Sewing

She was not an inexperienced sewer but she was not a good one either; the scattered marks on pierced fingertips could certainly attest to this. Nonetheless, she posed needle in hand deciding the best approach to the task at hand. Black thread, she nodded to herself, don’t want to overdo it with the colour. She suspended the thread high above her head, the glare of the bulb outlining the barely visible strand. A gentle hum danced across her lips as she threaded the needle, already she could envision the completed project. It had been Gwen’s idea. The two were tied at the hip, as the saying goes. She excitedly pressed her finger against the prick of the needle. Repeated stabbing had made her somewhat immune to the pain of sewing.

The end of the thread traced each movement she made, chasing the needle as Jo prepared her equipment. A spare spool of black thread lay within arm’s reach of her seat stood neatly before a rusting tool box. Rogue clumps of knotted wool escaped from the hastily closed lid, their tails tangled around various screwdrivers and wrenches. Organisation was not a skill of hers but convenience was. Why buy a new box when you had a perfectly good one with available space at home? It was absolute genius, although it did require a good disinfecting before she willingly added her sewing equipment. Besides the spool she placed a pair of dainty nail scissors, and besides that a pair of rather intimidating garden shears. The shears were decaying at the handles, but still had plenty of life left in them – or at least that’s what Jo continued to tell herself. In the small space left between the scissors and the spool, she set a mug containing an odd brown liquid and rested a towel against its side.

Finally prepared, she took her seat on the table needing as much room as possible. Taking a hefty handful of material, she positioned the needle above the marked spot. Jo pressed the tip of the needle gently into the material, watching the red droplet form around it, before fully penetrating it. A fine stream of red flowed freely, lessening her grip on the needle. Worry lined her face as she momentarily grasped at the slick metal, expression only relaxing when she had successfully forced the needle out the other side. Inhaling deeply, she allowed the panic to subside and wiped both the needle and her hands on her bare chest. Gwen’s sleeping figure had not stirred at the wound, still resting peacefully under the influence of Rohypnol. It had been difficult to acquire, but worth the struggle.

Swiping the towel from the side, she dipped it into the strange brown liquid. Taking to her feet, Jo swabbed the fluid onto her right side, hoping that it would not stain as she liberally applied it.

The smile returned with sudden vigour and she lay back on the table. Taking the needle in one hand she grabbed her side with the other, pulling a chunk of the flesh towards Gwen’s body. Having learned from the first stich, she held the needle in a tight fist and drove it through the hunk of flesh at her side. She winced at the pain, folding in on herself as she ignored the warmth that slowly seeped along her back. With deep breaths and gritted teeth, she continued with the project, determined to meet its end-point.

Each stich sounded with a wet slap from the force of her hand. Sharp hitches of breath came from Gwen as her sleep became more restless, the sounds striking a discord with one another. Excitement fled into Jo’s veins as she neared the final stitch; it seemed that she would wake just in time to reveal the surprise.

Teeth bared in animalistic pride, she tore through the thread with pointed canines. A length of thread approximately one foot fell to the floor, hanging loosely between Gwen’s writhing body and her own calm figure. Groping blindly for the mug, her fingers met with the familiar ceramic allowing her to spill the soothing antiseptic on the open wounds surrounding the stitches. Soon, the towel replaced the mug and she wiped away the excess fluid, the red and brown infusing into a disgusting wasteland beneath the table.

From her hair, Jo pulled at the strand of the bow that held the hair from her face, the bow collapsing into one long strand of ribbon. Interlacing this ribbon between their stitches, she finished off with a decorative bow just over their waist.

Gwen’s body had stopped fighting, her form now flaccid. The sharp, hitches of pain had mellowed into deep, concentrated breaths that gave the impression of the struggle for air. Her hand lay limp against her side. Her eyes open and void of emotion, staring relentlessly upwards. A creeping hand belonging to Jo intertwined with her own, which did not respond.

Jo smiled, placing a delicate kiss on Gwen’s cheek. They could only get closer. They were tied at the hip. Literally.

No Struggle

The moonlight crept through the window, dancing along her skin. Dust spiralled and twirled between the beams of light, slowly approaching the girl until they landed upon the yellowed skin. Deep gashes dominated her forearms, blood seeping from the wounds; the deep red rivulets printed on her skin. Staggered breaths escaped from her lips, the small puffs of mist becoming lost in the moonlight. Her eyelashes fluttered as she fought for one last moment. It wasn’t really a struggle if she didn’t fight.

