The Mariner

But the internet was vast, and the perpetrators of this crime many. So he’d began searching for signs of the recording’s existence. Night after night he clicked, images passing before him like a game-show conveyor-belt of prizes; a blow-job here, an ass-fucking there. But for all the copulations revealed, he never saw her. Sometimes there would be a likeness, and his heart would seize, mouth run dry, stomach flip as if on a plane plunging from the air. Fingers trembling, he’d select the thumbnail image, maximising to study in close-up. There would be the woman, body bent in throws of passion, face similar in hinted structure, yet partly obscured by dark locks. Beneath some brief description of the photo, generously supplied by the author, usually instantly confirming the miss-match. ‘Me fucking my girlfriend Jessie’. ‘Ploughing a slut I met in Portugal’.

Not once had he found a picture of her, yet still he searched. And whilst he did, he wondered what his reaction would be if he finally did find one. Would he show her? Would he call the police? Or would he simply save the image and keep it for himself? There was no way to know until he found it. No way to predict.

And as he did with increasing frequency, he grew hard as he browsed the images. Slowly, as one hand searched, the other drifted down, fondling his member. With greater boldness he massaged himself, allowing his attention to linger longer on each passing photo, fantasy overtaking intent, for he no longer dreaded discovering a photo, but longed for it. Each degraded woman would be substituted for her in his mind’s eye. Repetition became tradition. Conditioned to love the pain.

No more! Please, no more! But there was no looking away. There was no stopping his hands. Trapped in an endless search, locked in place by his lust and obsession. He could feel his balls stirring, and his pace slowed. He couldn’t let it end yet, not when there were more pictures to see. Not when there was a chance of seeing her. So the ritual continued, horror and lust entwined, a multitude of dark-haired women degraded. He loved them all because each was her, and every betrayal was his own.

Sometime later, the fantasy reached its peak.

Soon the images were gone, browser closed, computer powered down. All that was left of the search was the spent semen on his chest, clinging to him like blood to the Scottish King’s hands. The brief, yet powerful, lusts were also banished, though they left a residue of intense guilt.

And still the paranoia remained.

Was it not enough to endure the degradation? Was his mind not satisfied at betraying the woman he’d married and loved? Why make him go through all that, to spend himself in a moment of madness and agony, only to have him back where he began, unable to sleep and haunted by the notion of inadequacy?

[The Mariner] put his head into his hands and groaned. There was only one way he was going to get rid of these thoughts for the night. Masturbation, just didn’t cut it.

He turned his head towards the kitchen, already knowing the process. First the whiskey, then the knife. The incisions would be small, just enough for the pain to drive these horrors from his mind so he could find sleep. The cuts would be subtle, the minimum price for his mind’s corruption.

[The Mariner] quietly crept into the kitchen and did his work.

Thirty minutes later, he fell asleep.

Twenty minutes beyond that, the alarm-clock sounded.

“Do you cut yourself often?”

“Yes.”

“Any other coping strategies?”

“I drink. I think I might be an alcoholic.”

“You think you might be? How much is a drink?”

“A few shots when I get depressed. Enough to numb things.”

“That’s hardly alcoholism, no more than most Brits at least.”

[The Mariner] didn’t respond, staring at his book avoiding eye contact.

“What’s really upsetting you?” His patient remained silent, perplexed at the stupidity of the question. “A lot of other people, faced with the news of their wife’s betrayal would get angry and move on. Why haven’t you? Why do thoughts of this incident result in so much self-resentment?”

He took a deep breath, uncomfortable debating the peculiarity of his psychology. “Psychoanalysis suggested that it’s all down to damage as a child. I was taught to blame everything on myself. So that’s what I do now; I internalise every event. A form of eternal punishment.”

“Isn’t that a bit of a cop-out? To blame your parents?”

The bluntness came as a shock. He stammered for a moment, struggling for a reply. “I don’t blame them, they explain me. To explain doesn’t mean to excuse.” He shifted, uncertain. “Don’t you agree?”