White Fang

X couldn’t ask Puppy to get it.

This was the time to white fang if there ever was one.

The trouble seemed to be that she could only pull it off while she didn’t know she was doing it.

He wasn’t getting it. She could feel him getting further from it everyday his nervous system chose stability over flexibility, false certainty over curiosity.

He watched her in agony, a pile of tears in the fetal position begging for her life, and he saw a tantrum, a tyranny of tears. She could not ask him to overcome his programming as much as she could not seem to overcome her own. She could not afford to wait to see how their codependent misfire shootout would play out. She also couldn’t afford to turn her back on her only reachable ally.

If he knew that accusing a woman of insanity without certainty was at least as damning as a false rape accusation, would he still do it? She imagined he wouldn’t, but she also had a tendancy to give people way too much credit about how much credit they’d give her. It didn’t really matter, to theorize what he or anyone would do if they got it, when she knew she couldn’t get anyone to get it. As with everyone, when it was her validation against his own, she would be betrayed by an easier story, lodged like a blade between her ribs.

“Look at what you made me do!”

She suffered psychological damages, to be sure. She’d always been different and she grew in contrast with each passing day that she sought to connect with hacked languages. She was fucked up, except insofar as what she was made perfect sense in the context of what made her, the context everyone else missed despite her profuse attempts to provide it.

Part of X’s condition was an hindered sense of self. She was made to be highly suggestible in the presence of others. So, when he treated her like the monster he saw in her, that’s how she felt and behaved. She didn’t want to skirt accountability for her reactions, it just seemed to be the inescapable fact, “what you see is what you get”, people subject to dehumanizations become less human and behave less in kind.

She tried to explain that nobody under the same forces could realistically claim to do much better, but who would take her word for it? Part of her condition was to be repugnant, repellent to consideration, just as her father and his mother were and had been, the reason nobody saw them clearly, either.

The panic attacks, the depression, the blackouts, the meltdowns, all so compounded from a lifetime of denial of adequate care that they grew into a deformed, mutated, monstrous fused mask.

Puppy kept telling her to work on her one sheet for the cops.

One sheet?! Cops??!

What was she thinking taking guidance from someone so lost on the matter?

One sheet on a subject as controversial as mind control to the people who had already so severely abused her for trying to gain rescue from that which they seemed employed to enforce while under the control of. If you were trying to indoctrinate an entire nation, who would you start with but the cops and doctors? After the methheads they spent decades practicing on, of course.

He wasn’t helping her write it, he probably wouldn’t even help her to turn it in. He just set this blazing hoop for her to jump through to prove her worth in his fiction about her.

It was hard to tell how much she loved him from how much she needed him. That need kept her degraded, begging forgiveness for what he thought of her again, so he would hold her enough to heal her from what he was doing to her with his projections, an incidental trauma bond. Internet self-help memes would frame each of them as abusers unto each other, creating a world of people who fear and condemn each other. She could feel him resisting to condemn her as she resisted to do the same to him over their culturally programmed misunderstandings. That was an act of love she held onto.

He kept telling her what to wear, how to talk, how to feel, how to cope, like she was his Barbie. She had been controlled for so long it was sort of comforting to her, the parent she had been missing, and the one she’d estranged herself from. He was aroused by runny makeup and asked if he could make use of her sad body, accustomed to the transactional intimacy he’d known before she came along.

Having been seasoned for sex trafficking, she fit perfectly. She dissociated, was always wet, always submissive to these of his wishes, hid her pain for his pleasure, woefully hoping that to meet his desires would mean he would protect her, while having ample experience to trust that he would not – he would eventually be done with her and she would be smeared and discarded when that day came. On that day she would fit her framing, an infants violated nervous system in the body of a scathing over-intellectualized Amazonian – a monster.

The pattern was in her, as with so many grown children groomed in these ways. She brought out the worst in everyone and everyone eventually brought out the worst in her – the worst in her being of an inhuman magnitude, a manifestation of what had been done to her that she could not seem to escape, nor could anyone who got close.

It wasn’t just her, though, there were other forces beyond herself that kept her isolated, which made her such a miserable bitch in the first place, but if she couldn’t get anyone to see the source, she doubted her ability to illuminate the subject of weaponized tech networks.

All our emotions have a frequency, a frequency which can be managed with the application of frequency. There are people who have known this for a very long time. Some of them were her relatives. This is one major cause of confusion as to which emotions truly belonged to her.

She loved Puppy as much as she could, but if she truly loved him, she would spare him the manner of targeting he would face from her and her handlers, even if he didn’t believe in it enough to choose to spare himself.

To know that anyone who gets close will be hurt, and to selfishly seek them anyways, was to betray her own love for mankind, a part of the inevitable demoralization built into the program.

She really didn’t want to let him go.

She was so uncertain, even about her own certainty, that she feared that to white fang someone she loved might just be self sabotage over an imagination of harm.

She didn’t know what to do.

She never really knew.

So, she just went on, letting “life” do the choosing for her, ever bending and breaking to its will, always flexible, never stable, in the cyclone of stories, seeking the eye where all become one.