The roof is leaking. The puddle on the floor reaches up to his arm. The tile beneath him is cold, and his shirt is soaked; he can barely feel his fingers or feet, but the beat of his bloodstream pounds on his ears intermittently enough to keep him from falling asleep or into unconsciousness.
His eyes leak, too. A few tears every couple of minutes or so, salty liquid pooling on the shell of his ears, trickling in and making him shudder. There’s no sobbing or runny nose, though, just a hitched breath now and then to remind him that he still breathes. His lips are dry, however, probably from breathing through them instead of using his nose, or maybe because of all the begging and pleading he’s been doing.
He’s bleeding, as well. Knife wounds to his arms, legs, torso and back ooze viscous, dark blood which spills onto the floor and is absorbed by his clothes, making him feel heavy and anchored to the now red-stained blue ceramic underneath him. They’re all deep enough for blood to escape his body in a continuous flow, but shallow enough to keep him alive long enough.
Long enough for what? To get medical attention? Highly unlikely, taking into account the fact that no one knows he’s here and his cellphone was taken away. Even if he had a phone, he wouldn’t be able to provide directions as to his whereabouts – he doesn’t remember how he got here in the first place.
Not enough time to be saved. Long enough to think about his crimes, his sins? No, the pain doesn’t allow him to focus on much else other than wanting to either die or be saved. Perhaps that’s it – perhaps he’s meant to live long enough to experience as much pain as possible. It’s a morbid thought, particularly if he tries to match it to the person that left him in this state, but stranger things have happened, and humans have a tendency to break out of their mould when pushed to the end of their rope, of their sanity.
Torture, then. He’s being tortured. He can take that, can deal with it. Because of whom it’s coming from, because he knows he’s had this coming for years now. He pushed, shoved, pried, lied, cajoled and manipulated, tugged at strings better off left alone, always waiting for a spontaneous reaction as opposed to a carefully thought-out answer, always wanting the raw, passionate riposte and not the calculated, politically correct comeback.
He had to wait years for it, but he finally got it. That it came in the form of an ambush he did not expect; that his body would be kicked and punched he would have never been able to foresee, but he wasn’t exactly surprised at the cold-blooded precision with which the knife wounds were delivered. That it was a knife, however, was an inside-joke of sorts, and even through the throbbing pain he could appreciate the intimacy behind the chosen weapon.
Despite the blood loss and the precariousness of his situation, his mind wanders and there’s a stirring in his loins that manages to draw a hoarse moan from his aching throat. The effort, involuntary as it is, renews his body’s pained cries, and he feels lightheaded for the first time since he was carelessly tossed to the ground.
He concentrates on the sounds around him to keep himself awake – what for, he doesn’t know, but it seems important to make an effort. He can still hear the leaking roof, and now the pool of water has reached his back and head; he can’t turn to look at it, but from the corner of his eye he can see that the water is now a dirty shade of pinkish red, very likely due to his blood mixing in with the other liquid. That either means that there’s enough water to reach one of his wounds, or his blood has pooled and extended all the way to where the water is. At any rate, it is bad news for him… if he wants to live through this, that is.
It surprises him to realize he doesn’t know if he wants to survive or not. There’s clear advantages to both, which confuses him – shouldn’t he be scared of death? Shouldn’t he be finding a way to get up and out of this dank, cold place? Just laying still and praying and begging to hypothetical deities or fate or the universe would get him nowhere fast. Still, he doesn’t feel like moving. What does that say about himself?
Footsteps echo all around and he can’t figure out where they come from until a pair of legs stops right in front of his field of vision. There’s blood on the black shoes and the hem of the black dress-pants; he’s not sure about anywhere else since he can’t see past that area – his head is lolled to the side and he has not the strength or will to move it. There’s also mud, and something white that could be dried salty water or something else entirely. He knows who this is, and feels the need to say something. He tries, but stops in mid-word as his chapped lips bleed when he parts them to speak. New tears roll down his eyes, and a sob shakes his whole frame, bringing along more pain as the world around him takes a frilly turn.
His torturer drops to one knee and places the back of a warm hand to his forehead; his skin is cold in comparison to the other’s, bringing out goosebumps all over his body. The contact is almost gentle, but he refuses to believe the action is anything but methodical – Torture Methods 101: Do not let your victim die before you’re ready to put them six feet under.
Two fingers press against his neck now, obviously checking his pulse; he knows it’s very weak, but not weak enough to worry his captor. A frustrated sigh reaches his ears, and he feels a small surge of pride at managing to make his assailant mad or at least upset.
Before he can explore the implications of said feeling, ice cold water splashes on his whole body almost at once; he realizes a hose is being used just before his lungs contract and leave him without oxygen for a few agonizingly long seconds. He somehow manages to curl into a loose foetal position, instinct taking over in spite of the pain. The aggressor continues to hose him down, taking advantage of his position to reach his back properly before placing a foot on his chest and rolling him so he’s on his back again. More water hits his face before the hose is tossed away and he’s left shivering and panting, although thankful because his lips and throat are no longer dry.
The foot on his chest retreats only to be replaced by the attacker’s body straddling his own; it brings no arousal his time, only breathless anticipation as his body is covered in warmth he’d thought lost until this precise moment; the scent of his blood mixed with floral shampoo and citrusy body lotion is new yet familiar and welcome. Cold hands cup his unmarred face – just now he wonders why the knife had spared it along with his groin, but then soft, warm lips are pressing against his cold, chapped ones, and his eyes close wearily; his body arches up to meet the other’s, and instinct has him try to reverse the position – however, his strength fails and he ends up splayed out almost wantonly. His left arm, the least damaged, manages to reach the other’s face but is swatted away and he makes no effort to move again.
