And this book has done things that we will need to talk about, also. This is the picture in my mind when I imagine the book, and how you will always come for me.
* * *
Inigo could not stop his sudden tears.
"Now you are watching him fall. Look -- look at him -- watch Domingo die --"
Inigo began sobbing out of all control.
"Tell me what you feel --"
Inigo was barely able to speak the word: "Pain."
"Yes, right, of course, pain, killing pain. That is what you should want more than anything, an end to your pain."
"...yes..."
"That pain is with you, every moment of every day?"
"...yes..."
"If you think of ending your pain, you will kill the six-fingered man. But if you only think of revenge, he will kill you, because he has already taken the thing on earth you treasured most, and he will know that, and when you battle he will say things, he will taunt you, he will talk about your pathetic father and he will laugh at your love for a failure like Domingo, and you will scream in rage and your revenge will take control and you will attack blindly -- and then he will cut you to pieces."
* * *
When I am not imagining love and connection, I imagine ending pain. But not really. When I am not imagining love and connection, I imagine changing pain, a transformation. Another metamorphosis, another pretty butterfly wing emerging. A different pain. I imagine feeling something different, something reserved, something never yet experienced. Putting pain somewhere on my body and letting it feel what it is like to split open and bleed. And then, deriving pleasure from it. I would say, a well-earned pleasure. Time enough.
Not every day. My submission is not characterized by this. I am more love than agonizing. But, for a special treat, the agonizing must flow.
I know now what I must do. I knew we would figure it out.
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