Entry XIV--Out of Body (Part 2)

When I come to, I'm not where I expected to.

And that really shouldn't surprise me at this point.

Cold and dark.

So cold because I've been completely stripped of my clothes and there's a draft in this room, or space, whatever this is.

So dark that I can't see in front of my face.

Also find that I can barely budge, and even the slightest movement of leg or arm is accompanied by the rustling of chains.

Feel the cold steel on my neck

Scared shitless. Figures it'd be on the night I wear my one pair of good pants.

So disoriented, it's a good five minutes till it occurs to me I'm no longer sitting down, but am affixed on my back to some flat surface, but not comfortable enough to be a bed.

Perhaps an operating table, though that possibility doesn't loom as optimistic.

What's even worse than what may happen to me is waiting for it to happen...

Sensory deprivation is a powerful thing.

Not even sure how long I've been here. Wherever the fuck 'here' is supposed to be.

Regardless of the duration of actual time elapsed, I give up what must be every five minutes.

Resign myself to the fact that I will be trapped here forever, chained in the frigid silent blackness, left to starve to death.

Although I'm not hungry at all, which probably means that I haven't been here very long.

Either that, or there was something in that tea which neutralized my appetite.

Am I still somewhere in Ms. Cabal's home, or have I been transported somewhere else?

Judging by the creeps this place is giving me, begin to question if I'm still even on Earth...



...And just when I'm ready to give up yet again, my ears pick up the faint but unmistakable resonance of approaching heels.

That tells me my hearing hasn't been tampered with--there just wasn't anything making a sound discernible enough for me to perceive.

Then, when the heels get within a few feet of me, they suddenly stop, as does my heart.

A match is struck against the wall and for the first time--illumination, as the match is used by a steady hand to light an open wall torch.

The sudden burst of flamelight blinds me momentarily, blinder than I was in the previous darkness.

When my vision returns, the incomparable outline of Ms. Cabal stands before me.

Also see the chains holding me tight.

And receive confirmation that I am, indeed, naked, with my junk on full display for Ms. Cabal.

Not that she has any interest. And not that I'm the least bit horny.

Just trying to get out of here alive.

"Look at me, worm."

Oh, we're back to referring to me as 'worm,' are we?

Despite my introspective bravado, obey without hesitation, twisting my neck as much as my steel dog--make that worm--collar will allow, the edge of the device scraping sharply against my neck.

Can scarcely believe it's Ms. Cabal in front of me bedecked in full Dominatrix garb; her body in a ecstatically formfitting black latex bodysuit, yes, like she was poured into it. At the end of her hand, a nasty riding crop. She dons a pair of six-inch stilettos that look like they could do serious damage.

Her hair, once modestly slicked back, is now spiked defiantly into the air.

Looking into her eyes, they're darker than ever, rendered even more sinister by heavy applications of eyeliner and mascara.

Even her lips play the part, painted black.

If Ms. Cabal weren't already filthy rich, she could take in a fortune by being a pro Domme for all the rich kinky guys in the Bay Area, who want to give up the stress of having to be in control for an hour every week.

And here I am, getting it for free, lucky me.

Lucky my prick isn’t chained down, ‘cause my jutting hard-on would get real painful and probably get skinned pressing against the cold steel.

Like she's scoping my thoughts as she looks down at my emerging cock.

"Do you wish to bow down and serve me, worm?" Ms. Cabal asks rhetorically.

"Yes."

Feel the chains tighten around every part of my body, as if on her mental command.

"Answer me correctly, worm."

"Yes, Mistress."

"That's better. Do not force me to walk over there and whack you across the face with my crop. Though, you'd probably enjoy that, knowing what a pain slut you are."

"Are you a pain slut, worm?"

Not sure how to answer. Pretty sure that's the first time in my life I've been asked if I'm a 'pain slut.'

"No, Mistress."

"Wrong answer. I think you are one, worm."

And with that, every chain holding me to this concrete slab tightens almost involuntarily and it hurts.

"Do you like my tight outfit, worm?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"You like everything tight, don't you worm?"

Chains tighten even harder, constricting any movement that much more.

"The only way you will ever be granted the privilege of serving me is by proving yourself worthy. Are you worthy, worm?"

The pain interferes with the volume of my response, "I want to prove myself worthy, Mistress." I answer meekly.

