I was in the art room, alone, except for Trish. This was no coincidence, because I was desperately in love with her. Yep, I said it. But not out loud.

Anyway, I was sketching something or other, and Trish was cutting some paper to sizes usable for her exam portfolio. Y'know, the one you have to submit along with the written and practical exams to get the grades. I don't know why, but she was in a terrible mood that day. She'd been snapping at everyone all morning. She seemed ragged, almost, like she was fraying around the edges. The paper was tough, specially thick for holding a lot of wet paint without warping, and Trish only had a blunt pair of old scissors. To make a bad deal worse, she was deliberately holding them upside down, in the misguided belief that it would make cutting easier. Instead, it only increased her problems. Each time she snipped at the paper, the cut ragged sharp edge of the paper would rise up, at just the right angle to give her a nasty paper cut as she levered the scissor blades back open.

The first few cuts were very superficial, just light marks. But as ten minutes or so went by, the repetitive slashes on the same area of the skin, along the bit of flesh between thumb and hand, broke skin and drew blood. The entire area was a mess. Blood dripped onto the paper, mocking her progress. As she kept on cutting, she began swearing, anger and hate mingling in her usually sweet voice as she put more effort and more of her cursing repertoire into play. At one point she started sobbing, choking on frustration and pain, still cursing between spasms of grief, still cutting though it yielded only more pain.

I did not know what to do. Back then I was only sixteen. And while I was hopelessly in love with her, her feelings towards me were far cooler. I was her geeky friend. That's it. About a month before, I had saved up my courage for a week and tried kissing her. She'd accepted it good-naturedly enough, but made no effort to kiss me back. It meant nothing to her. Simply garbage data, that did not trigger any response from her. I'd tried kissing her again later, but by then her ambivalence had evaporated, and she'd told me to fuck off. And that was the end of it.

Now I could bear watching in silence no longer. She had refused to strike up any conversation with me all morning. I could not communicate with her. It was as though she lived on another planet. As I beheld her, silently weeping, now as ever too proud for her own good, I saw how her bowed head had allowed her tresses to fall forward, revealing the skin on the back of her slender neck, pale and soft. I got the sudden impulse to comfort her by kissing the back of her neck. It seemed sensible, as long as I didn't think too hard.

I walked up behind her and put my arm over her shoulders. She usually accepted that gesture when she cried, as she occasionally did, as sweet sixteen year old girls are wont to do. But now she stiffened under my touch. She held her breath. She was not a happy bunny.

I now had only two options. Persevere or retire. I am a shameful coward. My instinct is to always retreat. It would be simple; I would get no thanks for my actions, so why not just release my hold on her, leave the room altogether and let her cry and swear and kick to her heart's content?

I almost did that. The muscles in my arm, hand, fingers started to retract as my cowardly brain sent them instructions. But then I think something special happened. Time seemed to stop, though it was doubtlessly some kind of altered perception on my part. And then the images came. I saw our future. To this day I don't know how it occurred. Maybe it was nothing more than my bizarre imagination. Maybe my heart spoke to me.

I saw what would normally happen play out. I saw myself withdrawing, earning myself a scornful glance from my darling as I left. I saw her keep going, alone, weeping openly now that she no longer needed to keep up her veneer. But she still kept snipping, and the cuts on her hand kept getting deeper. Finally, she threw down the scissors in anger and left school. She was gone for a week, and kept a scar as a souvenir. No one believed that paper cuts could do that kind of damage, and she was ridiculed for it. She bore these hardships as a mountain might ignore a storm; but she was not unscathed. She grew distant, even from her friends, and from me. School ended in another two months, and we both left to go to university. The last time I saw her was on the last day of school. We spent the day together, talking, our friendship rekindled. But when I tried to kiss her, she said no. Firmly. Beyond anger, even. It was the end of everything. My friendship was not worth keeping. She hopped on a bus along with some other friends to go party, and sailed out of my life forever. She travelled the world, achieving a lot of her aspirations, but doing so alone. I spent a week in the clutches of the worst depression of my life, then a month in self pity, and then, like a fresh morning breeze, I was over her. University awaited. New faces. New friends. Life went on. Except that every girl I met, I compared subconsciously to Trish, and found them wanting.

