sobs that made his chest heave, and he pushed through the initial, new, sharp pain.Â
Eventually, the heat of the water sunk into his bones and he leaned forward, resting his head against the tiles. His hands were still shaking. His legs were too and slowly, with difficulty, he sunk down onto the ground. He couldnât support himself anymore.
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