"I can't hear you, worm!"

Bypass the pain and resond at the top of my lungs: "I want to prove myself worthy, Mistress."

"That's better. It is critical for you to remain humble, worm. You see, I think the biggest problem with your latest writing submission was that you became too arrogant too quickly. You had a little bit of success, with the 'Hollow Knight,' and then your ego took over the writing. You thought you could just scribble a few lines here and there and I would bend over and accept it. But if you want me to be the one to bend over, Darwin, then you will have to put yourself in that position."

Hmm. First time Ms. Cabal's called me 'Darwin' since we've been down here. Does that mean anything? And what 'position' do I need to be in to get her to be the one to bend over?

No time to ponder those questions, though, as she speaks again: "For the time being, I think you must learn a lesson in humility, worm."

I've already licked her shoes, not sure how much lower she intends for me to go. Lucky there's not a toilet in sight.

And once again, with seemingly just a thought, the chains tighten to the point where the pain is excruciating.

To the point where I can't feel the pain...

Because I'm going numb...

Which means, it isn't long...

until I can't feel my body.

Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, to escape the numbing pain of the ever-tightening chains, but feel my consciousness, my awareness, whatever the fuck you call it, ‘leaving’ my physical husk.

(Refuse to call it a 'soul' or 'spirit' That's unverifiable, but consciousness/awareness is readily verfiable).

Floating…above myself.

Must be having that proverbial ‘out of body’ experience masochists undergo during BDSM sessions.

But I'm not staying here...

Not voluntarily, but rather seem to be slipping into a realm of pure…thought.

Scratch that. No realm.

I…am…the pure thought.

My thoughts no longer restricted to my mind, thoughts are all I'm comprised of.

There are no more filters, my consciousness is no longer distracted by base functions of the brain.

But how can my consciousness exist without my brain?

Not seeing with my eyes, not hearing with my ears, everything is just consciousness, my consciousness, fully independent of the flesh.

There is no surrounding material reality, there is just my thoughts.

Mind is racing. No, I’m racing.

Am my mind now, gotta keep…uh, remembering that.

(Am also memory, taboot).

Have even moved beyond any sexual longing for Ms. Cabal in this state, removed from all physical, meaningless diversions of the flesh.

A being of thought. A unit of awareness.

And as I watch myself imprisoned, helpless below, I realize I had absolutely no right to be arrogant about any of this.

May be floating above my physical shell, but I’m not above any christians.

I’m just like they are. Worse, because I should know better. I'm supposed to be transcendent.

That's a joke. I’m pathetic. I need to submit, to surrender, to have a higher power sweep me along. In my case, it’s Ms. Cabal, not god/christ.

Earlier tonight, I wondered if Jarvis the butler got off on being submissive, not willing to admit that it's me who's the true submissive.

And even in this ethereal guise, it's hard to swallow my hypocrisy.

I can write all day and night about individual freedom being so superior to christian conformity, but if I'm conforming to Ms. Cabal's desires, how am I superior?

A flash of the hardcover Bye Bull before me; the book I've been waiting my life to write--but it wouldn't be written unless she was domineering me.

I'm not capable of self motivation nor self determination.

I'm not the master of my own destiny, she's the Mistress of my destiny.

She's not a mistress in the lowercase sense that a powerful man posesess, she's Mistress with a capital M and she is the power and the possessor.

And I am putty in her hands, helpless to resist.

And even though she hinted at the possibility that I could one day dominate her (her quote), I cannot imagine that possibility or how I would come within a galaxy of being Dominant over her.
And in my lowest moment, when I'm about to bury myself in a pile of psychic shit, for being so weak and powerless...another flash, this one of divine revelation.

Realize that I'm not writing this book for christians, or anti-christians or agnostics or the culture at large or history or posterity...or anything.

I'm writing it for myself.

To liberate myself.

Not from Ms. Cabal. But from christianity.

My need to submit was reinforced, if not essentially imposed, by my christian upbringing.

Ms. Cabal's hold on me is just an extension of that.

My bowing to her just reveals that I'm still harboring all the same guilt and fear that christianity filled me with as a little kid.

Psychic child abuse. With the scars still in evidence.