Twelve hours. She had timed it perfectly. In twelve hours they would find her. In twelve hours they would find her body, her veins exposed to bitter winter air as the last drops of life coagulated at their openings.

An autopsy would be demanded. Just in case there was a chance that they weren’t to blame. Just in case they hadn’t murdered yet another person.

But they would find nothing.

Nothing except the wild scratches lining the inside of her thighs, the skin beneath her fingernails, and the mutilated remains of her vaginal opening. The barbed wire clenched in her bloodied fist draped down her body, caressing her hips before becoming lost in the stringy remains of her sexuality. The penetration was excruciating, but she fought against the pain for the satisfaction. It wasn’t a struggle if she didn’t fight.

Despite the pain and the blood, her only relief lay in the fact that at least this penetration was by her own will. Her own choice. Her own consent. The last one wasn’t.

The bleeding then was nothing in the light of her new state. But that didn’t make it hurt less. The rips healed, the bruises faded, but the scars remained ingrained on her soul. But, she didn’t fight. She didn’t fight. There was no struggle if you didn’t fight. There was no rape if there was no struggle.

Well, she’d struggled now. She held the remains of her struggle in the meeting of her thighs, in the perforated skin of her hands, in the receding soul that screamed for salvation through her eyes.

There was no struggle if she didn’t fight.

This was a god damn struggle. But at least this struggle ended with peace.

My Child

My child. My. Child.

The words, so unnaturally they form in the depths of my throat. Yet as they slip from my tongue… So right.

That is my child.

Her black curls cradle her face oh so perfectly, each spiral moving of its own accord in a stunning resemblance to the Medusa who tempted Zeus so. And how she tempts me.

I wish to possess her deepest desires and anxieties, to be the breast she rests upon in times of need. To be the symbol of beauty and love that shapes her future. To be her mother.

A giggle bubbles from her throat as I approach. She knows – senses – that her mother is near. That I am near. Oh, my child. Worry not. Our time is soon. I cannot care for you just yet. I need just a few more moments to prepare.

There’s not long left, now.

Don’t worry.

My hands are contaminated, I know this. But how you tempt me. My hands, though tainted, shall envelop you in the warmth of my love.

Do not cry my child, mother is here now. The bad people are gone. They can no longer keep me away.

Do you see that? That hand print is a sign of my love.

Every day I watched you – I couldn’t leave you unsupervised in their care. Everyday I rested my hand against that window pane, preparing myself for the day I could rest it against the curve of your neck.

Hush those tears. I know you are too young to understand, but just know this.

I love you, my child.

They’re not here to tell you lies anymore.

Mother. Father. Cruel lies. Evil lies.

You are mine and no other’s. I have known this since the beginning of time.

You are mine.

My child.

 


[This story is a previously written one, in which I attempted to take on a different style of writing from my usual one. It is a very open-ended text that could be interpreted as you wish, however it was written with one specific idea/concept in mind. Maybe some day I’ll share my own interpretation of the text I’ve written]

Apple; Right Shoe; Dog

The soft hush escaped his lips as he kneeled before the pet. “Come now,” he whispered, “’tis the middle of the night. There is no need for such noise.” The dog whimpered, nose nuzzled between weathered paws. His ears lay flat against his head, muffling the gentle snores bumbling down the stairs. “That’s a good boy.” From behind his back, the man withdrew a single apple, stolen from the fruit basket that rested upon the kitchen surface. The fruit rolled from his fingertips, landing just before the dog’s muzzle. Cautiously nibbling the stem, the dog tested the apple from the strange man. Finding no faults, he carefully gorged on the fruit, ears standing as he consumed his prize.

Please with the bargaining, the man rose to his feet. A smile played on his lips. Quietly he turned away, following the trail of clothes littering the staircase; a pathway leading to the bedroom. As he ascended the shadows slipped to reveal slivers of bare skin, only an ill-fitting pair of shorts providing cover.

He took careful mental notes of the articles he passed: a sleek black dress, laddered tights, a lone right shoe. The trail ended with a pair of black, lace briefs, carelessly dropped before the bedroom door.

With a gentle push, the door crept open. The room revealed was rather barren, a double bed and a chest of drawers its only inhabitants. In the spaces between a soft, red carpet peeked through.

