A day for dying
¡Oh cauterio suave!
¡oh regalada llaga!
¡oh mano blanda! ¡oh toque delicado
que a vida eterna sabe
y toda deuda paga!
Matando, muerte en vida la has trocado.
---San Juan de la Cruz - Llama de amor viva
The phone rings. The line is dead. It rings again, the heightened panic, the listening, breath held. Ana feels the eyes boring into her back from somewhere above. She knows not to look - remembering nothing but those eyes - lachrymose brown, eyes whose edges bleed interior rivers and rivulets, strangely captivating.
Eyes whose furtive glances she had absorbed and then returned with a confrontational stare: "If I am to be assassinated," she thinks, "Let it be by my own hand."
That was several weeks ago. It almost seems like a lifetime has passed. And then the phone. And then the silence.
Shivering, she snaps her phone closed, not turning it off - tempting it, daring it to ring again. It doesn't. She wonders if the assassin really means to do her harm. She is mildly disappointed, feeling the adrenaline disperse, the fleeting rush: so many scenarios of how she would fight back, pre-empt, attack, run like hell, music pounding, up the side of the hill, away from the cruising, low-riding tinted windows. And the fear that prickled under her skin each time she submerged herself in the underpass, waiting for the stranger to casually step out of the shadow and trap her.
Would she mind being trapped? Or would it be the ultimate adventure? Giving herself up as a lamb to slaughter, feeling her flesh open, slowly, the ripping and voracious consumption, the nothingness, the drill without anesthesia.
And yet, she knows, viscerally, that there is indeed something wrong. Something different. Is the assassin being hunted by another? Buzzards circling the fetid animal. Was there fear underneath the masked breath? "This must be the end game," she ponders as the bone crunching thud reverberates in the blackness.
----------------------- 0 -----------------------
Ana awakes, briefly, to the dull hum of an idling motor. From the fumes that seep through the cracked trunk, she is vaguely aware of being at some sort of service station. She begins to mumble, only to find her mouth full of what tastes like underwear saturated in vile bodily fluids. She gags, and chokes on the vomit that rises in her throat, banging her head, and settling back into unconsciousness. A much safer place to be, for now.
----------------------- 0 -----------------------
The dark hair contrasts with the pasty white hands. She wonders what part of the world those hands come from, probably the Mediterranean somewhere, she thinks, or due north from there. Her head is throbbing and her neck is strained, hands tied behind her back with what feels like the same thera-band rubber that she had in her gym bag. It must have been an act of kindness, because the rancid gag had been replaced by duct tape, pulling at the fuzz on her upper lips, and over her eyes, a torn cotton cloth. He surely hadn't noticed that she could peek down the edge of her nose and catch a glimpse of his rapidly working fingers. So, she has finally met her assassin, though she has yet to have a formal introduction. Ana is now awake and keenly aware of her surroundings, the concrete wicking away all the heat from her core. She tries to remain still, to not let on that she has come to, to ascertain what she can from the rhythmic whine, click, whine click that is penetrating her ear drums.
He stops working. Shuffles his feet, with pant legs that drag against the smooth grey floor, sighs. His breathing is erratic, and she wonders if maybe the next gag is in stages of preparation. The thought repulses her, even as she thinks it. Strange, being tied-up and at the will of another is not nearly as exciting as she had thought it might be, when her mind wandered out of her body, limp, receiving whatever was to be given. Back then she had imagined the limitless possibilities of power games and bondage. Had her assassin discovered this about her? Had he intercepted one of the blank white envelopes, sent to her, discreetly, with a complicit wink from the company that provided the catalogues? Whatever it was, this is not at all what she had expected, but here she is, so she might as well make the best of it.
A moan escapes his lips and she tenses her back, trying to remain calm, but feeling the ancient panic rise from the pit of her stomach. Warm, sticky dripping on the back of her neck, rolling towards her ear, he is standing over her now, her face pressed to the concrete. The smell is not nearly as pleasant as it could have been, if she were to have had some agency, but that thought is totally inappropriate for this situation. Ana's morals are suddenly cloudy, like the viscous liquid that has slid from her jaw, collecting in a puddle on the floor. She instinctively tugs, wanting to clean her face and then he speaks. Slowly, thickly, and then his voice rising in a sort of chant or incantation.
