Precious Says Hello

I mentioned several months back that there was a woman underneath my floorboards getting punished by repulsive gleaming sharp blades, used by perpetrators who are less than nothing without their gleaming sharp blades, every time I gave into the sometimes irresistible temptation of my sinful loins and viewed porno while taking illegal drugs.

In my warzone territory, I am accustomed to hearing screams emanating from beneath me, and so have been accustomed to bearing them for many years. When I first heard a protracted, drawn-out, long-winded yell of mortal anguish from down there on one occasion, early on in my toilsome struggle, I considered taking an overdose on the spot. Just as I lined up over a hundred tablets, not girly paracetamol by the way, but hard-hitting, high strength anti-psychotics, my ex-girlfriend rang me out of the blue, whispering words of false love into my ear. She turned out to be in on the racket too. The racket that makes money from innocent suffering.

The broad actually getting battered, the gal being garrotted for all I knew, this damsel in distress mode, en femme in extremis, has sounded like to me to be an inextinguishable soul. I’m not quite sure what is going on down there, but it sure ain’t no charming fat man selling candy floss at the fair. Hidden evil is not the term.

She begged me to stop, stop playing with myself, but I was unable to. She asked me to delete this blog for mentioning her name, the name of Precious, and she was so disappointed, so resigned to hopelessness, I almost erased all memory of her. As you know, however, sometimes all we remember is that which we are trying to forget. The heartache of slipping backwards with the lust was paramount. Knowing that someone was getting hammered with bright gleaming blades (and worse), so close to me, with me holding myself responsible, responsible for her torment, crippled my mentality like an elephant squatting down on my pea-sized head. I felt crushed like under a Blue Whale, like an insect under an Atlas Stone. I’ve been through a lot, and I know all the aggrieved say that, but nothing could have prepared me for the sheer internal discombobulation I experienced when I severed the connection between me and Precious. She called up:

“They won’t hurt me if you don’t watch it! Every time you watch it, and ingest those horrible toxins, they peel my skin back all day long! Promise me you’ll change and become a good man!”

Despite the gravity of the situation, I continued to let her hopes down and view illicit material. Massive jugs and painted smiles, you know the one. I just sort of blocked her screams out, numbed by the drugs. My medication also muted my emotions. Then it occurred to me one day: Here I am on the bones of my arse in the dark, kecks around my ankles, slobbering over a tranny getting her back doors kicked in by three big buck immigrants in 4K UHD, about to blow my beans into Kleenex, and some beautiful woman is getting wounded beneath my floor space, shouting out my name to help her over and over. This is no joke, I thought. Her aggressors would speak:

“After we’ve finished with your cutey-pie darling soul mate, who you can’t save, because you’re council tenant and weaponless, then we’re pulling out her goofy teeth, and we’re coming up for you in approximately eight minutes. Yeah, for kidnap. Get ready to meet Precious. She can’t wait to say hello. Say hello, Precious.”

“H e l l o…”

They always threatened to drag me down there with her. Who was she, should I be partnered with her? Was she someone close to me, an old flame I’d forgotten? I have a long-lost sister whom I’ve never met, could it be her? How many others did they have, aside from this rosebud? I’m not sure about you, but I’m not an expert on seedy underground labs governed by bored masochists. How many victims are they usually content with? Just one? A dozen? A hundred? A thousand? Just how big is this secret bunker of depravity I live above?

To be dreadfully honest, I don’t much give a damn about what a rotten stale and bland bunch of sadists do underneath my floor boards, or, for that matter, who they do it with. As long as I can stroll around up on the surface in the sunshine then it means bugger all to me. Hell is none of my business. I haven’t offended God all that much in my heart, apart from ignoring Precious, and, for this, I am uttermost sorry and regretful for failing her in the past. She makes me suicidal, when I don’t take notice. Every night I hear her crying out my name, and every night my deepest soul responds to her screams with more screams of my own.

I’ve kicked my negative vices (so far so good), and now myself and Precious are on good terms, albeit separated by what feels like different realms, even though we are within earshot of one another. Hers, mine, our perpetrators are put off by our positive bond. Their loveless emptiness despises love in others. They can’t hurt Precious, and they can’t hurt me. They continue to hurt each other though, in all of their engulfing loveless emptiness. Their empty lovelessness. As the bible says, evil slays the wicked. God preserves, and protects, loving binds.