By Taurus

Part 8 – “Time and Sanity”

Like James, I too have a confession to make as this story’s messenger – not an author; I can neither confirm nor deny its fictitious nature.

I have no idea how to properly convey the passage of time in its whole – its significance, its poetry, its aesthetic. I struggle with passing a few hours, let alone the months I seek to skip over.

Forgive me for skipping so much time. I do not want a story that has more chapters than days in a year, that takes more time to read in its entirety than a dictionary, or an encyclopedia.

In any case, it simply is impossible to come up with so many original ideas to fill out each and every day of the year, which applies to James’ guards and handlers to arguably benefit, not detriment.

At times, the most profound epiphanies and most powerful destructions are achieved through repetition alone.

One could make use of silence and let it sit there, unchanging. Get that, and pile on ad nauseum.

Well then.

Time.

This accursed thing around which everything orbits; society, transportation, science.

Here is a question for you.

How do you properly convey the passing of time when nothing of any note, no matter how tiny the detail, changes?

My experiments say no, you do not, for sense itself crumbles when time loses context.

And now we go back to our imprisoned slave who is in this same predicament, his sanity ravaged by repetition.

James has not had any pleasure, despite the fact that he has no outstanding punishments.

I guess that is the point of note, but really, has anything changed? Arnold has never given him time out of chastity before, and neither is he enjoying any now.

I mean, he is still being awoken at 8 every day. He brushes his teeth, becomes a horse as he pulls his handler along, lunch, workouts, submissive training, dinner, handler time, and finally he sleeps.

Even the dreams are the same.

Such is the hellish monotony James now endures.

Such is the hellish monotony James has decided he would stir up and render entropic.

Day 84.

James was, as ever, fixed in a kneeling position. A resolute buzz from the clippers dominated the dungeon.

“Russell, sir?”

“Hmm?”

Russell paid the slave no mind; he had a job to do, but he decided he would answer anyway.

“I’ve been dreaming about you.”

Click. The clippers stopped.

From the cacophony of buzzing motors and blades, the dungeon was plunged into calmest silence.

James suddenly heard the blood in his ears. And the sound of his joints moving as he shifted his weight.

And his pulse. Sledgehammering. Close your eyes and you might hear the bass of it.

That … may have crossed a line.

James’ heartbeats seemed to accelerate into a frenzied seizure. Stagnant tedium has disintegrated and reformed itself into unknowable chaos. The machinations of fate have spurred on – for good or for worse – a new procession of events.

“Tell me about it.”

“Sir, you’ve been the only one here who seems to care for me, I-”

James stumbled over his own words, bewildered that he had the gall to voice what he did, and relieved that he divulged his honest thoughts which have been stuck at the fringe of his throat for the longest time.

At least, if worse comes to worst, he would have no regrets being beaten senseless.

“I … I don’t know what to say, ‘I love you’ maybe? ‘Thank you’?

“In my dreams you always hold me tight and I feel safe. That’s why I’m saying all this.”

Russell got up, facing away from the knelt slave waiting for his haircut, brooding.

In a tone uncharacteristically serious for the easy-going, fun-loving barber, Russell addressed the slave.

“I’m honoured, but I’m not a good man.”

Turning back around and taking James in his arms, Russell sighed.

“Listen, okay? I’ve done time before. I beat up people, and I’m the worst person to look to if you want safety. This has been the only job I can get because any other place will look at my history of violent episodes and say ‘no, you’re not fit for the job.’

“Can’t even get a job dumping garbage.”

A pause. James needed time to digest the information.

Slowly, he mustered the strength to form a response.

“Russell, it doesn’t change-”

“No, it changes everything. Now be a good slave again, and shut up while I do my job. Otherwise I’m beating you up until you do.”

The rest of the session passed by in silence.

As James’ guards came to march him back into his cell for lunch, he caught a glimpse of his pole star in the dark winter midnight, his face buried in his hands, breathing deeply, before his eyes were covered up.

Still, the image remained.

If only the days passed by faster, and if only he had the means to console him.

But before that, back to normal – back to monotonous hell he went.

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