Post by Sidonie Raviver (D) on Jun 18, 2009 0:06:50 GMT -5
When I had arrived home from my assignation with Adin, I rush past all my staff and went straight to my study, putting pen to paper. For hours I stayed there, refusing food and water, refusing to bath or anything else for that matter. His smell stuck to my skin and the sticky touch of sweat that made my gown uncomfortable, but it was like a burning coal to my frozen skin; the cold having spread from my heart through my veins and made all of me run cool. I wrote, I wrote, and though deep down inside I wanted to cry, tears never rose to my eyes.
It was two days after that I began to feel a tenderness in my breasts, only slight the first day, it increased till they were in pain and arousing at the same time. It made me ache for Adin, and I began to hate the soreness, knowing that it was most likely some side affect of the assignation a few days previous.
It too spurned me to write, and the story unfolded easily, quickly. Donatien, a handsome young Jasmine adept, meets and falls in love with the Comtesse Cereus de Bergerac. The history of the two fell into place easily, the image of the shy but determined man of twenty two, and the proud but romantic woman of twenty nine.
They flowed from me, became part of me, and I knew all to well why it was so easy. They were who I had wished I was with Adin.
Damn.
I pushed him down as his image violently surfaced and forced myself on ward. I wrote until I became so tired that I literally felt ill. But I would eat, which would some time result in a full stomach and the continuation of writing. Or I would vomit, some times a little, some times to the point of dry heaving.
But for over a week I pushed myself, I woke in the morning, ate if I was hungry, and didn't if I wasn't, and began to write. Some days I would find the strength to push through pain, some days I would suffer no ill feelings, but no matter what I would write.
I continued to write for a week and a half, and by then I had over a hundred plus pages. At this rate I would be ready to publish the book in a half a year. Even this thought drove me to write, I became so obsessed that I would even wake in the middle of the night to write something down. And some times worse, I would only manage two or three hours at best. The staff worried, especially Elenore. She would always chide me, tell me to sleep more, that I needed it. But I didn't listen. She would talk about my attempts to concieve and I told her not to talk about it. I had abandon the desire for a child. I didn't feel ready for one, despite everything I had thought, I was starting to think again.
What did I know of love, I knew nothing, at least that was what I could gather. Adin was right, it had been my fault. Everything I had gone through with any man I had become attached to, I had ruined. What right did I have to bring a child into my life. I had no love for any one, not even me.
So I kept to my writing, adding stolen moments with Adin, drawing off the emotions I had felt. Betimes I almost cried at remembering, but the harsh reality of who I was always burned through, and I soon grew to hate myself.
I wondered if the Gods could here me. I wondered if Eisheth would refuse to help me bare a child because I had lit a candle in vein. I silently hoped that I would never bare a child, that I would be punished, that I would never know love or the touch of a man again. I didn't want it. And I hated the idea of falling in love with anyone... I didn't know what love was.
I wrote.
I wrote and wrote till my hand hurt and I felt an ache in my chest. And I felt guilty. I needed something and I hoped I'd find it soon.
It was two days after that I began to feel a tenderness in my breasts, only slight the first day, it increased till they were in pain and arousing at the same time. It made me ache for Adin, and I began to hate the soreness, knowing that it was most likely some side affect of the assignation a few days previous.
It too spurned me to write, and the story unfolded easily, quickly. Donatien, a handsome young Jasmine adept, meets and falls in love with the Comtesse Cereus de Bergerac. The history of the two fell into place easily, the image of the shy but determined man of twenty two, and the proud but romantic woman of twenty nine.
They flowed from me, became part of me, and I knew all to well why it was so easy. They were who I had wished I was with Adin.
Damn.
I pushed him down as his image violently surfaced and forced myself on ward. I wrote until I became so tired that I literally felt ill. But I would eat, which would some time result in a full stomach and the continuation of writing. Or I would vomit, some times a little, some times to the point of dry heaving.
But for over a week I pushed myself, I woke in the morning, ate if I was hungry, and didn't if I wasn't, and began to write. Some days I would find the strength to push through pain, some days I would suffer no ill feelings, but no matter what I would write.
I continued to write for a week and a half, and by then I had over a hundred plus pages. At this rate I would be ready to publish the book in a half a year. Even this thought drove me to write, I became so obsessed that I would even wake in the middle of the night to write something down. And some times worse, I would only manage two or three hours at best. The staff worried, especially Elenore. She would always chide me, tell me to sleep more, that I needed it. But I didn't listen. She would talk about my attempts to concieve and I told her not to talk about it. I had abandon the desire for a child. I didn't feel ready for one, despite everything I had thought, I was starting to think again.
What did I know of love, I knew nothing, at least that was what I could gather. Adin was right, it had been my fault. Everything I had gone through with any man I had become attached to, I had ruined. What right did I have to bring a child into my life. I had no love for any one, not even me.
So I kept to my writing, adding stolen moments with Adin, drawing off the emotions I had felt. Betimes I almost cried at remembering, but the harsh reality of who I was always burned through, and I soon grew to hate myself.
I wondered if the Gods could here me. I wondered if Eisheth would refuse to help me bare a child because I had lit a candle in vein. I silently hoped that I would never bare a child, that I would be punished, that I would never know love or the touch of a man again. I didn't want it. And I hated the idea of falling in love with anyone... I didn't know what love was.
I wrote.
I wrote and wrote till my hand hurt and I felt an ache in my chest. And I felt guilty. I needed something and I hoped I'd find it soon.