And it finally dawns on me that this is how to approach this book, with my senses all flushed open, my mentality humble. Always remembering that I've got as much to learn myself as I do to impart to the reader.

Never forget that I need this book more than anyone ever will.

And just like that, am transformed to some place I haven't been before. Not anywhere in Ms. Cabal's mansion, certainly not the dungeon, but outside, on a familiar street corner. On the corner on Snob Hill where the St. Whatever church used to be. I say 'used to be' because it's...not there anymore.

It's like being in one of those alternate realities you read about. A world without christianity.

Freaking pair of dice.

And yet, a wave of apprehension sweeps over me.

Along with another realization about myself. All this time, for all my bravado and essays, there is still a part of me that is comfortable enough with christianity that I want it to stay around.

Like part of me is afraid of losing christianity, on some level I need its familiarity.

Can't write this book until I am unified in my conviction that christianity has to go if humanity is going to legitimately evolve.

Have to leave the fuzzy childhood memories behind, they don't mean anything now. I didn't have control as to how I was raised, but I can control my destiny from here on out.

And with that acceptance, don't really need to linger on this windy chilly street corner any longer, and my awareness departs, feeling myself becoming more than just an entity of consciousness...

Or is it less than such an entity..?

Either way, I'm reunited with my chained, immobile body bound in this dank dungeon, the flickering torch the only source of light.

Seeing through my eyes once more, Ms. Cabal re-enters my vision, sporting a strange knowing grin.

"Welcome back, worm."

Damn, she said that like she knows what I just experienced. But how could she, unless she really is some dimension-tripping goddess?

And I'm not prepared to accept that yet, despite the weirdness my life has become since xmas eve.

Then she finds me with those perpetually piercing eyes, and sets them upon me with a fiery intensity that underscores her gentle reminder: "Despite that which you have just experienced, you still must prove yourself worthy to truly serve me."

And before I can register a response, Ms. Cabal whips her head to the left and with a single breath extinguishes the torch, and all is blackness once more.

Except that, and if I had a god to swear to, then I could, I still see her eyes that are even darker than the blackness, burning through to meet mine and drive a stake through my heart and soul.

And then my hearing becomes the only sense that is rewarded, as I listen to her stilettos leave the dungeon and back to wherever she came.

Echoes of her heels soon fade into silence and I am left with nothing.

Chains have loosened noticeably, as if willed by the departing Mistress Cabal. Loosened to the point where I can actually relax.

Inexplicably, drift off to sleep. Never thought I'd get comfortable enough in shackles to actually slumber...

Entry XIV--Out of Body

…Maybe I should just call Ms. Cabal.

It’s been two days since I sent the new draft and outline to Tela for Ms. Cabal to read and still haven’t heard from her.

Wish I could just assume that Tela hadn’t received my email--but no, she sent back a reply confirming that she got it Friday morning when she got to work and then immediately forwarded the file to Ms. Cabal.

So all I can do is wait...

And wait...

Could write to fill the time, but don’t.

Would rather be petulant and small and do nothing until I hear back from her. Plus, I want her feedback to confirm that I'm going in the right direction, that this is what she's looking for.

Of course, it is Sunday. A jetsetter like D'mona could be in New York, Toyko or somewhere in between right about now.

Maybe I should just realax and put it out of my mind until tomorrow, when Apogee Writ is open again.

Hours later and I finally roll out of bed. 4:00 PM, really an abuse of the whole 'lazy Sunday afternoon' privlege.

Not really hungry, mainly because I haven't done a goddamn thing to stir an appetite, so I brew myself a cuppa green tea. Maybe the low dose caffeine will clear some of the cobwebs.

In the midst of my first sip when the phone unexpectedly rings.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Darwin.” It’s Ms. Cabal. Heart beating faster than it ever could from the caffeine.

“Hello, Ms. Cabal.”

“How is the writing coming along?”

As always, she’s right to the point. Just wish I had a better answer.

“Slowly…” is all I can say without outright lying.

(The definition of “slowly” has now been liberally extended to mean, “not doing a damn thing whatsoever.”).

“Yes, that is what we must discuss, among other matters. I want you to come over to my home in Pacific Heights this evening. You should arrive no earlier than 7:30--and no later than 7:45.”

Her…home…?

Without thinking, I respond in rote: “Yes, Ms. Cabal.”

