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to him?
    I pondered this perplexing thought right up until the point when Michael opened the door to his apartment and led me in by my hand.
    “I will say that I am a bit shocked that you texted me. I wasn’t sure whether you hated me or loved me so much that you couldn’t stand to see me again.” Michael poked at my sides as I nudged myself past him to get to his couch.
    I realized that I had to have a discussion with Michael. There was no way to have spent an evening being, well, basically beaten by a man who was once a friend and not discuss it afterward.
    “Michael, we need to talk,” I whispered softly.
    Michael nodded his head and walked toward me. He positioned a black velvet throw pillow behind his back and made himself comfortable on the couch beside me. Not realizing he was going a tad too far, he proceeded to lift his legs and perch them over my knees, leaving his body in a reclining position. I had become his footrest, and that gesture made my disgust all the more apparent.
    “Um, OK. Michael, we’re friends, and so I don’t want to say or do anything more that will hinder that friendship. The other night—”
    And as I proceeded to say my piece, Michael intervened, soft spoken and assured of himself. “Eva, let me stop you there. When you texted me, it was for help. Not to talk, not to end this, but to help you forget. Only a half hour ago you reached out to me to numb you like I did last weekend. Tell me, did you think of him even once while you were here with me?” Michael asked.
    “That’s not the point,” I responded, fully aware that Alexander was all I could think about.
    “No,” Michael answered for me. “You didn’t think of him. For whatever reason you may have, he makes you hurt, and I have been able to release you of that hurt.”
    I shook my head and uneasily tried to disagree, but the statement he had made was half accurate. “Yes. You made me forget for a few hours that there is a void inside of me that longs to be filled by someone who can’t fill it. He didn’t hurt me. I hurt him and myself, for that matter. So, you see, I don’t want to forget him. Being with you and feeling numb and grief stricken by the pain I endured didn’t fill that void. It only made me forget for a short while that there was a void.”
    “Regardless,” Michael said, thankfully shifting himself off of my legs, “you forgot him—even if it was for a short while. Look, it was your first time. Stay here with me now. Now that you know what to expect, and now that you know that you will have a few hours of thoughtlessness, let me deaden the thrashing thoughts that ripen your misery.”
    I had asked for his help, the only way he could give it, and Michael knew that I was frail. And even more frightening was the fact that his desire to help and to console me were unexplainably nowhere to be seen or heard once we passed the entrance to his torture chamber.
    But I followed him still.
    That evening transpired no different than it had the first time. He held me captive and bestowed upon me an anguish that anesthetized me from the wounds I carried. Only this time he proceeded to gag me—with a gag ball—so that I would be silenced. I was cut off to Alexander, the world, and now I had lost my voice as well. But, at the end of each penance, I would fall into a coma of exhaustion; so at least I was getting some form of sleep.
    The next seven days passed with indifference to how I was throwing my life away. But they did pass. I went through the motions of my days at work, though getting to work was a task in itself. I mostly locked myself behind the safety of my office doors, heavy hearted and bruised beyond recognition. Lucky for me my clothes hid the marks left by Michael, which worsened as I had returned to him daily. The evidence of punishment was obvious and severe.
    Any flash of clarity that made itself known in my mind was quickly washed away by tears born from the realization of my judgments. I knew