Unkind – SFD
“Lia…”
I sigh and flop my head against the back of my chair. Â “I can’t!”
“You can.” Â Sir turns another page in his book, the soft rustle grates on my nerves and I scowl.
“I just… need a break.”
“Then take a break.”
“I can’t!”
Another rustle of paper.
“Sir?” Â I try to pitch my voice to plaintive. Â “Can’t I just go to bed? Â Please?”
“When you’re finished.”
“I can’t.”
“It doesn’t have to be good.”
“I can’t do anything. Â Good or bad!”
I hear Sir sigh and the chair creaks as he gets up. Â His hand falls softly on the top of my head and he strokes my hair. Â “Why is it that you can give up completely, but you can’t give yourself a break or just write something poorly?”
“Because I’m a perfectionist.” Â I pick sulkily at the edge of the mouse pad.
“I think perfectionists can take breaks. Â You’re unkind.”
It hurts to hear him say it so bluntly, even though we’ve spoken about it many times and I know it is true. Â I still need the qualification though. Â “Not to anyone else…”
“Not to anyone else,” he confirms quietly. Â “Only to the person you spend the most time with.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I feel like you’re apologizing to me for how you treat yourself. Â I’m not the one you’re harming, although I don’t like seeing my girl bullied like this. Â Do you need to be punished for your unkindness?”
I sink lower in my chair, his soft voice and gentle tone somehow feel like harsher condemnation than a scolding lecture. Â I shrug one shoulder.
“All right, get up.”
As I push myself up out of my chair, my belly twists unpleasantly around a miasma of shame and anxiety. Â I slide down my jeans without prompting and lean over to rest my hands on the leather ottoman.
Sir steps close to me, wrapping one arm around my waist and snugging my hip close against his. Â While usually I find his contact comforting, tonight it seems to drive my guilt even deeper into my gut.
I wait for him to tell me what I’ve done wrong, how I’ve failed, list my cruelties, but he is silent, and then his hand makes impact with my skin with a startlingly loud smack and I gasp.
I manage to hold myself still through the second swat and congratulate myself on proving Sir’s firm grip around my waist was unnecessary, until the third swat lands on already visited territory and I try to jerk away, meeting the implacable restraint of Sir’s body.
Swats five and six mark the third time his hand fell over twice already scorched skin and I almost let my knees go out beneath me, but a seventh swat doesn’t come and, breathing like a sprinter, I manage to stay on my feet, writhing between Sir’s hip and forearm until he releases me and nods permission. Â Then I rise and frantically rub at the sting that clings stubbornly to my skin.
As I’m still wriggling, Sir grasps my jaw lightly and tilts my head up. Â “Imagine you are one of your students. Â Be kind. Â Celebrate approximation.”
I nod, sniffling softly, against his hand and he releases me back to the computer.
I sit, though now the experience is uncomfortably hot and stings mercilessly. Â I set my fingers to the keyboard and type a word, then another, until I finish a sentence, then another.
The nattering voice of criticism and defeat makes attempts and whispered entrance, but it is easy to muffle, and I do, for one sentence, then another, until… unexpectedly… I realize I have reached… the end.
