[reaper0002000]

What he said. [pointing at StMercy]
…

Thanks for the support, my friend, and good luck with your move!

My concern here is that if one reader missed it, then others surely did so as well. I should have really emphasized the change in Mercy's dream from from child to adult with more than a few words. Live and learn, huh?

Best wishes,
Reap

[reaper0002000]

Thanks for the compliment! While writing about a fictional 10 year-old's sexuality is probably not illegal, I would say it's completely inappropriate… which is why I wrote:

At first, I’m still only ten, but then my reflection changes, and I’m seeing myself as I am today… There’s still all this gore and blood everywhere, but my reflection looks so powerful – I'm naked and I've got so much beautiful, sexy muscle!

to ensure that it was the college-aged Mercy having the sexual experience in her dream.

Out of curiosity, did anyone beside Mermoz not pick up on that? If there was, I'll have to make this much more clear…

Regards,
Reap

[reaper0002000]

…cont'd…

Mercy looked at the floor, shutting her eyes. This was the part of the dream she secretly enjoyed, disturbing and grotesque as it likely would be to others. “I break him,” she smiled chillingly, eyes still closed. "All over. His spine, his legs and arms – with my bare hands, I snap his bones like toothpicks. The dream’s so vivid that I can actually feel how weak and brittle his bones are as they pop against my pumped-up body. I’m so much younger than him, but my muscles are just so much bigger and harder. And so, so strong.“

Her beautiful, smiling face was dreamy, bizarrely juxtaposed against the carnage she described. “But I don’t stop there. I even tear apart his ribcage, and I can see all his organs. I grab his heart with one hand, and rip it right out. Blood bursts out everywhere. It’s still beating, until I crush it to mush between my fingers.” Mercy’s voice rose, her grin still showing. All the hair on the back of the therapist’s neck was standing, and he’s shifted uncomfortably in his seat as his outlandishly muscled young client continued, eyes closed, oblivious to his fearful discomfort.

“Then I pull his entire body apart into dozens of separate pieces, limb from limb, rip off his head, his internal organs. I totally dismember him, and it’s so easy with all my muscles…” Close-eyed, Mercy spoke with a relish that was not only disconcerting, but utterly terrifying.

“I remember what I’m thinking – I’m only a 10 year-old girl, but I’ve literally broken and torn a boy twice my age into pieces with my bare hands. I flex my muscles in superiority, and I see myself in the mirror. At first, I’m still only ten, but then my reflection changes, and I’m seeing myself as I am today… There’s still all this gore and blood everywhere, but my reflection looks so powerful – I'm naked and I've got so much beautiful, sexy muscle! Pecs, biceps, lats, abs, legs all exploding with strength! I’m SO strong I can tear a man to death. And it turns me on, making me jack like you wouldn’t believe. That’s where I usually wake up. Wet with jack.” Mercy finally opened her eyes, and looked up, blinking. She sighed a little; as she halfway expected, the therapist looked like he’s having a heart attack, or a stroke.

He just stared at her. His jaw slack, his face sheet white. Unlike what Mercy thought, it wasn’t just the shockingly gory and sexual nature of her dream. He had no idea how the male gymnast had died, as he didn’t recall what the newspaper had disclosed all those years ago. But dear God, the dream was so close to what the report said. Apart from the sexuality in the dream, the similarity was inescapable: Gory, wanton dismemberment.

He didn’t want to think it was even possible that anyone could be so vicious. He was absolutely stunned by her account, and even more so by how Mercy seemed to savor her slaughter, even in its retelling. It was like a door had cracked opened into her inner life, and its darkness was utterly foreboding.  There was a discernible shift in Mercy’s presence, one that he’d only glimpsed when she stopped his slap, but that sense of mind-numbing, malevolent power was unmistakable. The psychologist tried to gather himself, but still found no way to respond.

