Novel Treatments / Devotee - Part 1 (Analysis)
DEVOTEE
To elicit any memory of my past, I claw through thoughts shrouded by time, extracting fragments until I can piece together actual events. Each day passes by blurred by routine, immutably the same as the last. And with each lost day, it is harder to recall events that were once so vivid I couldn’t even sleep without dreaming of them. I write so that I remember each link in the chain that has left me where I am today.
All of my insides shake.
The thing I remember the most is the way his eyes would dart around frantically, searching for something hidden from me. Whenever he found whatever it is he was looking for, he would make his move. His body would crush mine, the weight of his anger pinning me beneath him. That’s what force is to me, that unshakable weight. His face an inch away from mine, he would frantically look into my eyes, and not seeing whatever he wanted would take what was never his. I hate him. I still cannot go anywhere without seeing his face, and behind every corner of any happiness there is an ever-lingering shadow waiting to smoother me into darkness. I still hear his voice in my head, irrelevantly screaming or hissing, so saturated with bitterness it is hard to make out whole sentences. Cunt. Spic. Whore. I wonder if someone will see me swatting at my head, trying to brush his warm breath off of my ear.
Some days I just want to sit on the floor in a dark room and bang my head on the wall until blood splatters and any remainder is released from my memory. All I can do is hold myself and rock until the rhythms trance me into ease. I want to count how many blinks and how many breaths it takes before I am engulfed by that kind of darkness again. Counting helps me think of other things, like how to perfectly feign being perfectly happy. And as each day goes by I try to forget the way the soft flesh of his belly resisted for only a moment before it gave, rewarding all of my efforts with pools and pools of blood so thick and red, I could see my reflection in all of its glossy anger.
I didn’t know what to do then. Sitting on the floor, the warmth of his blood saturated my skin and at that moment, he seeped into me and became part of who I am today. I waited for him to tell me I could leave. Then I calmly got up, stripped off my clothes, and bathed him off of my body. But I couldn’t evict the parts of him that were permanently planted inside of me.
His apartment was on the third flood. The window in front of the kitchen sink overlooked the front of the apartment complex, where kids played football and I could see everyone come and go from their houses. I don’t remember how many days I spent in front of that sink, my hands emerged in dirty water, my back towards a man I secretly plotted to kill. “I have a headache” I’d murmur while dispensing capsules into my hand before robotically opening them up and emptying them into his coffee. As if in a trance, I’d watch the powder dissolve into the steaming liquid as I rhythmically stirred it with a spoon, the clinks on the coffee cup seeping me deeper into betrayal. I’d watch him with steady eyes as I silently sipped my own cup, all the while picturing him lying unmoving on the floor.
I’d feign concern when I’d begin to see him flinch with oncoming cramps, a satisfied smile lurking behind my furrowed brow and sympathetic eyes. I’d stand at the stove and make him soup, occasionally glancing at the medicine cabinet, calculating how many more tablets it would take, and how many I could stock-pile before he noticed any were missing.
During that entire time of my life, I barely remember speaking out loud. But inside my head, I screamed. I screamed until my temples throbbed and threatened to explode with anger. And just before I’d cry out threats so heavy and deafening, I’d open my mouth and speak words barely audible, even to my own ears. All day my insides would quiver with the eminent combustion that through the months evasively eluded any eruption. I could only wait for the day I knew I would make my escape.
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I enjoyed your writing very much. It is emotionally powerful. My first thought when reading this was ‘What kind of hold does he have on her?’. They don’t seem to be married, or at least they don’t live together. I think in the treatment it would be a good idea to reveal what kind of bond they have. This might even boost interest in the story on a psychological level, which you have already started to do with lines such as: “Some days I just want to sit on the floor in a dark room and bang my head on the wall until blood splatters and any remainder is released from my memory.” Is the connection in the treatment and I missed it?
Another overall suggestion is to add more character development and a plot twist or two into the treatment. Does he ever find out about her plan to kill him and try to stop her? Does a friend or loved one try to intervene?
His apartment was on the third flood. – floor
“His face an inch away from mine, he would frantically look into my eyes, and not seeing whatever he wanted would take what was never his.” – my suggestion: “His face an inch away from mine, looking frantically into my eyes.” The next phrase is slightly confusing but a very good point. Is there another way you can think of to say that? “Objectifying me” or “blind to the fact I was not his to abuse”. Or “leaving scars beyond the walls of my flesh”. Um- I’m sure you can come up with better ones than these suggestions. :D
So far, you’re doing great work! Keep it up! Write me if I was unclear or if you want more input. Hope I was helpful. :D
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