The Healing Touch

For the rest of his life, Braeden could not remember how he found the cottage. One moment he was sitting in his apartment debating the virtues of getting out of bed today, when he was overcome with a sudden desire to take a walk. Which, in retrospect, always seemed odd to him. He generally took the perspective that walks, like any other form of exercise, must be avoided at all cost. She was the only person who could piece through his resistance to exercise with the promise of good conversation, but she has been gone for months by then. But, despite his normal reluctance for exercise, his found himself walking out his front door and down the street. Although he told himself he had no real destination in mind, a part of him had a very clear sense of how to get there, wherever there was. Whenever he came to any intersection, his legs would take over as if he had walked this route every day of his life and take him confidently down one direction or another. He walked for what seemed like hours this way, his legs taking him down streets with names he had seen or heard of before.

Eventually, he came across a street that had no name at all. It was an unpaved stret that laid between two impressive looking Victorians. Had Braeden been an observant man, he would have noticed that this road seemed terribly out of place from the otherwise normal street it was connected to. The telephone poles, an ever-present part of life of any city, did not run down the road. Nor did the cars driving by, or the people walking by, seem to notice its existence. Indeed, if you tried to sit down and talk with any person who lived on that street about that street they would, at most, mildly acknowledged that it existed before getting uncomfortable and changing the subject. But Braeden had never been a very cautious man, certainly not as of late, and he did not notice any of these things. Instead, he ignored all of this and walked straight up that dirt street towards a cottage at the top of a hill.

The cottage looked like the type of cottage you would find in a fairy tale. Not the modern day fairy tales with gallant knights and beautiful princesses, but the fairy tales of old that were designed to teach children there were indeed things in this world worth being afraid of. It had one prominent stone fireplace that emitted an eerie amount of smoke. The rest of the cottage was made out of an old wood that he could not recognize. When he ran his hands across it, the wood felt smooth and newly cut, even though it clearly seemed like the cottage had been here for at least a century. But the oddest thing about the cottage is that it seemed totally apart from the city, the road was unpaved and seemingly unused, the telephone lines never came in, and it enjoyed a relatively large patch of nature around it that was relatively unmolested from the growth of the city. It was as if the rest of the world had tried very hard to forget all about the cottage and thought it best, for all concerned, to grow around the cottage rather than impact it in anyway.

But Braeden was not concerned, at the moment, with the quirks and history of this impossible cottage. All he knew was that he had to raise the elaborate bronze knocker, modeled after a goat head, and bring it down on the double wooden doors three times. It had to be three times, any more, or any less, would have been clearly inadequate. Then for several minutes after the sound fled and left him standing there alone nothing happened. In that time, he stood there and wondered if perhaps it was not the best idea to knock on the door of a complete stranger in a neighborhood he had never heard of. Relieved, he almost turned around then and walked, but just as he was about to do so the door swung open and a clearly flustered lady stuck her head out and pronounced, in a tone of a teacher speaking to a disobedient student, "You're late."

"Late? For what? I don't even know why I am here." If Braeden's brain was capable of rational thought at this moment, it would have wondered more about why, if he did not have an appointment, his legs were so very insistent that he get here quickly.

She signed, and looked down at him between a pair of black frame glasses "Not knowing where you are supposed to be is no reason not to be there on time."

It was logic that was so flawed, but said with such confidence, that it was impossible for him to refute or argue with. Instead, he said "Sorry?"

She looked him up in down for a moment, in the way a farmer may inspect a potential animal. Then, apparently reaching some sort of conclusion, she shrugged and gestured inside. "No matter, you are here now and it is time we begun. Lucky for you, I was making cookies." Once again, if he was thinking rationally, he would remember the many stories of why you should not enter strange people's houses and eat their food, especially when you do not even know where you are, or even what time of the day it is. Fortunately, for him, he wasn't. After all, if we always thought rationally, then there would be so much fun in our life we would miss, albeit probably less trips to the hospital as well. Besides, even if his brain were working, it would have not been able to resist the utterly intoxicating smell of cookies coming from inside the cottage.

