At times, he would look at me with his chalcedony eyes, and the world would stop only to spin faster. And I would vanish, disappear, dissolve in this golden-blue haze, that would become greenish, yellow, silvery, sparkling like the finest champagne – but that reverie would end as it began, in throes of endless wonder…and pain, as nothing was as hard, as excruciating as tearing myself away from his magic.
And seeing me, lost, my head spinning, he’d laugh – boyishly, carelessly, and say, almost reprovingly :
‘You love me too much’
‘I do ‘ I’d reply ‘And it’ll finish me off one day ‘
‘No doubt of it’
And a smile would flicker in the depth of his eyes, a cynical, cold smile of triumph. He delighted in torturing me, he enjoyed pushing me to the edge, drowning me in despair – to same extent that he loved being loved and love. That drove me mad, and my anguish resounded in him, filling him with venom.
‘You love driving me mad’ I’d say
‘You love being driven mad’ he’d retort ‘Don’t you, my little martyr? You love it. Enjoy it while it lasts, Saint Sebastian. Enjoy the torture.’
And he was right – I loved being tortured that way, for my torturer was my healer as well. My saviour, my healer, my love- and my killer.
He gave me life – taking it from me.
He raised me from the sickbed, only to throw me headfirst into the grave.
He was my killer – but we shared a tomb,
He was my life – but we walked in the shadow of Death.
Funny isn’t it?…