A breathy groan drifted from the form wrapped within the folds of the duvet, a restless figure writhing in the sheets. He settled at the edge of the bed besides the figure, running a cool fingertip across her tender wrists. A bruise blossomed from beneath the handcuffs that restrained her to the bed. A relieved exhalation escaped from the woman at the contact. She nestled back into the covers, a subtle smile slipping onto her face.

In one gentle motion, he swept back the hair that had fallen over her face. Her eyes clenched tight, face static before opening her eyes. With a sudden sharpness, she scuttled back towards the headboard, hissing as the metal cut into her already red wrists. “No, please…” she wept, hand rubbing her bruise in a repetitive motion. At his smile, she reached a hand towards the dome of her head, wincing at the touch.

Blood heavily clotted around the roots of her hair, tearing the strands from their base as she removed the hand. A sticky scarlet residue coated the fingers she had used to investigate. Turning back to her captor, her eyes fell upon his open palm which lay just before her. Rested in his hand, two white pills.

“No,” she whispered once more, “not again…” He smiled.

“You know the rules.”

Their eyes met, his watching her intently. An awaited acceptance washed over her face, gaze falling upon the red stained bat that rested against the bed.

Reaching out an open hand, her eyes locked onto his as he tipped the pills into her palm. She swallowed the pills dry, no water offered, ignoring the burn as they dissolved in her throat. Clenching her eyes shut, she fell back into the pillows. She didn’t want to watch as the world dissolved before her eyes, swirling into an unintelligible mess of colour and sound. Her ear filled with the buzz of white noise as the pills reached her stomach, the last sensation she knowingly acknowledged the heavy palm that fell upon her thigh, and the words that he uttered.

“That’s a good girl.”

Hunting; Snow

The soft swirl of snowfall fell before his eyes, distorting the landscape ahead of him. Each step left its mark; an indent quickly masked by the fall that threatened to blind him. Lulls in the wind gave view to the red trail that dripped between the trees, the snow transforming the rouge drops into small crystalline structures. It was injured. That was for certain.

Forearm as shield, he swept the pine branches aside, the thick of his jacket protecting his already wind-bitten skin. Pause. Tension built in the branch as it was held, sending a ripple through the leaves. The tree ahead trembled. Slowly, he released the branch, allowing it to slide soundlessly back into position.

His foot rolled through the snow, an attempt to mute the sound of his steps. Pause. The tree trembled once more. One more step placed him before another ruby of snow. He crouched down, finger running across its surface. He removed his finger to reveal a streak of sticky red. A fresh mark.

In one smooth movement, he pulled the weight across his shoulder; the palm of his left hand moulding to the barrel of the gun, the right hand balanced around the stock. Index finger trained over the trigger, he took aim.

The quiver of branches marked its fall. A soft grunt disturbed the quiet of the forest, a strained silence falling in its wake. Lowering the barrel to the floor, he stepped towards the sound’s origin. He brushed the branches aside, vision no longer obscured by snow nor trees.

Using the snow as leverage, his prey attempted to claw itself away. The soft shush of its body dragging through the snow met his ears. At the sound of his footsteps, it turned; the white of its eyes blood-shed and fearful. A red stream trickled over its bare skin, oozing from the entry wound just below its shoulder. Its eyes searched through the trees, before meeting with his own. He watched as its desperation grew.

“Please?” she whispered. “Please…” She stared intently at her captor, tears escaping from her eyes before her gaze fell to the floor.

He smiled steadily, raising the barrel of his gun. With one squeeze, her head was snapped backwards by the force of the bullet, torso dragged to the floor by the weight. The subsequent blood seeped from the new entry wound, staining the white of her skin a deep red.

Slinging the shotgun back over his shoulder, he plucked a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and stooped down momentarily, swabbing the splatter from his boots. Taking his exit, he allowed the soiled handkerchief to fall from his fingers. He produced a phone from within his jacket, placing it against his ear. “Another successful hunt,” he chuffed. The bluing skin of the girl’s body was no longer visible as he laughed down the phone.

The snowfall picked up again as the distance between the two grew; a desolate tomb of snow forming around her body as he made his escape. His voice rode along the winter breeze, barely a whisper by the time it reached the body. The soft chuckle rolling over her grave as he continued to speak down the phone.

“Release the next one.”