Braeden was not sure exactly what he expected to find on the inside, but he was surprised to see that in comparison to the outside of the house, which looked about as far from friendly as possible, the inside felt warm and comfortable. There was a small fire going in the fireplace that managed to heat the house to an almost impossibly perfect temperature. The house was lit by a few modern looking light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. Although the cottage held many wonders, what attracted his attention the most was a small plate of cookies sitting on top of an ancient oak table. Before he even had time to think about the potential dangers of taking chocolate from strangers, he was sitting at the table and taking a large bite out of the first cookie he could grab.

The only word that could possibly describe that cookie was divine. They tasted the way that all cookies he had before aspired to, but somehow fell short. The only way a cookie could reach this level of perfection is if every grandmother in the world got together and shared their most intimate baking secrets, which we all know is impossible because it is well known that if you bring multiple grandmothers together with baking involved it will quickly turn into a competition with a level of fierceness that would make a championship boxing match look tame in comparison. After only one bite of it, he felt his problems slip away and for the first time in months he felt a sliver of happiness slips into him, in the form of a moist and delicious cookie.

When he had finally finished, he laid back in the chair exhausted but content. "Those were the best cookies I have ever had."

She smiled at him for the first time. It was the type of smile you wanted to find a way to curl up inside of it somehow. "Thank you lovely. It is a family recipe...of sorts. Passed down to me for generations." She paused for a moment and sat there and looked into his eyes. She looked at him with eyes that he knew saw right through him, and he felt like at that moment he could tell her everything about his life. "My name is Asha, and you are Braeden are you not?" He nodded yes. "Now you know why you are here don't you? You didn't until just now, but now you know?"

He nodded. He did. He realized it the moment she looked at him. His palms were sweaty and he was nervous but nothing in the world could get him to leave now.

She smiled again, that impossible smile. "And you want this?"

He nodded.

"I need you to say it lovely, say that this is what you want."

"I...want this." He whispered, the words barely able to escape his mouth.

"Good. You are so beautiful." She stroked the side of his face softly before whispering "Can you please go downstairs and get ready? You know the way, I suspect."

And, impossibly, he did. He had never been in this cottage before, but somehow he knew exactly where the basement was, as if he had lived in the hours for years and had walked to the basement countless times in the dead of the night. After walking down the stairway, he found himself in a dark room with the only source of light being a tiny light bulb hanging from the ceiling. It's dim light barely illuminated the space so he could not even tell how large the room really was, but he saw faint outlines of strange objects hanging from hooks on the nearby walls, and a sleek metal table taking up the center of the room.

Although there were many mysteries to explore in that room, none of them interested in him at that moment. He knew that he had to get ready for her first. The moment he walked into the room, he shed his clothes as quickly as possible and folded them carefully on a little bench near the door. With each article of clothing he took off, he felt lighter in a way that was hard to describe, as if he was shedding a part of who he used to be.

Once finished, he stood in the middle of the room, his hands folded behind his back and his head bowed, and waited. For years after, he tried to remember how long he waited there, it could have been hours, days, or even years. But to him it felt like only a moment. It was a moment that was stretched as far as it could go, and in that moment he was not impatient, or nervous. He was not...anything. He was simply there, in a moment that swallowed him whole and held him in its embrace.

But the moment finally ended, as all moments have to eventually, once he heard the basement door open. The only sound in the room was the soft click of her heels as she walked toward him, that sound abruptly stopped about a foot away from him. He knew she was close now, the intoxicating smell of her perfume filled the room and delighted his senses. Then he heard the steps start up again as she walked around him, stopping every now and then as if she was inspecting them. Finally, she arrived in front of him again, and he felt the touch of her slightly callused fingers on her chin as she slowly angled his face up to look into her eyes.

Her eyes were like the full moon on an otherwise dark night, they seemed to almost emit a warmth and light that illuminated even the darkest places. Once look from them, and every part of him wanted to turn away. But, every time he tried, she would smile and stroke his cheek lightly and somehow her touch gave him the strength to keep going.

She leaned in and kissed him. Her lips were soft, wonderful, and tasted like hope. She broke the kiss and looked back into his eyes. "You know what will happen now?" Even in the poorly illuminated room, he could see her clearly, almost as if the room centered around her, and even if no light was on he could see all parts of her. She was dressed in shades of black that blended together impossibly, starting with high heeled boots, that somehow connected almost seamlessly with black leggings that in turn flowed into black panties. From there, she wore a slightly more black blouse and a pointy hat over her auburn hair. Although she was dressed entirely in shades of black, she seemed to emit a light from in her that, once he saw, filled him with a mixture of desire and peace.