She gives me her address and I type it into the computer’s address book, which currently consists of two—that of Ms. Cabal’s office, and now, her home.

“Would you like to be picked up by my car?” she offers.

“No, it’s pretty close, I can walk it.”

“Don't be so sure of that, Darwin. My home is on a rather steep hill.”

“If it’s that bad, I’ll catch a cab.”

“Just be sure you are here no later than 7:45, Darwin.”

“Yes, Ms. Cabal.”

Glad she didn’t insist her car pick me up or whatever—she must intuit I prefer walking and burning off the nerves before I arrive.

Hell, she knows everything else about me, so why not that, too?

“I’ll see you then, Darwin.”

“Yes, looking forward to it, Ms.—“

She hangs up before I finish, leaving me talking to the dial tone.

Which I welcome, being that the dial tone is decidedly more neutral than Ms. Cabal’s speaking tone was. She didn’t sound thrilled with what I sent her.

But it’s okay, just glad to have finally heard something. Better than sitting here staring at the phone, like some dog wagging its tongue at the door, waiting for its master to return.

She wants me there by 7:45 at the latest, better start getting ready after I finish my tea.

Shower first off. Gotta be nice and clean…for Ms. Cabal.

Cock hardens at the prospect of seeing Ms. Cabal tonight.

Actually going to her abode.

Wonder how she’ll dress?

That’ll tell me a lot, if I have any chance with her.

As crazy as it sounds, I can’t help thinking that way.

I mean, why else would she invite me to her home? Why not just discuss it over the phone, or by instant messenger?

Even if it’s something kinky, she’s got something in mind.

Something’s going to happen.

So confident am I, I take a hot steamy shower that gets me even hornier.

Yuck, can feel the sweat rolling down my forehead and under my arms (so much for the shower).

Moving up STREET was harder than I thought.

Plus it’s a lot warmer than I thought. Where’s the chilly Bay winds when I need ‘em?

Burning nervous energy is great, but this is a fucking joke.

Just when it seems I won't be able to take another step, the house is boom!--right on top of me.

The exterior just screams 'haunted house.' Gothic aesthetics.

But it’s not the foreboding nature of this abode that chills my spine, it’s meeting Ms. Cabal.

Beginning to wonder if there will ever come a time I’ll feel comfortable around that woman.

As soon as I do, that’s when I should probably start worrying.

Approach the entrance of the gate, which has gotta be ten feet high. At the top protrudes the giant 'C' emblem that announces the owner.

Attached to the gate at eye level is the only bit of technology in the midst of this anachronistic setting—an intercom box (though I’m sure there are plenty hidden cameras and alarm systems hidden all around, recording my every move).

Ring the black button on the box, and almost immediately, an effeminate male British voice crackles through the speaker grill: “Hello. May I help you?”

Press the white button to speak into the intercom on my end, “Hey, this is Darwin Grimm. I’m here to see Ms. Cabal.”

“Yes of course, Mister Grimm. I am Jarvis, Ms. Cabal's butler. I will buzz you in, then please walk to the front steps, and I will be waiting for you at the top of those steps, at the front door.”

“Gotcha, Jarv," I respond somewhat disrespectfully. Probably no worse than that sadistic Ms. Cabal treats him.

Gate buzzes and I open it and step inside. Walk past a garden of exotic flora—exotic to me because I’ve never seen some of these plants or flowers before, not that I'm close to being an expert.

Reaching the marble steps up to the door, which opens just as I reach the top, and I am greeted by Jarvis. Ms. Cabal's manservant ery tiny, already past middle aged, and the little hair he does sprout is mostly ashen gray.

“Good evening, Mister Grimm, I am Jarvis, Ms. Cabal’s servant.” His lisp is even more pronounced in person.

“Hiya, Jarvy," I retort, maintaining my cocksure psoture.

Jarvis steps aside to allow me entrance and asks, "May I take your coat, sir?"

“You mean the one I regret wearing scaling that hill? Sure, take it.”

Hand it off to him and he hangs it in an adjoining closet, while my eyes are drawn to a painting that hangs in the adjoining room.

Never seen it before, but something about it, the style, rings familiar.

Before I can study it for too long, Jarvis turns to me, “Ms. Cabal is expecting you in the lower library. Please follow me, Mister Grimm.”

