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Do your thoughts ever quarrel between themselves?
If they do, you share a trait with Francesca Kilmartin, née Bridgerton. See her through the arched windows of Kilmartin castle, two stories up, sitting in an alcove atop a box seat. She is retracted: her arms wrapped tight around herself, her face pressed into her knees. Your vision of her is cut into regular pieces by the stone mullions and lead bars between the window panes. It could be raining, if you like. You hear her thoughts, as though they were your own.
Did I rob him of the opportunity to have children? Is it because I did not desire him enough?
Did you desire him? You remember the feel of him atop you. The feel of his lips on yours, his member between your legs... does it excite you?
My pinnacle was supposed to push his seed up, into me, like the pump of a water fountain.
You can hear the sound of his breath, low and soothing in your ear... You can....
He's gone. He's gone and he isn't coming back
Fran's eyes prick with tears.
And I stole his chance to have a child l.... Because I'm a...... Because I'm......
Are you though?
I don't know. I loved him didn't I? Maybe....
Imagine a woman
Again?
Imagine Her.
Creeping up Francesca's arms like vines, the cool sensation of guilt. Her thoughts snap away quickly.
My dreaming of her sent her away. I've hurt her enough.
Then someone else.... Madame Delacroix, maybe. Imagine yourself arrived in the modiste, in need of a new dress. She takes you into the back rooms, draws the curtains; has you stand on the dais before the mirror, dresses you in a sparkling white gown.
"Quite the diamond you make, my lady... the cut is divine, but perhaps, a little more tailoring to make it perfect."
She gently smooths her fingertips up the length of your arms, then up across your collarbone. You watch yourself shudder, and then flush. The voices in your head bicker about whether she is doing it deliberately. Then to the soft curves of your bust, one hand moves delicately, languidly across, while the other moves down to clasp your waist and hold you still.
You avert your eyes, shamed at the image of yourself coming apart.
"Ummm, Madame Delacroix, would you mind awfully not... touching me like that..." You trail off.
"Why ever not? My hands are those of a woman... what could possibly be unseemly about their touching of you?"
To name the sin would be in itself an admittance: so you remain silent, as her touches become bolder, as you lose yourself. You bite your lips, head swimming with thoughts of her pulling up your skirts, curling her hand beneath.
Down there, it's slick, and warm and wet, I can feel it. I don't think I ever feel that way when I think about John. No more than a smithereen.
Lesbian. It's so shaming.
"Now, I will hear no disagreements." She scolds. "When I am done with you, every gentleman in the Ton will desire you for his wife."
She picks up her work tools, and begins to make adjustments. She cinches roughly; stabs mercilessly with her needle and thread. You gasp as it enters your skin.
"Th..thank you." You murmur.
It is for her to determine how you appear to others; it is for her to decide how you feel.
A fantasy of impotence to make my depraved desires more acceptable to myself.
Sh! You feel the press of the needle into the flesh of your backside. You yelp, and attempt to jolt away from her. She keeps her hand on your waist, tight, refusing to let you get away.
The hammer rings for you My Heart; the nails are sinking down.
Blasphemy too... I can't....
Let Her pin you. Let Her tear your skin. You're a willing sacrifice: Her lamb.
The image in the mirror shifts, and all at once Fran sees that it's Michaela holding her, Michaela sinking pins into her soft breasts. She writhes for Michaela, cries out for Michaela. Leans back against Michaela's soft form. Michaela takes the fabric scissors ...
Fabric scissors!
A sudden, violent image eclipses the voices, eclipses the vision. Now Franchesca is bent over; Michaela takes the scissors, and plunges them deep into her. She begins to thrust.
Fran feels a jolt as she watches herself screaming in agony, vividly envisions the blades tearing into the neck of her womb, ripping her apart from the inside. Michaela's voice, though hardly her words:
"I'll teach you to be a proper woman."
Blood trickles down Francesca's legs; Michaela reaches down to taste it.
Why would I have such a terrible thought? Am I really so wretched?
Oh Lord, why have you forsaken me? Am I being punished for my sins?
I would that John were here. To embrace me, so that I may feel just the smallest bit better.
What would you say if you saw me now?
I would say I wish I could hold you, and tell you that there was nothing evil about you. I look through this pane of glass, to the woman that sits beyond. I wish I could speak to you, tell you what will happen next.
You think you cannot be loved and be known. But I know you and I love you.
Instead of leaving you to recall that awful image, over and over, questioning it's significance. I would crouch down beside you, slowly, like you were a frightened animal, and speak to you softly, promising to care of you. You would look up at me, eyes widening in recognition, and I would watch as you relax at my words. My fingers would caress your cheek, bring your face closer.
I know the kinds of things you like, darling.
To start, I would order that you to remove your dress, and appraise your soft body with my honey dark eyes. I'd touch you, just as I'd like. You are part of me, mine, and I'd want to make you feel so good. Your breasts? Mine: I'd caress them in my palm, circle my thumb gently around the buds of your nipples.
Your waist? Mine. I'd grip the curve of it.
Your hair? Mine. I'd take the reigns, flush against the scalp, tugging you to me.
No God but Me.
"You bring me such joy. There is nothing in you that ought to cause you shame."
I'd make you walk on your knees, and smack you about a few times, treat you roughly, draw you down like the moon. No pretence of fabric; I'd bring your dreams to life.
At the sight of the first needle, you'd wince, turn your face away. I'd stick it in your thigh. Have you breathe through the sensation. I know that it's instant, with you, with needles, and you'd tumble down into the void, shedding shame, shedding thought... shedding self. I'd pierce your breast, and send you reeling; I'd pierce your arm, and puncture you, your breath escaping in a hiss.
You'd look up towards me, pain-drunk, eyes lidded, and I'd kiss you, drop my hand down, feel the wetness beneath.
Fingers would find the spot and stroke it, breath would become rapid, become moaning, become building until....
We come together.