The Man Whose Eyes Never Tire

11...

     My English teacher had given us an assignment for our Shakespeare unit. We are studying Othello, and she had given us the freedom to analyse characters through whichever analytical lens we had chosen; naturally, as an old fashioned girl, I chose to analyse the characters through a gender lens. Highlighting the sweet, delicate, innocent nature of the women; how they belong entirely to their fathers until they are assigned to be owned by a man; the men being strong, masculine, dominant; holding eternal power, treating women like delicate playthings. I thought about Mark often as I wrote; not because I did not like our power dynamic, but rather because I loved it. I found an excuse to write about him at any given moment. I wrote about him when I was not writing about him.
    I rarely ever post on TikTok, but, feeling as though the lyrics to a particular Lana Del Rey song fit my current relationship with Mark exceptionally well, I lip synced to the song in just a red lacy bra in my bathroom mirror, with the lights off, and the flash of my phone on.
50’s babydoll dress for my ‘I do’...
Let me put on a show for you, daddy.
    Thinking I looked decent in the video, I took a screenshot from it and made that my new Instagram profile photo. The next morning, Mark texts me, telling me he ‘needs’ to see my new profile photo. I sent it to him, and he adored it. He said I looked incredibly hot. He always compliments me. I feel pretty with him.

     It is now mid October, and it is the twentieth birthday of my sister, Nora. Nora had told me that I could invite a friend over for a drink, so I told Ryan to stop by. I never take shots, but Nora convinced me to take a shot with her to celebrate. I took a video of us, my sister taking it like a champ, myself wincing and cringing at the bitter alcohol attacking my throat. I had a few other drinks while I waited for Ryan’s arrival.
    I drank more, he drank nothing, and he played some guitar for me. I decided, considering how Ryan is my closest guy-friend, that I should be able to tell him about Mark as well. My only fear is that he acts like a big brother to me; perhaps he would be worried about me and would want to protect me from Mark, thus causing him to go forth about what I tell him, but all the same, I recognize that he would not care enough - he does not like to get involved in drama. I tell. Again. I am constantly telling. I tell him about Mark, and he thinks I am crazy, but thankfully does not make nearly as big of a deal as I had imagined. Why do I always tell? Why am I constantly longing to tell? Why is there such a desire within me to tell? I want the world to know that Mark is mine and I am his, but I know I cannot. Remember, Jule. You aren’t even his. Not yet, at least.

     I think about Mark everywhere. His eyes are always on me. He is listening to me through my phone, watching me through invisible cameras lying around my house, following me in his car all around the city. He is on the back of the bus watching me, analysing me, studying me. I always look for him. I always look for those burning eyes of his. I marvel at how I have never bumped into him while I was out in public. I dress each day as if I am going to see him. I paint situations in my head while I strip down naked for a shower; thinking about living with him, telling him about my day as he brushes his teeth and I scrub my hair. As I lock myself in the bathroom with a drink in hand, music pumping through my earbuds, I imagine him beyond the mirror; for that instant, I am singing on his stage for him, him in the crowd, as I sip on my drink in the instrumentals, performing for him and him only. I write my poetry for him. I write my stories and monologues for him. I write my music for him. I hurt myself for him. I do it all for him. He is always watching. In my heart, he is always watching. I act for him; I am a character in a film about us. I am his doll, and I behave for him. I think about him every moment of every day. I am truthfully obsessed with him as Humbert was obsessed with Lolita. I need Mark. I need him horribly. I am afraid of how badly I need him. I cannot function without his love; his attention; his affection. I am addicted. I sip my drink, and recognize this truth. I am addicted.