Diary - Sunday, April 22nd, 2001

More wings

The second wing, the left one, went on yesterday.

I had thought, thought somehow and someway that perhaps I would be used to it by that point, but the pain was worse. Much worse. It seemed strange, I had handled the first wing relatively well, only having problems as the session neared its end. But this time the exhausted feeling was there already.

It felt like a hot knife was being dragged gradually down my back. Digging in, catching.

This time around, I bled as well.

I feel vaguely happy to know that I can withstand some forms of torture now. Because that was the imagery in my head at the time as each damn agonizing line was carved into me.

I mean, fuck.

I don't normally get too upset about things. I was always the one who tried to hide weakness. But at one point I had my head down on the slick leather of the pillow, turning my face to hide the fact that the pain was so bad I was crying. I despise this. I hate feeling weak.

After that I was so tired I actually relaxed and just lived through it, too exhausted to bunch up my muscles in protest, all the while with the buzzing sound of the gun gnawing into my flesh.

Again, it was not so bad over the shoulders. Or even along one part of my spine. For some reason it was the sides, the sides feeling like I was being literally flayed.

Such things are usually said in comparison by people who are not actually picturing the sensation in their mind at the time. No...I am...it was. In strips. For my lines are very fine and close together. Picture a knife, over and over again.

Three hours of this.

Jesus Christ, how on earth did I manage it? They say the Bensley women (that being my unmarried name) have always been stubborn as all hell, if you injure our pride we set our teeth in and do all manner of stupidity to recover it. That was how I felt as each open line cut down. Stubborn. Going to snarl and spit my way through the entire thing.

Why was it worse this time? I'm not sure. My flesh was warmer, which may have had something to do with it - the pain was infinitely keener, though I could have handled this. No, the bit that made me bite my hand into bruises was that it was somehow distressing, the intensity of this feeling. Upsetting on some deep level.

Oh well. Now it's a month and a half's wait until the colour goes on.

But criminy! Give me courage!