Looking at my Reflection

I haven't acted out my slavery in months. The organic experience of parenthood stripped us both back down to our conditioned responses. He, the doting husband and father; me, the recovering and overwhelmed new mother. Master and slave took a back seat to "can you take her for a few hours? I'm about to pass out"

My reflection is disheveled. My hair barely sees a brush, let alone shampoo. My armpits are fuzzy. My eyes more often than not hold nothing but a haunted fixation on some point in the distance, the light symbolic of sleep. Even now as I type this, tucked alone in bed, my key clicks are as soft as possible as to not wake the half asleep baby who lays in her crib, shifting in a threatening manner every few moments.

The room behind me is a suitable backdrop. Filth is caked everywhere. Dishes and trash lay untouched. An occasional bug boldly ventures forth to inspect what humans no longer appear to care for.

I want the reflection to glisten. I want happy, clean children. I want three meals a day, served neatly at a table in a clean dining room. I want the picket fence. My dream reflection is focused on giving them the television perfect childhood. Where does Master sit in this image? I don't worry about him. He's a big boy, he can pull down his own pants when he goes to the bathroom.

In order to give them the perfect childhood, they need parents with the perfect marriage. For us, the perfect marriage involves secret beatings and harsh words spoken in love and lust.

I feel like I'm sitting half in a murky puddle, looking down at this imperfect reflection, with a bright, clear vessel of water sitting just out of reach. I can just barely see the reflection of a luscious slave, surrounded by perfection and order. In order to fully see her, I would have to stand up and walk over to the vessel. I can't get up because I'm sitting in quicksand. Not enough to pull me down further, just enough to keep me locked in place.

Maybe that's why slaves need Masters.