Chapter 22 - My Real Punishment.

Cogito, Ergo Sum - I think, therefore I am. Those are the famous words of Rene Descartes, a seventeenth century philosopher. 

The narcissistic equivalent would be: I inflict PAIN, therefore I am superior and omnipotent.

Narcissists dispense cruelty. They have no remorse or empathy and will do ANYTHING to control their victims so that they can convince themselves that they are ‘winning’. Even worse than your garden-variety narcissist, though, is the special category known as the ‘Sadistic Narcissist’. The sadistic narcissist not only has the same drive to control and punish anyone who comes under their sway, but he also derives pleasure from inflicting psychological or physical pain. 

I’m not talking dressing in black leather and tying you up stuff here. That’s sexual sadism, and it’s a whole ‘nother set of issues. Narcissists don’t get sexual pleasure, per se, out of their acts of violence, but they do get gratification in the form of attention and obedience. The sadistic narcissist abuses his victims verbally, mentally, emotionally and physically. He destroys their self-esteem, constantly demeans and humiliates, abuses their confidence, may hurt their loved ones or pets, threatens their stability and security, withholds love and sex, and freely criticizes both in private and in public. He MAKES you pay attention to him . . . or else. And this, in turn, makes him feel powerful and important. That’s the kind of gratification he desires most and his sadism provides that in spades. 

A narcissist likes being known as the kind of person who is capable of doing anything. They need that kind of notoriety. That old saying that ‘any publicity is good publicity’ was probably coined by a sadistic narcissist. 

So, yes, the pain is the point. In some ways it’s even more effective at generating the kind of narcissistic supply that kind of person needs to thrive. And you, their victim, are just another expendable resource for fulfilling all their needs. Your suffering is irrelevant. As long as you respect him - even if the basis for that respect is your fear and mortification - that is all that matters.

If a narcissist can’t have your love and admiration, your pain will do just fine.

Since I didn’t have enough money for the bus, I had to walk all the way back to the apartment. Before I was halfway there it started to rain and, since I hadn’t brought a jacket, I got drenched to the bone. That, along with all the stress and the lack of sleep, exacerbated my cold, which meant I couldn’t walk more than a dozen meters without stopping to hack up half a lung. Because of my slow progress, I didn’t arrive home until after two in the morning. I felt like shit, both mentally and physically.

But my ordeal wasn’t over. Ethan was waiting for me. He wasn’t in a good mood, either.

All the lights were off, so I didn’t see him at first. It wasn’t till I’d entered and was just about to flip the switch to illuminate the big overhead light fixture, that I noticed an even darker lump of shadows sitting at the table in the corner. Thankfully, I was too tired to be overly startled or I might have had a heart attack.

I took a step forward, peering through the darkness, for some reason reluctant to turn on the light and expose whatever was waiting for me. “Ethan? Is that you?”

“You were expecting one of your other lovers, perhaps?” he rasped, his voice thick and deep and the words slightly slurred. 

“I don’t have any other lovers, Ethan.”

I closed the door behind me. Now that my eyes had adjusted, I was able to make out more of the scene that was confronting me. I could see Ethan where he was slumped over the table, a large bottle of something - probably Jose Cuervo judging by the distinctive square shape of the bottle - in his hand. I didn’t know if I should stay where I was or go back out the door behind me, so I just froze in place waiting for whatever might come.

“Liar!” Ethan growled, and slammed his bottle down on the table to emphasize his point. “You were with HIM, weren’t you? I know you were so you can quit lying.”

“Ethan . . .” I was scared now and my mind was racing through the various ways I could placate him. 

But he surprised me and, instead of getting up and coming over to confront me, he just slouched back in his chair and stared at me. I felt like a bug, pinned in place, while I was being studied. Was he planning how to dissect me next? 

After several long, anxious minutes had passed, Ethan finally started speaking again, his tone filled with acid. “So, we have one little argument and what do you do? You go running back to your pimp like the slut you are. Is that it? You just can’t stay away? And you have the balls to accuse me of cheating? Me? When you can’t keep away from Kinney for ten seconds after leaving me? You fucking tramp. You cunt. You stupid fucking WHORE!”

“I didn’t go to Brian,” I insisted weakly, while a tiny part of my mind wondered how he knew that I’d even met Brian that evening. “I didn’t, Ethan. I promise.”

“Liar! You were on Liberty Avenue!” he yelled at me, but still hadn’t got up from his chair. “A thousand people saw you there. Together. With him. So, don’t deny it.”

“I didn’t go there to see Brian,” I tried to reason with him. “I was just upset and wanted to get a drink. I didn’t know he’d be at the same bar . . .”

“You went to his favorite bar, Justin. The place he drinks in almost every fucking day. And you’re gonna tell me you didn’t plan on meeting him there? That’s bullshit, Justin! Total bullshit.”