Lower library? That implies there's more than one. All I got is a broken bookshelf.

With a definite swish in his gait, Jarvis leads through the opulent hallway filled with artwork and antiques from countries I'm sure I've never heard of.

Think it’s fairly safe to assume Jarvis is gay. I wonder if he might be the submissive type, one who gets off serving an eminently powerful woman such as Ms. Cabal, whereas I always feel a struggle within, an internal resistance to her dominance.

Even if I always end up giving in to that dominance. So am I really superior to Jarvis in that regard?

Mercifully, don’t have to answer that as Jarvis leads me past many, many closed doors on our way towards the library. How many fucking rooms are in this house? Probably could spend days exploring this place and still only see half of it, just like a museum.

Finally reach the end of the hallway, confronted by a pair of double doors. Jarvis opens them and I step into what must be the library.

A massive room, this alone is easily ten times the size of my entire apartment.

(Who am I trying to kid? Those narrow hallways were more spacious than my abode).

Being here lets me know just how far removed I am from those who live like Ms. Cabal. She has a grand ornate library, while I have to sell or recycle most of my books just because I never have room for when I buy new (used) books.

Jarvis leads me to a plush chair at one end of a very long table, informing me, "Ms. Cabal will join you in a few minutes, Mr. Grimm. In the meantime, can I get you anything to drink?"

"Tea is fine, thank you Jarvis."

Jarvis exits, and it's then I notice an open laptop computer in front of me on the table. It' s open to a blank word document, not sure if it's intended for me.

Will err on the side of caution and won't touch, which isn't a problem since I'd much rather soak up the all the wonders of this room anyway. First and foremost, the incredible array of books, the proud spines of which declare that this collection spans as many centuries as it does subjects.

Eyes wander, taking in the gargoyle busts and the amalgam of Persian and Asian throw rugs, one more exotic than the other. An amazing crystal chandelier from above provides illumination.

Am soon captivated thick yet tasteful, majestically intricate cobwebs in the ceiling corners, which only complement the Gothic aesthetic.

Everything about this house is so amazing, I never want to leave.

I wish Ms. Cabal would imprison me here...

And seemingly summoned by that thought, Ms. Cabal enters the room from a side door, separate from the main entrance Jarvis brought me through.

As always, she's fully aware of my thoughts and she provides commentary without missing a beat: “In a house as big as this, it is no easy task to eliminate every insect, so the spiders do a wonderful job of pest population control, not to mention how perfect the webs fit the decor.”

"My thoughts exactly," I retort. But she already knew that was the case.

“Welcome to my home, Darwin.”“And an amazing abode it is. Thank you for having me, Ms. Cabal.”“You are most welcome, Darwin.”

“Welcome to my home, Darwin,” she says with a sweep of her arm. But I can't stop looking at her legs, slightly revealed by the midlength, rather pedestrian skirt she wears, topped off by a loose fitting gray sweater. Casual for her. Her hair is slicked back conservatively.

Though her intent is completely asexual, it's all I can do from pitching a tent right in her library. Try to concentrate on the matter at hand, whatever that is.

“And an amazing abode it is. Thank you for having me, Ms. Cabal.”

“You are most welcome, Darwin.”

She sits at the opposite end of the elongated table carved from some rich wood (so much for playing footsie), and as if on cure, Jarvis re-enters, carrying a tray holding my tea and a glass of wine for Ms. Cabal.

After he serves us, he waits for Ms. Cabal's next command...

"That will be all, Jarvis. See that we are not disturbed."

Hmmm, I like the sound of that. Forget footsy, maybe she's got something more personal in mind.

Jarvis exits, locking the doors behind him. For some reason, that bothers me, though it shouldn't. Ms. Cabal won't let anything happen to me, like I said before, she needs me.

“If you are wondering why I chose this room for out meeting is because I like to be surrounded by all these wonderful books as we discuss the creation of another one. It is inspiring.”

Hard to argue, don’t reckon I could read all the books gathered in this one room in my entire life, even if that was all I ever had to do.

Take a sip of my tea and find a slight undertaste my palete doesn't recognize. Not that it's unpleasant, just...different.

Shouldn't expect too much about this evening to be familiar...

Ms. Cabal lets me enjoy the tea for a bit...

