For the Operator, this is not punishment.
That would be too clean.
What happens begins before impact.
Always before.
Sometimes I notice it in something ridiculous: the rod vibrates slightly in its own air, as if it hesitates by a fraction of a millimeter before touching me. And that millimeter is already inside my skin.
The first contact is not clear.
It is clumsy.
As if the surface does not quite know where obedience starts.
The sound is dry, but not uniform. There is a hollow part in it, like someone tapping an old table with the wrong intention.
And the strange thing is this:
I pay more attention to the sound than to the strike.
That should not happen.
The second impact arrives and I notice something stupid: the edge of my sleeve is slightly rolled inward. I don’t know when it happened. But now it presses exactly where the next strike has not fully settled yet.
As if my clothing arrives before my awareness.
The Operator does not visibly change intensity.
But my back knows.
I do not think of it as pain.
I think of it as “too close.”
There is a difference.
Pain would be an event.
This is not an event. It is continuity.
And I start noticing things I should not be noticing:
the air between strikes changes temperature slightly, as if the room is breathing incorrectly with me
skin response is delayed, like the signal arrives a fraction too late
the rod produces a sound that does not fully leave, it sticks to the edge of hearing like a mispronounced word
There is a moment when I realize something uncomfortable:
I am waiting for the next strike with a part of me that does not want to admit it is waiting.
And while I wait, I get distracted by something irrelevant.
A dust particle in the air.
Not floating gracefully. No. Moving wrong. Like it cannot decide where to fall.
I watch it for too long.
Too long.
The next impact does not surprise me.
That is the worst part.
I had already anticipated it without meaning to.
And then the body does something strange: it moves half a second before thought. Not to protect itself. Just to align.
As if trying to fit into a logic it does not belong to.
And there is a small, almost stupid detail:
the buckle brushing the side of my body shifts by one millimeter.
just one millimeter.
but that millimeter changes everything.
I do not know why I register it.
I keep going.
The air becomes heavier on exhale, but not always. Only after certain strikes. As if the system has bad days inside the same minute.
And I catch myself thinking something clumsy:
“this should not feel like this.”
But I don’t even know what “this” refers to.
Only that I notice it too much.
And that is the only constant.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