“I didn’t . . .” How could I argue against Ethan’s implacable logic. Seen from that perspective, it seemed obvious even to me. But I really hadn’t meant to go there or look for Brian. I hadn’t. Not that Ethan would ever believe my protestations.

“Fuck you, Justin!” Ethan finally got up off his chair and, toting his security-blanket bottle, came over so he could circle around my paralyzed form and more effectively yell at me. “Fuck you and fuck Brian Kinney! I don’t need this kind of crap in my life! I’ve done nothing but give to you, Justin. I give and give and give and you just shit all over me. All the fucking time. You accuse ME of shit? You don’t trust ME? You’re the one who can’t be trusted, Justin. You’re the one who’s always lying. Always hiding. Always stabbing me in the back . . .”

I didn’t dare argue with him. Not when he was that angry and that drunk. Even if I’d had a good argument. I didn’t think he’d accept my explanation that I hadn’t meant to go to Liberty Avenue or to Brian and that I’d just walked there without thinking. Not as furious as he was right then. So I just waited and tried not to do anything else that would cause his temper to escalate.

“You know what?” Ethan exclaimed when he’d run out of insults. “Fuck this! If you still want Kinney so bad, you should take him up on his fucking proposition. Just go already, Justin,” Ethan ordered, pointing with the neck of his tequila bottle towards the door. “Go on! Get the fuck out of here! I don’t need you!” When I still didn’t move, he leaned over so his face was only centimeters from my own and screeched at eardrum-breaking decibels, “Get The Fuck Out!”

“Ethan, please. Don’t do this . . .” I pleaded, in tears again. “Nothing happened, Ethan. Nothing. I swear. I had a drink and then I came back here. Please . . .”

“How can I believe you, Justin? Huh? How can I ever trust you when you keep sneaking around behind my back? Tell me, Justin. Tell me how!”

“I’m not sneaking around, Ethan. I’m not,” I maintained, trying to grab hold of his hand, trying to reestablish contact, but he shook off my grip. So instead I held up my hand, displaying my ring, which glinted faintly in the moonlight suffusing the room. “We made a commitment, Ethan. I wouldn’t fuck that up. I wouldn’t betray you. Please, Ethan. You have to believe me . . .”

Ethan scoffed and took another swig from his bottle. “Believe a lying little skank like you? Right.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Then prove it,” he demanded. 

He continued to stand there, glaring malevolently at me while a million different thoughts cascaded through my brain. There was a part of me that rebelled; how dare HE accuse ME of cheating, the slimy bastard. That part of me wanted to argue. Yell back at him. There was another part of me that wanted to run away; take back whatever shreds of dignity I had and just get the fuck out of there. But, by far, the loudest part of my brain was warning me that I was fucking things up - AGAIN - and that I needed to fix this before I lost him. That was the part that was desperate for love. The part that felt disloyal for ever doubting Ethan. The conscience-stricken part that admitted, deep in my soul, that I did still have feelings for Brian, and that had always harbored a secret guilt because of it. And overlaying all was the sheer, blaring panic, panic, panic, repeated over and over, telling me that I didn’t have anywhere to go or any money or friends. So I HAD to make this work. I HAD to fix this. I HAD TO FIX THIS!

I had to fix it.

So I did what I had to do. I dropped to my knees at Ethan’s feet and I did my best to prove my love to him. I surrendered. I let him take control of everything. I let him take my body and I subsumed all those doubts and the guilt and the rebellious parts. 

And in return, for at least those few brief hours, he gave me the love that I’d craved like a starving man craves food. 

I got up out of bed several hours later, feeling stiff and sore in too many places. I hadn’t been able to sleep even after Ethan finally drifted off. I just couldn’t turn my brain off. It was too full and the thoughts were going around and around and around. It felt like those thoughts were attached by invisible strings to my guts and with every revolution the strings wound tighter and tighter until I felt like puking and I could barely breathe. Eventually it got to be too much and I simply had to get out of bed and move before I was so tied up in knots that I’d suffocate. 

Which was when I discovered that the abasement and humiliation I’d surrendered to the night before hadn’t been my real punishment.

I walked over to the window to look outside. The sun was up but it was still early. I could tell it was going to be a scorcher because, even though the window was open, there wasn’t even a wisp of a breeze coming in. 

That’s when I realized that the window must have been open all night.

The hole in the screen that I’d been complaining about for more than a week was still there and it had been torn larger than ever. It was easily large enough for a cat to get through. I looked around the cramped studio apartment - you could see all of it without much effort because it was so small - but I didn’t see either of the cats anywhere. Damn it, I’d told Ethan not to leave the window open! 

I took another step closer to the window so I could look down at the fire escape that snaked its way along the side of the building, hoping to find my cats sitting there, enjoying the early morning sunshine.