And then, she gets down to business:

"Darwin, you were not just seated arbitrarily in front of that laptop. You are to take notes of our conversation. You obviously did not take to heart that which we discussed in my office the Friday before last. Therefore, you are to take notes of my critique of your latest submission and outline, save them to the installed CD, and then take that disc with you for future reference.”

"I didn't know there was going to be work when I showed up here," I remark, only half-kidding.

She doesn't appreciate my whining: "Writing this book is going to be a tremendous amount of work, Darwin, you should have realized that by now."

She pauses to gesture at her laptop computer, implying my latest submission is open before her: "But after reading this, I'm not convinced you've realized much of anything."

If ever there was a metaphorical slap across the face, that was it. She seems to lost all confidence in me, which means my confidence in me will soon be down the drain.

"For starters, Darwin, where the hell is the outline? I explicitly told you that you were to submit a completed outline. And you agreed you would, did you not? You need to be shaping an overriding vision of what your book is going to be, not just handing in tatters of ideas."

All the cockiness that puffed me up so big the other night has been summarily punctured.

But for some reason that I can't put a finger on, am compelled to answer her, "I didn't do the outline because I thought it was better to develop as many ideas as I could."

Wrong answer. "I don't want your pitiful excuses, Darwin! I want a goddamn outline! You book needs an outline. Not today, yesterday. And if you can't see that, then you are obviously not the one meant to write this book and I have wasted a considerable amount of time and resources in the msiguided belief that you were the one.

"I suppose that's what I get for having belief."

Her voice slices throuh me, exposing bone. Not because she screamed at me at high decibels, but because this amazingly confident woman is questioning her decision
to choose me to write this book.

But just because I'm sympathizing with her does not mean she extends the same courtesy to me: "And I thought I told you to type down what I am telling you to do."

"Yes, Ms. Cabal."

"Then get to it."

Begrudgingly, I type what she said about the outline, trying not to tip off my resentment to her. Take another swig of calming tea, as it's the only thing I got left on my side.

“I'm not sure you have completely grasped that you are writing a complete book, Darwin, and not a single essay as you have been accustomed to when you wrote for periodicals. The reader should regard this book as a singular vision, despite the myriad of topics that you will cover from essay to essay.”

Not looking at her as I type, but can tell from her tone of voice that she's restraining herself, attempting to reach me on more rational ground, instead of losing focus with messy emotions coming into play.

"As far as the fragments you did send me, I have mixed feelings. The piece on the psychology of Christians seems like it'd be a tangent in a broader essay. I base that impression on the fact that what you sent me was woefully insufficient to stand on its own. If you're going to do an entire piece on the psychological aspects of being Christian, you had better find an underlying theme, along with some factual documentation to reinforce your observations.

"And the piece on the 'hatred of life' where you're going back and forth in time left me hanging, and the full impact of what you're trying to convey was lost. Realize, Darwin, that I personally, am aware of what you were driving at, but I have to look at this through the eyes of every potential reader--will it be lost to them? For if it is, our endeavor is pointless. You're not writing and I'm not publishing in a vacuum.

"On the other hand, the 'Hollow Knight' piece works insofar as you have provided a strong metaphor for faith, which is not easy to do, as we both know that faith is an elusive concept at best. It seems we've found the opening essay. And you have a starting point for your outline of all the essays."

Ha! Finally, a good word and a bit of optimism infused. Fingers feel lighter as I dictate her latest words.

But just when I get comfortable..."However, I suspect that you wrote that piece on the 'Hollow Knight' immediately following our last meeting."

Want to take my eyes off the screen and ask her how the hell she knew that, but continue typing silently.

"And when I use the term 'piece' to describe your submission, I am speaking quite literally. All you have given me are pieces, I don't have anything resembling a unified work. If you come away with nothing else this evening, let it be that."

There, get every word typed. But she's not done

"You need to find your “voice," and you must decide whether or not you are going to incorporate fiction in every essay or just particular ones.

"You have a lot of decisions before you, Darwin, decisions that must be made with expediency if you are to meet the July 11 deadline."

Fast calculation in my mind tells me I’ve got 11 weeks to write this, which gives me one week to finish the outline and then one week to write each essay.

In other words, write a book—which I’ve never done, at a pace faster than I have ever written before.