But it is a language that she can't understand, she can't even place it. It sounds as if its alphabet is unfathomably different from her own. The rough barking grate tells her that he is expressing some sort of displeasure, perhaps he is telling her that she is a dirty whore... that sounds more or less the same out of every man's mouth, in every language she has ever heard. She decides to roll with the punches, as it were, tilting her chin back, is he even a little attractive? Defiantly she grinds her teeth, the squeaking drawing his attention back to the immediate present, his liquid gaze resting on the curve of her breasts. He pins his booted foot to the center of her chest, splitting her down the middle, oppressing her breathing, her facial muscles jerking upwards in a smile. This is what she has been waiting for. The leather, steel and rubber, begin moving in a slow rocking, up and down, the familiar warmth beginning to spread over her, under her, around her. Ana forgets the cold concrete, she forgets the pulsing ache, ignoring the vile odor, and letting herself feel the movement, like the waves rolling in. The boot moves down, twisting in the soft flesh of her abdomen, stopping just above the rise of her sex. The boot, seemingly detached from the assassin, hovers and then, instead of the crushing stomp that Ana is preparing herself for, gently and dexterously catches the edge of her underwear with the molded rubber sole, pushing underneath and twisting, the pull and the pain almost pleasurable. Ana floats there on the edge of ecstasy and deliverance, dangling from a thread above a tiny, man-made personal hell, thinking... there really must be something wrong with me, because I am enjoying this state of suspended reality. This is not the fantasy that she would have chosen for herself, yet here it is, being delivered, just as if she had asked for it. Had she asked for it?
The assassin is suddenly aware that instead of fear and pain, he is inflicting pleasure and is immediately enraged. Deep bellowing from the lungs of this strange man in such a strange language. Ana is ready, to offer herself up. To come. But death does not ensue, or at least not hers. The assassin is instead temerous of this maniacal creature, this devil in the guise of a woman. What kind of immorality would allow a woman to enjoy her own degradation? She has ruined it all for him, and in place of taking the knife that he has so carefully honed, to her throat, he takes it to his own instead.
¡oh regalada llaga!
¡oh mano blanda! ¡oh toque delicado
que a vida eterna sabe
y toda deuda paga!
Matando, muerte en vida la has trocado.
---San Juan de la Cruz - Llama de amor viva
The phone rings. The line is dead. It rings again, the heightened panic, the listening, breath held. Ana feels the eyes boring into her back from somewhere above. She knows not to look - remembering nothing but those eyes - lachrymose brown, eyes whose edges bleed interior rivers and rivulets, strangely captivating.
Eyes whose furtive glances she had absorbed and then returned with a confrontational stare: "If I am to be assassinated," she thinks, "Let it be by my own hand."
That was several weeks ago. It almost seems like a lifetime has passed. And then the phone. And then the silence.
Shivering, she snaps her phone closed, not turning it off - tempting it, daring it to ring again. It doesn't. She wonders if the assassin really means to do her harm. She is mildly disappointed, feeling the adrenaline disperse, the fleeting rush: so many scenarios of how she would fight back, pre-empt, attack, run like hell, music pounding, up the side of the hill, away from the cruising, low-riding tinted windows. And the fear that prickled under her skin each time she submerged herself in the underpass, waiting for the stranger to casually step out of the shadow and trap her.
Would she mind being trapped? Or would it be the ultimate adventure? Giving herself up as a lamb to slaughter, feeling her flesh open, slowly, the ripping and voracious consumption, the nothingness, the drill without anesthesia.
And yet, she knows, viscerally, that there is indeed something wrong. Something different. Is the assassin being hunted by another? Buzzards circling the fetid animal. Was there fear underneath the masked breath? "This must be the end game," she ponders as the bone crunching thud reverberates in the blackness.
----------------------- 0 -----------------------
Ana awakes, briefly, to the dull hum of an idling motor. From the fumes that seep through the cracked trunk, she is vaguely aware of being at some sort of service station. She begins to mumble, only to find her mouth full of what tastes like underwear saturated in vile bodily fluids. She gags, and chokes on the vomit that rises in her throat, banging her head, and settling back into unconsciousness. A much safer place to be, for now.
