June 29, 2004

He knew I hated being in this room. Hated the torture that was inflicted on me every time I sat down in the chair that he pulled out for me. He was a bastard....a sick, evil, uncaring monster. My feelings of anger and deprivation had been increasing for months and I lived for the few times that life and circumstance intervened and freed me from having to arrive in this awful place at the appointed hour every day.

There would be no surcease on this day. He had already called for me and I smelled the familiar sulfur odor of the matches he used to light the ever-changing candles. My stomach rolled as I descended the stairs...from sanctuary to hell in way too few steps.

"Sit,” he commanded as I approached my nemesis, the chair. “Don’t look so sour,” he growled, “you bring this on yourself.”

I sighed softly. My heart was filled with dread and slowly I lowered my frame onto the proffered seat.

It was there in front of me. A horrible display of torturous items far superseding anything the Spanish Inquisition had ever employed. I felt the familiar dryness in my throat. I took a deep breath and steadied my hands as he sat down next to me.

He looked into my eyes...searching for some small hint of submission.

“Too bad you’re still on Atkins,” he said, “this pasta smells delicious!”