Oh, and by the way, it has to be the best fucking thing I’ve ever written.

Then I go and do it, vocalizing my apprehension:

“I want this to be a great book, Ms. Cabal, what if I can’t finish it by then?”

Before I finish the question, shoot my eyes over to Ms. Cabal’s.

Surprisingly, they are even and thoughtful, as if she’s giving weight to my words. Not angry or even domineering in the least. They are pure acceptance.

She gestures to the cup in front of me that emits no more steam. "Finish your tea before it gets cold."

"Yes, Ms. Cabal." Though I'm nervous that the undertaste has something to do with her insistence I drink up, I can't refuse her.

She wouldn't let anything happen to me, she needs me to write the book.

Doesn't she...?

Eyelids getting drowsy, as if on cue. Should have spit that tea out. Can't keep them open, keep blinking involuntarily...

And each time they open things get a bit darker and feel myself being restrained...

Entry XIII--Relapse

A little over 2,000 years ago:

The sharp seven-inch nail was driven by hammer through hand in a surprisingly fluid motion, and christ cried out in mortal pain.

Christ’s median nerve instantly severed, the hand paralyzed...

Some 10,000 years ago:

A solitary figure stood on the top of the hill during the pitch of night, as he struggled to put his fledging thoughts together.

He thought about a dream he had the night before last.

That’s all he’s thought about, since he awoke from it in a cold sweat.

It was the most vivid, lifelike experience of his life, yet he was asleep.

He dreamt he was flying above the village, above the hunter-gatherers, who struggled even more vainly for food than normal.

But he didn’t just fly over the others, that wasn’t the amazing part, for he has done that before in his dreams.

It’s that while soaring skyward, he was able to continue going up, beyond the clouds and the stars and the moon, until he was in the heavens. There he met friends and loved ones that have since died; the mother of his offspring, his father, and a hunting companion who perished during a particular bloody hunt.

They were all there, and so vividly real.

And since then, all he can think about is that maybe his…dream…lives on after death. Others in the tribe have suggested it, the more intelligent ones, the ones who go off into the wilderness and ingest certain plants and come back a little bit smarter than everyone else.

He believed there had to be more than this life of suffering and pain and struggle, one that always seemed to end all too abruptly.

There had to be more...dreaming.

Back to christ:

The blood from the messiah's forehead, wrought by the crown of thorns, streamed down into the blood freshly gushed from the hand wound.

And that holy plasma dripped off the equally holy fingertips down to mix with the blood from christ’s leg wounds, extracted from being whipped--after christ was sentenced to execution--and all the time whilst dragging the crucifix towards Golgotha.

Dragging that precious crucifix towards destiny and fate. Towards death.

That's all I got. Incomplete, but it'll have to do.

It captures the essence of the fictional element of this essay. I can expand on it later, when I have more time.

And have got to get started on the nonfictional element.

christianity represents the hatred of life, always has been.

It demonstrates this innate hatred each and every time it is applied to any aspect of life.

Look no further than its primary symbol, the crucifix is the depiction of a dead son of a deity, sacrificed to absolve mankind of some artificial system of ‘sin.’

It’s the religion that gets people to accept and even welcome, the notion of death.

It’s the religion that imposed the dark ages and slowed the progress of science and medicine to the point where we could be basking in immortality, but we’re still condemned to a brief lifespan plagued with diseases that should be long gone.

It’s safe to say that if christianity didn’t represent the hatred of life, this book might not be necessary.

Atheists and freethinkers alike may argue that the fundamental flaw of christianity is its employment as a measure of control. Philosophers would posit it’s the false morality. Still others (especially feminists), protest its patriarchal suppression of women and minorities. Then there’s the pro-science faction of society that views christianity as a legitimate threat to progress.

All are valid arguments, and all will be explored in the pages of this book

But underlying them all, ultimately, is the hatred of life

There. That'll do for now. But I had to get something down on the 'hatred of life' concept. That's as important as faith. This one didn't come so easy, though. There are plenty of weak spots and it's still incomplete, and the dramatic impact is lacking in the fictional introduction.

Actually, the hatred of life is more crucial than faith, which is an element of every religion that worships a mythical deity. (Tree worshippers don't require faith to venerate their gods, for example). But the hatred of life is particular and unique to christianity.