And, yes, there was something waiting for me on the first step of the fire escape right below the window. I saw a furry, brown and grey striped body lying there, stretched out atop the step. Right beside it I saw a familiar pointy-eared head. Only, that head was no longer attached to the body lying next to it. Instead, the decapitated head of my kitten had been arranged so it was twisted around, facing directly at my window, the vacant eyes staring at nothing.

I think I must have screamed, but I didn’t remember it afterwards. Something woke Ethan, though. He got out of bed and came up behind me, laying a firm hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t a consoling gesture, though. I was just matter-of-fact. It was a controlling hand. A hand that didn’t understand remorse or empathy or anything else except power.

“You shouldn’t have left that window open, Babe,” he drawled, unconcernedly. “That was fucking careless.”

I was crying too hard to answer him.

We never actually talked about the cat afterwards either.

My cold got worse after that long and ruinous night. Obviously, walking around in the rain all night hadn’t been a great idea. I’m sure my deepening depression didn’t help matters much. By Monday afternoon I was so sick I ended up having to call off work. All I wanted to do was lay in bed and hide from everything. 

I stayed there for the next three days. 

Ethan had played the caring and concerned boyfriend for the first couple of days, bringing me hot tea and making sure I had a box of tissues nearby along with the prerequisite cold meds. He put on a great show. He did and said all the right things, almost as if nothing untoward whatsoever had happened. I tried to act suitably grateful even though nothing was really getting through the numbness. 

Eventually, though, Ethan got tired of my absolute uselessness and ordered me to get out of bed and do something productive. I tried to explain to him that I couldn’t. I didn’t have the energy. It wasn’t just in my head either. It wasn’t just the depression. I felt so drained that I could barely move. I’d never realized before that depression physically hurts.

“Stop being pathetic, Justin,” Ethan ordered. “You can’t just lay there all day every day.”

“I’m trying,” I whined. “But I just feel like shit.”

“Well, stop it already,” Ethan was clearly out of patience with me. “You need to get the fuck up out of bed and get on with your life.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” I confessed, shocking myself with the admission.

Ethan, however, wasn’t even a little bit fazed by my disclosure. If anything, it made him even more angry. He shook his head at me with a disgusted look, turned his back, and walked out of the room. 

If you confess to your lover that you’re suicidal and he literally turns his back on you, what are you supposed to do? 

I pulled the covers back over my head and continued wallowing in my private misery. 

On Thursday, I got an email from PIFA notifying me that the deadline to register for fall classes was the following day. 

I’d finally managed to drag myself out of bed that morning. Ethan had ordered me to either get my sorry ass to work or he would kick me out, so I was trying to pull myself together. But getting that email threw me all over again. 

I hadn’t drawn a thing since I dropped out of the seminar class several weeks earlier. I looked down at my hand and knew it was impossible. The muscles were stiff and the fingers inflexible. I would be lucky to be able to hold a pencil at all, let alone master the fine motor skills needed to draw anything. 

Ethan must have noticed me staring at my phone because he came over and took the device out of my hand so he could read whatever I had been looking at. When he saw the email he shrugged and handed the phone back. Apparently he didn’t care.

But I had to ask. “Do you think I should try and go back?” I flexed my hand and grimaced. “Maybe I could start doing physical therapy again like my mom suggested . . .”

“You’ve been slacking around here all week. I’m not sure how you’re going to pay for your tuition even if you manage to get that thing working,” Ethan rationalized, looking at my useless hand with repulsion. “It would probably just be a waste of money.”

He was right, of course. What was the point? I wasn’t ever going to be an artist. Not like this. 

So I didn’t bother to register for classes. I did go back to work that night. My co-workers offered me lots of sympathy over how sick I’d been. I put on a smile and pretended not to be depressed. I did my job and the customers were pleased. And I made it through the day, which was all that you could really hope for, right?

When Jeff came up to me after my shift, saying that Tim had mentioned to him I’d been asking about the forms to change my payroll deposit, I told him not to worry about it. I figured there wasn’t any point to it anymore. It’s not like I was going anywhere. And I didn’t want to piss Ethan off any more than he already was. 

After that it did get a little easier. When you stopped expecting stuff, you didn’t miss it when it didn’t happen. My life was greatly simplified. I got into a routine. I would get up in the morning, clean the apartment, go to work, come home, go to bed, and then do it all over the same way the next day. There were no highs, but there were no abysmal lows either. Everything was beige. Neutral. Numb.

Ethan had mostly stopped paying any attention to me, although he’d occasionally remember to bestow enough affection on me to remind me to behave; I didn’t want to go back to the other extreme. Granted, Ethan was spending more and more time away from the apartment, only sleeping at home a couple nights a week, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Not that I would have dared to complain. If I did what was expected of me, everything would be alright. Things might not have been perfect, but it was good enough, right? Right? 

Nothing penetrated the numbness anymore.