----------------------- 0 -----------------------
The dark hair contrasts with the pasty white hands. She wonders what part of the world those hands come from, probably the Mediterranean somewhere, she thinks, or due north from there. Her head is throbbing and her neck is strained, hands tied behind her back with what feels like the same thera-band rubber that she had in her gym bag. It must have been an act of kindness, because the rancid gag had been replaced by duct tape, pulling at the fuzz on her upper lips, and over her eyes, a torn cotton cloth. He surely hadn't noticed that she could peek down the edge of her nose and catch a glimpse of his rapidly working fingers. So, she has finally met her assassin, though she has yet to have a formal introduction. Ana is now awake and keenly aware of her surroundings, the concrete wicking away all the heat from her core. She tries to remain still, to not let on that she has come to, to ascertain what she can from the rhythmic whine, click, whine click that is penetrating her ear drums.
He stops working. Shuffles his feet, with pant legs that drag against the smooth grey floor, sighs. His breathing is erratic, and she wonders if maybe the next gag is in stages of preparation. The thought repulses her, even as she thinks it. Strange, being tied-up and at the will of another is not nearly as exciting as she had thought it might be, when her mind wandered out of her body, limp, receiving whatever was to be given. Back then she had imagined the limitless possibilities of power games and bondage. Had her assassin discovered this about her? Had he intercepted one of the blank white envelopes, sent to her, discreetly, with a complicit wink from the company that provided the catalogues? Whatever it was, this is not at all what she had expected, but here she is, so she might as well make the best of it.
A moan escapes his lips and she tenses her back, trying to remain calm, but feeling the ancient panic rise from the pit of her stomach. Warm, sticky dripping on the back of her neck, rolling towards her ear, he is standing over her now, her face pressed to the concrete. The smell is not nearly as pleasant as it could have been, if she were to have had some agency, but that thought is totally inappropriate for this situation. Ana's morals are suddenly cloudy, like the viscous liquid that has slid from her jaw, collecting in a puddle on the floor. She instinctively tugs, wanting to clean her face and then he speaks. Slowly, thickly, and then his voice rising in a sort of chant or incantation.
But it is a language that she can't understand, she can't even place it. It sounds as if its alphabet is unfathomably different from her own. The rough barking grate tells her that he is expressing some sort of displeasure, perhaps he is telling her that she is a dirty whore... that sounds more or less the same out of every man's mouth, in every language she has ever heard. She decides to roll with the punches, as it were, tilting her chin back, is he even a little attractive? Defiantly she grinds her teeth, the squeaking drawing his attention back to the immediate present, his liquid gaze resting on the curve of her breasts. He pins his booted foot to the center of her chest, splitting her down the middle, oppressing her breathing, her facial muscles jerking upwards in a smile. This is what she has been waiting for. The leather, steel and rubber, begin moving in a slow rocking, up and down, the familiar warmth beginning to spread over her, under her, around her. Ana forgets the cold concrete, she forgets the pulsing ache, ignoring the vile odor, and letting herself feel the movement, like the waves rolling in. The boot moves down, twisting in the soft flesh of her abdomen, stopping just above the rise of her sex. The boot, seemingly detached from the assassin, hovers and then, instead of the crushing stomp that Ana is preparing herself for, gently and dexterously catches the edge of her underwear with the molded rubber sole, pushing underneath and twisting, the pull and the pain almost pleasurable. Ana floats there on the edge of ecstasy and deliverance, dangling from a thread above a tiny, man-made personal hell, thinking... there really must be something wrong with me, because I am enjoying this state of suspended reality. This is not the fantasy that she would have chosen for herself, yet here it is, being delivered, just as if she had asked for it. Had she asked for it?
The assassin is suddenly aware that instead of fear and pain, he is inflicting pleasure and is immediately enraged. Deep bellowing from the lungs of this strange man in such a strange language. Ana is ready, to offer herself up. To come. But death does not ensue, or at least not hers. The assassin is instead temerous of this maniacal creature, this devil in the guise of a woman. What kind of immorality would allow a woman to enjoy her own degradation? She has ruined it all for him, and in place of taking the knife that he has so carefully honed, to her throat, he takes it to his own instead.
posted by ilana at 1:56 a.m.
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