…to be cont'd…

[reaper0002000]

Hey Lupus, y'know i was just needling you a little, right?
My "sorta" comment was directed at the explanation part, not the kidding portion —  hope you didn't take it the other way, though I certainly can see how it's possible. My bad (in the immortal words of Optimus Prime in the new movie). What I was trying to imply was there'll be more than a glimmer of what makes Mercy "tick", but her rationale may be as psychotic as the girl herself…

I've appreciated the feedback from all of you, and have to say that the quality of work from the other writers here has forced me to try to keep up.

Kind regards,
Reap

[reaper0002000]

Thanks for the suggestion… I might do that after this story is complete (but it has a little bit to go, still)

Reap

[reaper0002000]

'Fraid you won't have to wait for long… and just to aggravate Lupus, I'm totally not going to explain it. At all.

…

Just kidding, Lup! (Sorta…)
By the way, I'm a little jealous of your productivity, StMercy.

Best wishes,
Reap

[reaper0002000]

Thanks! I try to keep people wanting.  ;D

What most irritates me is that the board these days doesn't allow me to edit postings after a very short time frame. As StMercy undoubtedly will attest to, some things are best reworked over and over. For example, I usually notice little grammatical things every time I read my own stuff, or better phrasings occur to me… and now I can't correct them. Sigh.

Regards,
Reap

[reaper0002000]

This next part is up very quickly because I didn't anyone left at this point thinking I was about to actually describe the actual abuse that the character suffers. In my mind, that would be extraordinarily inappropriate.

So onwards (and thanks all for your continued encouragement)!

Best wishes,
Reap

…cont'd….

“Dreams,” he continued, “are sometimes what we call re-enactments.” Mercy nodded, but her face looked a little blank.  The therapist explained that by re-enacting something traumatic but changing the eventual ending, it was possible for victims to gain a sense of mastery and come to better grips with what happened. A way to cope, in essence. The gorgeous young hulk said nothing, but she looked impressed with his insights.

He delved deeper, but like she had said earlier, Mercy was unsure as to exactly happened at the time she was abused in her dream.  Mercy frowned, trying to recollect. All she remembered was the 17 year-old gymnast – the one that died – saying that she was “sooo sexy” and then a series of confused, jumbled emotions, and a sense of being profoundly violated. Frustrated, she simply could not remember details as the psychologist tried to gently walk her through the narrative. For all his efforts, he got nothing. Something was clearly missing, and it was obvious that it had affected her horribly.  After several futile attempts, he scribbled a note on his pad, reminding himself to refer her to a colleague that used hypnosis to retrieve memories.  He glanced at Mercy dabbing at her eyes, her amazing muscles rippling, clearly upset. He decided to move on.

“This other part of the dream is the part that you really know, isn’t it?” the therapist asked and she nodded, looking relieved that they were going to familiar territory.  He thought for a moment, and went for the straightforward approach. “You know he’s already dead. But do you dream about finding this person, the one that hurt the 10 year-old you, hunting him down and killing him?”

“Not really,” Mercy said, matter-of-fact. She licked her lips. “I don’t have to find him at all. It’s not like I’m older or anything.“  When the psychologist looked quizzical, she added, by way of explanation. “It’s right after the part I don’t remember. He’s still alive. He’s right there and I’m right there – the 10 year-old me does him in.” Mercy gave a slight shrug, bunching her hulking traps, and stared at the wall.

For his part, the psychologist was disconcerted by this revelation; most revenge fantasies had the victim, if they were this young, coming back in the future to wreck vengeance. But in this dream, the 10 year-old Mercy had actually turned the tables right in the moment. It was most unusual…  “You said it felt really vivid… What exactly does the young Mercy do?” he asks, trying to envision a very young, preteen version of the extraordinarily muscled girl across from him. Frighteningly enough, it wasn’t that hard to do. With that conjured image, his mouth seemed suddenly dry, and an apprehensive premonition clutched his insides.

