Obsession

Has it been weeks since your tender fingers graced my skin? Months?

Maybe…it has been years.

I cannot tell; time has no concept in this soft, black dungeon that keeps me warm and dry and hidden. Sometimes, I wish for light, wish for that brightness to whisk away the sadness that the dark seems to feed on. Other times, I fall prey to that black ink of night, finding comfort in the compartment that has been my center since my time had begun.

My mistress calls to me sometimes, during that midnight blue hour when life seems too still, too quiet, when all thoughts cave to the one main concept that we are all truly alone. There are no happy endings, no princes to call our own. No laughter or gentle slaps from the tiny feet of children against the hardwood floors. No, during this hour, my mistress wallows in her aloneness, calling onto only me for solace.

For it is in my pages that her desires hold fast.

Her warm, long fingers flip through my pages, her typically bright blue eyes dull until she finds what she is looking for. Or, who, I dare say. It is the who that brings me back into the confines of my prison, listening and waiting until her need calls upon me once again.

But, it has been awhile, I’m sure of it. Too long since she has pulled me out, flipped through all that I offer.

I’ve heard murmurs, distant voices that speak of things I do not quite understand.

Is my mistress okay? Has she somehow forgotten me?

My prison shifts, fingers reaching, searching the compartments surrounding me. Suddenly, an unfamiliar warmth blankets over my soft, leather bindings. It is not my mistress’s fingers, those I would know without hint. No, these belong to someone else—a woman, if I’m not mistaken. But the touch is gentler, softer than what I have experienced, so many times in the past that I’ve lost count. The voices quickly become clearer, and I focus on what is being said, hoping to hear that sweet seduction of my mistress’s voice.

~

“What’s this?” Mandy Bowen pulls the book from the inside, zippered pocket of her mother’s designer purse. “Huh, a little black book…not surprising, I guess.”

“Figures,” her brother mutters, clearly uncomfortable with the task of going through their mother’s belongings. Kyle didn’t want to be here anymore than she did. “You gonna read it?”

“No!” Mandy nearly shouts, surprised that her brother would even suggest such a thing. Privacy was their mother’s main rule. No one went through her personal items. Not even over her cold, dead body, she’d often declare.

“She’s dead, you know. Can’t come around the corner and catch you with your hands in her purse. She’ll never raise her hand at you again over it.”

“I know,” Mandy replied, a frown marring her pretty face. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“I can’t believe she left us anything,” Kyle scoffed. “Twenty-thousand dollars and this condo to sell is nothing to sneeze at. It’s the least of what she could do.”

Bitter, Kyle did nothing to hide it. He glanced around said condo, acknowledged the fancy furniture, expensive rugs, and top-of-the-line kitchen with disgust. Where was all of this when they were growing up? Nowhere—that’s where. None of the foster homes they’d been placed with ever looked like this.

“You need to let it go,” Mandy pushed gently, as she always did. The younger of the two, she was the peacemaker of the duo, the first one to step in between Kyle and his demons in a convoluted effort to somehow save him.

“And you need to not forget.”

Mandy looked down; her mother’s little black book tucked into one hand. Absently, she ran her thumb over the front of it, its soft covering sending a slight shiver down her spine. Its warm black leather binding beckoning, she wondered what secrets it held. How many names and numbers? How many had families? Wives? Kids of their own?

Should she open it? She knew what she’d find; her mother’s preference for male companionship, even over the love of her two children, not a secret to anyone.

“Maybe you’ll find our father’s name in it. Yours or mine.” Kyle’s suggestion caused Mandy’s spine to stiffen. She needed no man, especially not a father. Having been present to the many trysts that her mother had welcomed with open arms in the years before social services came and took her and her brother away, the last thing Mandy ever wanted was a man.

“Let’s get this over with,” Kyle demanded, the heat in his voice rising until he looked down at Mandy. “Sorry. I’m just done with this whole thing. We split it all, sis. The inheritance, the sale from this…place. We start over, okay?”

“Okay.” Mandy stood, leaving her mother’s book on the table. Heading towards the kitchen, she started opening the cupboards, taking stock of the contents so they’d have a clearer view of where to begin. The condo was going up for sale, no doubt about that, but they needed to decide what to do with all the furnishings. With a sigh, she opened the red notebook she’d brought with her, and started.

~

Dead? My mistress is…dead?

No, that cannot be! These imposters…ingrates, they know nothing of what they speak!

She couldn’t be dead! Could she?

But then, why? Why haven’t I felt my mistress’s sweet caress in so long? Why hasn’t she graced my cover, my pages, my secrets in so long? Used me in that way only she could, if only to find some comfort on those cold, lonely nights?

Is this what is to be left of me? Forgotten on a cold, hard surface, gone from the protective confines of my prison? No, that would not do. My purpose cannot be completed, not now, not ever.

But how to move forward…I am an inanimate object, after all.

Maybe the girl…

Could she be the key? The promise of a future that only I can provide; oh, how to gain her gaze? Her lovely eyes, so familiar, yet foreign. She reigns in the beauty of my mistress, but seems gentler, maybe? Kinder? But, uncertainty is there. I felt it in her hesitant touch. Like she couldn’t decide to open my pages or burn them. She must never!

I must call to her, welcome her, as I did my mistress so many times before. It is true, many of my pages are full. Still others are blank, ready, and waiting to welcome new possibilities.

Could I be loyal to another? There is a question there, yet still, I know the answer. Alliances lie to those who strength I draw from—whose courage I may aid in development. And, with my mistress gone, a shift must be made. Otherwise, why am I here? I have no other purpose, such as it is.

Oh! She has returned, my mistress anew!

At her touch, my spines tingles. Oh, the joy! If I could breathe, I fear I would run out of air. If I could sweat, I would flood the room. If I could scream, I would be heard above the strongest of winds. Her fingers thinner than my last, familiar touch, I am suddenly filled with content. I am unafraid as my newest obsession builds. The uncertainty once smothering me lifted as my new mistress tucks me away—not into the old confines of my time, but in something even softer, lighter.

And, I know…now I surely know, I am home.