That's why the pressure will be on to deliver a more unified essay that's a helluva lot more developed.

In keeping with the intent that this book actually get at the root of the hazards of christianity, this is the essay exploring the psychology of christians. What makes them tick? What’s their motivation? How do they maintain their faith in the face of overwhelming evidence stacked against them?

And, the biggie:

Why the hell do they need to control others?

(That question can certainly be asked of institutions beyond christianity, but the question will be addressed in the context of this essay).

christians reek of desperation. They're desperate to prove christ is real. Teaching creationism is one example.

Ironically, many hardline christians reject psychology as a psuedoscience, conveniently ignoring creationism's uber-erroneous scientific conclusions.

That desperation fuels their rationalization. It makes them ignorant, an ignorance built upon arrogance. It also makes them dangerous.

The freethinker doesn’t have to prove a thing. The freethinker doesn't want to prove a thing.

Christians have a need to attach themselves to something larger than their own lives. Before they become born-agains, they may have drifted from religion to religion, from self help philosophy to guru. Hell, they may have even dabbled in communism and experimented with hallucinogens.

They find strength only in numbers and never in self-determination. Charting one's own destiny is to be inspired by the devil.

Of course, fear and guilt have long been staples of christian thought processes.

Their decision making process is predicated on if the action will please/displease their alleged deity.

The christian mindset is a pollutant of the culture at large, make no mistake about it. It clouds intellectual honesty (if not outright disposing of it).

Their arrogance is another particularly distasteful element to their arrogance.

Now, one might accuse this very author of harboring the same arrogance, just pointed in the opposite direction, and that would be fair. Sometimes I end up at the edge of the fine line between arrogance and passionate conviction.

I also had this in mind to follow the rhetorical question posited early:

Why the hell do they need to control others?

Because of hell, they would say. Trying to save souls from hell. The ends always justify the means when it comes to christianity.

Not sure if I want to leave in the quasi-confessional bit about my being arrogant.

The essay on psychology is going to be a bitch, there's so many possibilities. It was all I could do to keep from going off in a million different tangents while I was writing that bit.

There's hardly time to come close to finishing it. Eyes are getting weary and this is due tomorrow.

No, I never did the outline, but I'm not ready for an outline yet. I need to get some of the actual writing down before I worry about organizing it.

And no, I haven't actually finished any of the essays. Closest I came was with the Hollow Knight and faith, my original inspiration.

Since then, it's been like solid ideas having been flowing in and out of me, like a macrocosm of what happened while I was just writing that psyche piece. Can't stay focused on any idea for any length of time.

That could be a byproduct of not having written regularly for such a stretch. And it's not just one subject I'm tackling, like an essay in the past would have been. I've got to consider ten subjects simultaneously.

And that's another thing--haven't even decided on the ten essays yet, another reason there's no outline.

All I've got are pieces; incomplete fragments of essays. It's not the cohesion she was seeking.

That's the understatement of the century.

But I'm not going to start some half-assed outline now at 3 AM.

That's one thing I can say about everything I have written to this point--that it doesn't lack for integrity. For better or worse, it's my heart and soul and brains on those pages.

Now I'm just rationalizing. Because part of me knows Ms. Cabal is going to be pissed that I didn't do what I promised I'd do, when I was on my knees in her office.

But does she really expect me to take that shit seriously? Does she even take it seriously?

I mean, it's a good motivational tool, but I can't imagine it's a lifestyle thing with her.

She's a billionaire heiress and a serious book publisher, it just seems like that whole bondage domination shit would be beneath her.

Bottom line is, I'm writing some good shit, it's just that I need more than a week to pull it off and dammit, she should accept that.

I was charged, on such a roll after our first meeting. That whole ‘Hollow Knight’ scenario just poured out of me like empty promises out of a preacher’s mouth. Since them, I’ve gotten a lot of great ideas, surely Ms. Cabal will see that. She just has to be patient.

No matter what, I'm going to win her over. I have to. Shit, she needs me to write this thing.

Who else is she going to get? Who else has my particular perspective?

No one, and she knows it.

So I don't have it written out just the way she wants, too fucking bad.

Whew. Take a step back and think about what just thought.

Need to be concerned about balancing passionate conviction and arrogance in my real life as well as my prose.