Mein Gott! The pain is exquisite! She rips her elbow along seldom-used muscles to break their years-old spasms into tractable bits of meat. On these she rubs linament, and I am thrown back into my body by the pain of this massage.
"No great relief without great agony," she tells me with a look of reassurance. But behind this look do a detect a glimmer of sadistic glee as I writhe and scream and bite sheets and slap walls under her ministrations? Glee for the stress and torment I put her through these past few weeks when I was under the nefarious influence of Zoloft, which warped my personality into a lustful bloodthirsty maniac who dreamed of anthropophagic and coprophagic treats?
I sit here now, possessed of my own mind and girdled with the ache of hip muscles ridding themselves of acid and other slough. My pain is her reward. My pain is deserved.
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