I was jerked back into reality. My hand awaited my orders. My heart nearly popped with the panic of indecision. Then I gripped her tighter. I said, "There, there, darling." I reached down and brushed my lips against her neck. It was an electric moment. I could not breathe.

Then she turned around and hit me. Not a dainty slap like the ladies you see on TV, no, this was a full on punch, on my arm, then another one on my chest. She was not strong, except in character, but her fury lent the blows their sting. Her eyes blazed. She began to curse me, focusing, as was customary of her, on my manhood, or in her opinion lack thereof. I was stunned.

I am a wuss. I had to make an effort not to cry. How could she do this to me? Her harsh tongue, her mean manners. Why did I love this harpy? But then I saw that under it all, she was nearing her limit. Whatever had bothered her all morning had built up, along with her cuts and now my intervention, and I could see the trapped look in her eyes. What was going through her mind? Why did I not comprehend her, under it all? What cruel irony was it that we spoke the same language but could not in any meaningful way communicate?

I could not say a word now. Instead I spun her around, catching her by surprise, and deposited her with a push upon the desk, face down. She cried once in protest. Then I was on her, holding her down with my left arm. She fought like crazy, but had no realistic chance of winning this bout. Her strength ran out before mine did. And when it happened, I raised my right hand into the air, and flattened her bum with my palm. Her jeans made a whumping sound and she stiffened, as though to fight me again, but she could do nothing.

I whacked her again and again. I was not gentle, though I made sure not to hit her back by mistake. She was silent for a long time, probably biting her lip. She had willpower, strength of character and spirit. But that day I would not be beaten. My hand was hurting like anything from slapping her through her jeans, but I would not stop, and eventually she was yelping after every blow to her upturned rump. I started smacking her from below, targeting the fleshiest portions of her undercurve. Now her protests had developed into a continual keening wail. She kicked her feet and thumped the desk with her fists. I kept going. I had to now. Why did I do it? It was not anger. I swear it. It was love, rather. But love is the emotional equivalent of a sledgehammer; it knows no subtlety. Tempered with the love I felt for her was compassion and empathy. For the first time I felt that I understood her, the beautiful and wonderful girl she was, as I spanked her mercilessly.

She was crying now. Her tears fell onto the paper. Luckily, it could absorb moisture. Now she cried without restraint, without cursing or violence. She just let go.

I let her up. She just lay there, across the desk, breathing hard as she brought her sobs to a close. In for a penny, in for a pound. I hugged her. A proper hug. My lips found their way to her ear, and I whispered vague, comforting words to her. I may have accidentally told her that I loved her. I don't remember. It had been a cleansing experience for both of us, and I still felt a little nascent.

Eventually we got up. I wiped the tears from her eyes. I got some disinfectant and a two large band-aids from the first aid kit at the end of the hall, and worked on her hand. I'm no doctor, but I helped a bit. She held her arm out to me wordlessly and let me tend her. It was a warm silence.

Then she looked right at me, smiled, and we started talking. It was as though our mouths had been unsealed. We talked and talked. I fell in love with her all over again. We joked and laughed and held hands as we spoke about pretty much everything under the sun. We must have been at it for hours. We certainly missed a lot of classes!

Throughout this, she would periodically rub her bum through her jeans, or slide her hands into the waistband and massage her flesh. As for me, my palm was still bruised and swollen. I had paid a heavy price for the assault upon her posterior. But neither of us could keep the broad, satisfied grins off our faces.

She told me all the things that had been bothering her. But as she named them, they lost their power over her. Revealing them here would give them a dignity that they do not deserve.

Finally, we had to leave. Just before we walked down to catch our buses home, she looked me right in the eye and kissed me. It was chaste, you understand, but it was on the lips and it was expressive. It was the beginning of something.

As we parted, we both knew that everything was changing, and that we were about to enter a phase of our lives where we could be truly happy. As it happened, we were correct. I changed universities so I could study alongside her. By the time we graduated, we were engaged. A year later we married. It's like I'm living a dream.

But no matter what, if my delightful darling starts letting life get the better of her, she finds herself bent over whatever piece of furniture is convenient, for a hearty whacking. These days, I use a paddle, and she is naked, but the feelings this invokes drive us without exception to that morning in the art room. And while her bottom turns a lovely shade of red, her pale hands are unmarred by paper cuts.

Copyright 2009.