…to be cont'd…

[reaper0002000]

And yet, he continues swimming…

…cont'd…

It was that sudden glimpse of … something … in her attitude that unsettled the psychologist. A prickling began at the back of his neck as the gory horror of the incident allegedly involving Mercy once again came to the forefront of his consciousness.

He tried to take breath but found he couldn’t, as he glanced the insanely attractive, young pinnacle of muscular development sitting opposite him. She was again studying the floor intensely. In silence. He could still see large veins protruding on her massive, bulging chest beef, right through the shirt. Her protruding nipples looked very small compared to what they were pinned to, but they were erect, and seemed very, very hard. His eyes took in the immensity of the fully separated, chiseled slabs of pectoral muscle, and he shivered at the sheer strength that Mercy must possess. She looked capable of bench pressing a locomotive. Or a van, his memory reminded him, and he twitched involuntarily at the thought.

A drop of cold sweat formed on his forehead. Nonetheless, he deliberately filed his fear away mentally and prodded Mercy back to her dream, the one in which she was abused. If this dream provoked a reaction like the one she just displayed, then it was something that had to be pursued.

After an eternity of affirmations and encouragement, Mercy barely managed “Uh, I was ten…” and then stopped. But it was obvious that deep down, she really did want to tell him about this dream, despite the fact that she hemmed and hawed, squirming. The psychologist gently prompted her, studiously trying to ignore the rippling and bulging of the grotesquely overdeveloped, living anatomy chart before him as she fidgeted. Finally, under his persistence and cajoling, the words came.

When Mercy was only 10 years-old, there apparently had been a murder at her gym – that much Mercy knew was fact. The therapist vaguely remembered reading about that incident in the newspaper, years ago. A older male gymnast was killed late in the evening, as the last instructor had been in the far office on the telephone. The crime had provoked a wave of fear amongst the community that ended up shuttering the facility permanently.

It turned out that the young Mercy had known the victim, if only very briefly, and she had been at the gym the very same day he was murdered. In fact, Mercy had walked the several blocks home only a couple hours before the teenager had died at the hands of unknown, uncaught assailants. At least she thought that’s what had happened. “I can’t remember exactly. I do remember being at the gym, working out with him, and then I remember walking home. That’s all – nothing else happened in between. And that’s what I told the police back then.”

The man scratched his head. Mercy was probably traumatized by the boy’s death, but it didn’t speak of any kind of abuse. He said so. Mercy protested mildly “I haven’t gotten there yet – like I was about to say, I keep having this dream,” and hesitated. He looked at her as she decided if it was safe to continue. "Well, it's only a dream, right?" Mercy convinced herself with a deep breath. She looked up at him, her youthful, beautiful face solemn. “The gymnast who was murdered? In my dream, he molested me… at least, I have feelings that he did." She said plaintively, "I don't actually seem to remember that part too well.” The psychologist’s eyebrows shot upwards, and Mercy's eyes turned downward. She softly added, “That’s not the end of it. In my dream, what's really vivid is… I’m the one who kills him.”

She looked up, timid. The man was just staring at her. He didn’t say a word. An unreadable expression and a twinge at the corner of his left eye gave nothing away. This time it was his turn to be silent. Just sat there, waiting. Mercy spoke again, at last, sounding lame. “Are you sure you want to hear about this? It, uh…gets really, um…” She looks at him almost pleadingly, her radiant blue eyes a mixture of conflicting emotions.

"I think it's important that we go over your dreams," he said, his voice carefully neutral.

…to be cont'd…

[reaper0002000]

Ya'll are absolutely correct… you wouldn't be caught dead (poor choice of words) alone with this girl, but there are a lot of docs who have this God-complex of infallibility and untouchability. And as you well know, education is not a substitute for common sense. SO as you might expect, this stupidity is going to be … heh heh heh

And Jeremy, I might have an idea what you mean, just keep reading…

Best regards,
Reap

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