Man Chose to Become an Object
It was a he once. He gave himself to Mistress Grausam. She stripped him of name and past. It is an object, existing only for the use of a Mistress Owner.
When not using it or away from home, she keeps it in an unlit basement room. Its universe becomes a 4′ x 4′ cell.
The cement floor is not kind to its unshod feet. Thick walls ensure silence. How long has it stood in darkness? Waiting, hoping to serve her again.
It is nauseous. Stench from the bucket between its feet overwhelms it. The smell of its own bodily waste torments it as much as cramped muscles.
It lives in a timeless void. Hours and minutes are elastic, always stretching, never snapping back.
Repeatedly ignored, used without pity it lost expectations of comfort and enjoyment. Anxious eagerness lessens the boredom of emptiness and immobility.
It is a vacuum praying to be filled.
Mistress Grausam never allowed it illusions. She abolished its humanity. Wiped his mind clean of ego.
She taught it to serve as her footstool. It learned to remain perfectly still for hours. A single wobble earned brutal merciless whippings far exceeded joint pain.
All commands were hand signals. She spoke to it only in obscenities.
It carefully watched her every gesture. Mistress Grausam repaid a second’s inattention with a beat-down.
Increasingly hungry, thirsty, it fears Mistress Grausam may never return. She may not want it anymore. Its successor may be upstairs licking her boots.
It knows there were other objects. But nothing of their fate.
She may only be tormenting it. Relishing the fear rising within it.
How could it know? At any moment the door could open. Even in despair it hopes.
It will hope until the lock rattles or it is beyond hope.
He chose to become it. The outcome is of its own needs.