I will play you, Sherlock Holmes. I will play you, and you will cry out for me, you will sing for me, and together we will make the sweetest, most decadent music together, the notes and scales and arpeggios of your dark, disturbed heart, until I have wrung out all the pieces and measures and your heart is no more, no more, no more, and there is nothing left but you and me in the silence. And I am all that you will know. And I am all you will ever need.
Surrender to me, Sherlock Holmes. And I will play you.
There is a part of me that is fighting, struggling, clawing to get out, a part of me that’s flashing all the warning signs that this is all wrong, wrong, wrong.
I want to scream. I feel so open, exposed, violated… and he hasn’t even touched me yet.
A part of me is repulsed. Disgusted. Ashamed.
A part of me… wants to know the answer. It is the unknown that seduces me the most after all.
And I don’t know what I will sound like… if he will play me.
Will the sounds that will burst out of my throat as he will slowly stroke me and tenderly saw through my skin be dissonant chords that pierce through the unified music of the orchestra of this mad, mundane world…
Or will the sounds, in fact, form an operatic masterpiece this ignorant world has yet to hear? Will there be, in fact, a standing ovation at the end, the applause and the spotlight we both crave so desperately?
I wait as he positions the bow. I want to scream. Everything is so quiet. So still. So lifeless.
Even inside my own mind.
For once… the monsters inside my mind are… silent.
It feels so very dangerous to be this vulnerable.
I have… never felt more alive.