By: Ron – LuvsDomesticDiscipline
With each new being born into this world, there is the expectation of tears. Each second of our existence holds the prospect of tears. Can we, should we, count the tears that we each shed over a lifetime. If so, could we possibly distinguish the true meaning behind each falling tear. Always there will be those who fight back tears. Always there will be those who surrender tears. Can any deny that each tear has its own worth, its own meaning, its own place in our personal existence within our personal universe. Each tear is the result of a catalyst unchanged by it’s very own consequences. Tears can be a gentle rain in our heart, or a terrible storm deep in our soul that brings forth fear and uncertainty. Perhaps the greatest gift bestowed, is discerning when her tears are for me.
It was 1895 and we lived in Silver Bow County, Montana. Butte was a mining town for all intent and purpose. The streets were filled with drifters, itinerants, and vagabonds. There were places of splendor, and palaces of iniquity. There were districts such as the “line”, and alley’s named “Venus”, where women traded their wares in small cubicles the locals called “cribs”. On any given night one could hear the constant resonance of hoops, hollers, and ye-haws. As each morning dawned, you could hear the boundless
scuttle of who got murdered last night.
It was our first anniversary in Butte. We owned a small house at the far edge of town, away from the corruption of life. Everyone knew of our place. The directions were simple. Look for the little cottage with the tin roof, wreath on the front door, and the white picket fence. When she told our friends, it was our love nest, I always shuttered and rolled my eyes. You see I was sensible and rigid, she carefree and flexible. I was always thinking ahead, she thinking about yesterday. I was always dressed for battle, and she in her most feminine attire. I can still see her so clearly, standing on the porch straight and proud. Her skin was pale and fair, her long black hair gently curving as it made its way down to her hips. Although I tried to be restrained and resolute, the curvature of her cheeks “always” quickened my pulse, and had me reaching for my handkerchief to wipe the sweat from my brow. I told her to lock the door behind me, that I needed to make my way back across town to lock up for a colleague, and would return within the hour. She acknowledged saying “Love you” as I walked down three wooden steps.
Upon return, I found the door unlatched. While slowly making way into the dark house, I reached for my boot pistol. I was terrified that I would stumble over her in the dark. I knew the evils of this town. I fumbled in my pocket for a single match, but my hands shook so, I dropped it to the floor. As I reached to find the match, the boards squeaked on the front porch. I spun around, only to point my pistol at darkness. Then , cutting through the darkness was the voice of my colleague. Hurry, she’s been hurt. My heart pounded in my chest, as I rushed to help bring her inside. Thank God she was alive.
She slept well into the next morning, all the while, I at her bedside. Upon waking, she looked at me, and turned her face away. I felt hurt and empty at the same time. All she would say is that she disobeyed me, and she was sorry. I summoned all the courage within me and started to ask her if … She quickly interrupted me, and in a pleading voice said “No, no one touched me, I swear it”! I could hear the truth in the intensity of her voice, and see the fear in her eyes, that somehow I would stop loving her. With that, all she would say is, I went where you told me to never go. “I am so sorry” Several days past, and I could feel the strain between us. She was distant and aloof, not knowing what to say to me. I knew then what I must do.
Later that evening, after dinner and in our quiet time. I brought her into the bedroom, and sat her down on the bed, I sitting right next to her. I spoke of my love for her, yet was desperate to know what had happened, but did not press her. I explained that her inattention and disobedience could have resulted in her physical death, and my spiritual one. I told her that I was not sure that I could go on living if something happened to her. I put my arm around her, hugged her, then gently kissed her neck. With that, she started to cry. I stood her up, opened the robe she had on, and let it drop to the floor. I faced her toward the bed, and slowly removed the silky covering protecting her bottom.
Without another word, I bent her over the bed, turned and reached into the dresser, and pulled out my razor strop. There was no shaking of my hands this time. I had never taken a hand to her ever, yet I was now, without hesitation. Before that strap came down so very many times across the hillocks of her bottom, and vulnerable legs, I told her I loved her more than she will ever know.
An extraordinary thing happened that night. From the first to the last, her tears flowed freely, spontaneously, effortlessly. She eventually cried herself to sleep. Later as I climbed into bed, I expected her to turn her back to me, but she instead, reached out to me pulling herself into my arms as if to hide herself deep inside me. I knew then she felt safe, and that although it was her tears, each golden tear was for me.
The End
You can contact Ron about his story at luvsdomesticdiscipline (at) yahoo (dot) com .