The kiss is sloppy at first, almost mockingly so, until it slows down and deepens, turning into some sort of goodbye or parting. He’s crying again once his mouth is released, and he refuses to open his eyes, but two quick slaps across his face force him to look into blood-shot eyes. He can’t read the expression on the face hovering over his, and for the first time he’s truly frightened. He follows a hand and sees it wrap around the knife and the sight of his blood on the blade triggers the panic switch on his brain, the fight-or-flight response reduced to a command to flee that cannot be carried out as his body refuses to respond.
There has been no exchange of words between them since he stepped into the building some odd hours ago and was clubbed on the stomach – not a single word during the brutal beating, not even while his body was methodically and efficiently slashed and stabbed with the same knife that now glinted in the half-light in front of his face. No response to his questions, no reaction to his pleads. He thought he was afraid before, but nothing could prepare him for the sheer terror the voice he now hears conjures.
It is nothing like what he was used to, and it seems impossible that the voice stored in his memory and the one he hears now belong to the same person – his mind goes as far as to hypothesize this is someone else, a twin or a double of sorts, but many things speak against such a theory. The only explanation he can come to that rings more or less plausible is that hate and rage have twisted a light and soft voice and turned it into a deep, hoarse murmur that resonates on his chest like a distorted bass.
“Remember you once told me… I could only love you or kill you…?” He nods, afraid of what might happen if he tries to speak or fails to respond. “And I told you I couldn’t do either… that you couldn’t force me?” Another nod, followed by a shiver that earns him another slap. “Then you told me to make up my mind and let you know, remember that?” Sobbing, he nods, tears blurring his vision as his breathing gets faster and shallower. “Well… this is me… letting you know.”
*****
I stand up, pulling the knife out of his lifeless body along the way. A new stream of blood gushes out, but it’s only a vacuum effect of sorts. I stay at his side for a moment, committing the scene to memory before I go and get the hose to clean his body off, entranced at the eddies that form as water and blood mix and rush towards the nearby drain. I then clean the knife and my bloodstained hands and legs before deciding to hose myself completely, lest I miss something; the clothes will burn, anyway, and the knife will go to the attic, along with everything else I can’t readily get rid of.
After making sure everything is clean and I cannot be traced back to this god awful place, I go back to have one last look at him. I’m tempted to provide one last kindness and close his eyes and mouth, but three things stop me. The first and least important is a technicality: I cannot do either because he hasn’t been dead long enough for rigour to set in. The second one is also a technicality, one I picked up in some movie or other – fingerprints can be picked up from eyes, too, and I will not risk that.
It is the third that really stills me, however. I’m nauseated, and touching a corpse might make me lose control over my stomach and its contents. I’ve never felt such repulsion before, and it frightens me, so I simply grab my things and walk away without ever glancing back.
A couple of hours pass before I return home. I know my partner’s around, so I sneak into the basement first to take my clothes off and toss them into the ancient heater the house came with; everything goes in, shoes included. I watch them burn while drying myself and then I put on the spare change of clothes I brought along. I go into the house and head to the kitchen to get a glass of water – I think about maybe grabbing something stronger, but my stomach is still waging battle against itself, so I settle for ice cold water. Then up the stairs and into the attic, where I bury the backpack with the knife and other things under a pile of junk that will either burn later on or go to charity, I’m not sure which yet. Afterwards, I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth twice until all I taste is acrid mint – no him, no fear.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I realize I look as though I’m about to be sick, which is how I look when I’m stressed out almost beyond my breaking point. I take a couple of deep breaths, reciting my favourite mantra while flexing my back and shoulder muscles until I feel something inside click back into place. I splash warm water on my face and pat it dry before glancing at the mirror again – there we go! Tiredness but no sickness, and my stomach is back to normal.
Feeling confident that I’m composed enough to face the world again, I go into the library, where my partner is. There’s a smile aimed my way, and while I notice a flash of suspicion crossing mirthful eyes, nothing is said. Instead, open arms beckon me hither, and I walk to them, sitting on a warm lap and allowing myself to be cradled by loving arms, my own wrapped around a narrow waist as my head rests on shoulders slightly broader than my own.
“Everything all right?” I nod in response, suddenly exhausted. “Sleep,” is all I hear before closing my eyes and slipping into comfortable slumber.
******
The scent of blood cannot be simply hosed down. Murder doesn’t flee one’s eyes immediately.
Out of all the things I’ve taught you, I never imagined you would ever excel at the coldest and most heartless of all. It is so foreign to someone as cheerful and overall peaceful as you, not to mention loving. Perhaps, however, that is why you’re so good at it? No one would ever see it coming, so you’ll always have more time to prepare, to plot and set the board to your liking before making your move.
Yes, there was murder in your eyes earlier this evening; yes, the scent of blood and death impregnated your skin and hair, almost dousing the aroma of shampoo and perfume. Many would probably say part of your soul died as you took a life, but I’ve never believed in such nonsense. Particularly not when your nightmares were eradicated so swiftly and seamlessly.
You used to toss and turn in your sleep very often; I wondered what could be causing it, but you never let anything on, not even through direct questioning. In a way, it is a frightening thought that you can hide something so heavy and consuming from me, being that we’re bound ’till world’s end. It is also comforting, in a darker sense – it means you can still surprise me, and there’s still much to be learned from each other.
If you’d spoken of your grief, I would’ve taken matters into my own hand and eliminated its source. I would’ve been right to do so, but perhaps I’d be robbing you of a chance to grow and try new things. As it stands, it is very likely your decision was the most appropriate one; you are, after all, sleeping so peacefully no one would believe you took a life mere hours ago.
Seeing you sleep so soundly, on the other hand, makes me remember my oath to you. Even if you set the world on fire, I will ensure your happiness is ever lasting.
