I don’t know what to write about this week, I say. It’s Sunday, and nothing’s coming, and I’ll have nothing to post. Write about last night, he says. Write about that thick cotton rope. Write about how it felt. How did it feel? Lovely, I say. A bit thuddy? A bit thuddy. We like thuddy. …
I went for a walk this afternoon, past the rows of red- brick houses and the cemetery up to the nature reserve. The sky was a dismal grey and a very fine rain misted my hair. I’d been cooped up in my room too long, staring at a glowing screen, eating slapdash meals and sleeping …
I am looking at a photo and remembering the evening I sustained these bruises. Bent over and locked in stocks, the unfamiliar sensation of wood circling my neck and wrists. An audience, standing behind crash barriers, watching as my skirt is pulled up and the flat of his hand hits my arse, and then the …