He nodded his head yes.

"And you want this?"

He nodded his head again.

She smiled again. "Good lovely, you are so beautiful. Can you please bend over the table for me?"

He quickly obliged, bending over the table and spreading out his arms in front of him. She tied his legs to the table using a soft rope, the rope wrapped around his legs in a criss-cross pattern and tied just tight enough to make movement impossible. Just as he was still adjusting to the ropes, she then placed some metal handcuffs onto his hands and put them down so he could not move. A part of him wanted to struggle against his bonds, to fight and scream out in anger. Yet, as he felt the soft touch of the rope on his skin, and the comforting presence of her near him, that voice grew quieter. It was only then when he was completely helpless that he could truly give in.

Once she could tell he had reached that point and finally given in, she whispered to him how beautiful he looked and asked if he wanted what comes next. He nodded yes and closed his eyes, his whole body tense and awaiting her touch. Finally, he felt her fingers declare their love for him by caressing her skin, starting near his neck, then running down his back towards his ass. With every touch, he felt himself slipping away. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her grab a large leather object with what seemed like dozens of tendrils coming out of it. She ran it across his back, the tendrils reaching out to caress and comfort him. Then she brought it back and hit him, the tendrils embracing him again. The first hit was barely more than a tap, as if she was introducing herself to a new dance partner. But each hit got a little harder, a little more forceful, as their dance continued to the next stage. She hit him in tune with the rhythm of a song that only they could hear.

Soon, as the pain fled away, he could see the song unfold in front of him and form into shapes that took him to that place that he tried so hard to hide. He found himself on a path in the middle of a dense aspen forest, there were thin white trees on all sides of the path and at the end of it a large boulder. With every beat in that song, he felt himself slip further into the forest and as he did he walked past those trees. Hiding behind each tree, he saw the faces of the demons he fears. Faces that were twisted, distorted, and filled with anger and hate. He wanted to flee but every time he turned to do so he would feel another beat in the song, urging him to dance his part. Once he did, he saw that, beneath that twisted mask of anger and hate, the eyes of the demons showed they were as scared and alone as he was. After seeing them for what they were, each demon disappeared and he continued down the forest path till he found the boulder. He walked around it and saw her splayed out on the curved stone. She looked the same as he last saw her before she left for work that morning. They had had a fight, over something he could not remember, and he never saw her again. He tries to turn around then, to run as fast as he could before seeing her, but then the beat continues at the hardest pace yet. And, somewhere in between the pain, he hears the voice of soft melodic voice of Asha whispering into his ear that "You can do this beautiful, say goodbye." He falls down on his knees before her and tells her how sorry he was, how much he misses her. Just then, he feels the soft touch of her fingers on his face as she wiped away his tear. He looked up into her eyes and she smiles back at him, as vibrant and alive as she always was, and tells him "Don't worry my love, it was not your fault." She reaches out and holds him in her arms and he starts to cry. He cries for all the time they had together. He cries for all the mistakes he made. He cries for how much he misses her. And, most of all, he cries for how happy he is to see her again. She holds him for hours like that, as time slips away and the tears of sadness and happiness run down his face.

He wakes up some time later lying on Asha's lap on her couch upstairs. He has no idea how he got up here, but he does not care. All that he cares about is her soft touch reminding him that he is okay. After lying like that for several minutes, he turns his head and looks up into her eyes and tries to form the words to thank her, to ask her what happened, was any of it real. Before he can, she looks down at him and says "Do not worry lovely, you are safe now. You found what you needed didn't you?" He nodded yes. She gives him the gift again of her wonderful smile and whispers "Good that is all that matters in the end. Now, lay back down and have another cookie you may need the strength for later." He, of course, did not hesitate at the chance to taste those cookies again, and she was right: he did need the strength for later that day.

Eventually, he returned home. It felt like to him he was in that cottage for days, if not months, but when he checked the time when he got home it was less than an hour. He slept better that night than that night than he had in months, safe in the assurance that he knows, somewhere deep down, that the cottage will be there if he even needs it.