by Cerys du Lys
She stares at me like some banshee, a howling spectre of a woman. I half expect her to start floating in the air, hair flying around unnaturally, with the skirt of her dress swishing around, ghostly.
She’s probably not a ghost and she probably can’t float, but I’m not so sure anymore, because I don’t know what happened but she just flies at me.
I laugh at first. Then I don’t. I stop. I stop because I can’t remember anything. My existence vanishes, replaced by pure white pain.
*** Angeline
I pull my lip into my mouth and taste Noah’s blood. It is almost sweet and reminds me of the flavor and texture of fresh raspberries, plucked straight from the vine. I stare at him, isolated, savoring his sweetness.
Blood is the only thing that is remotely sweet about Noah. He is a monster, a slaver like I am, dealing in human goods, trafficking and delivering our chattel to the highest bidders. I pick my clients carefully, preferring to offer my wares at a premium because of my rare skills. Noah does the same, I know, but he acts for a different reason. We both have our reasons.
This will be interesting. I want to enjoy it, and yet I suspect I already know how this is going to go.
“This, Noah, is a simple test,” I say to him. “You may either pass or fail. It is as easy as doing as I say.”
He looks angered by the mere thought of doing anything I ask of him. For good reason, I suppose. He’s never been treated this way, never been locked up and shackled to a wall, commanded and ordered around like the women he kidnaps and sells. He may also be upset at the fact that I lured him in with a kiss, and then bit hard enough onto his lip to draw blood.
I do not care if he is mad at me right now. He cannot do anything to me. He will never be able to do anything to me. I am invincible, for reasons of my own. I do not like those reasons, but that is how it is. Someday it may change. Some day I may have fallen.
He says nothing, and so I offer him my thoughts.
“I love this room. I find it elegant and pleasing in its simplicity and its statement. Sadly, white is a difficult color to maintain. On occasion, everything must be replaced or repainted. These white carpets?” I tap my foot on the floor, drawing his attention to the beautiful white beneath my feet. “They are especially difficult to keep clean. I have allowed you your shoes for now, but in the future, you will not be wearing them.”
That is that. The beginning and the end. I am in charge of the alpha and Noah is responsible for the omega. What stands between us is his choice. Most choose properly. Some do not. I am not responsible for anyone else’s improper choices. I will tell him what he needs to do, and if he refuses me, that is his own fault.
“That is where my simple test begins and ends,” I say. “You are bleeding, but soon you shall stop. Keep your lip tucked firmly in your mouth, and I shall consider this a success. If you get one drop of blood on my--”
He fights me. I can see it in his eyes, his thoughts. His very emotion flares through his entire body, tensing and shackled against my sanctuary wall. This is where I will train him, where I will tell him everything he needs to do, and he will do it. I have no doubts about that. He will want to. It is what he has always wanted.
It will not happen now, though. Later. That is unfortunate. I suspect I knew this all along. That, too, is unfortunate. I thought this might be easier.
He sucks in his own blood, inhaling it like noxious gas. Instead of choking and dying from the poisonous fumes of his own existence, he revels in them. He consumes his own toxins and seeks to make them into his strength, his weapon.
I am not responsible for the actions of others. It is not my fault. I am not meant to understand each other person’s individual consequences. He is to blame. I told him all he needed to know, and yet he ignored everything.
I think I knew he would, and yet I do not like what must be done because of it.
His blood and spit spew from his mouth, landing on my pristine white carpet. He has destroyed it. He has destroyed everything--my sanctuary--and now he must pay the price. I am but a mere vessel, an implement utilized in order to punish the wicked. I apologize for what I must do. I am not myself right now. I have tried to stop but he has made it impossible.
I spring forth and descend on him. My sanctuary is filled with white, and yet all I see is blood and darkness: His and my own.
I refrain myself from hurting him too much, too severely, and yet I want to. I want to press my nails past his eyelids, deep into his sockets, and feel the jelly of his eyes beneath my fingertips. I want to squeeze, then pull, blinding him for all eternity. I want to slam my knee into his crotch and smash his testicles between the bones of my leg and his hips.
I want...
No, Angeline. I tell myself this, and I know it is true. Noah is responsible for his actions, but he is not responsible for the actions of others. He must accept punishment and I shall mete out what he deserves, but nothing more. Nor less.
I slam his head hard against the wall, careful not to crack his skull. His eyes roll, disoriented and glossing over. I do it again. Just twice, no more. That is enough. I want his blood, though. I like it.
While he cannot think or move, I pull out his lip and suck on it like a child with a sweet. I stare into his eyes, watching him drift between trying to fight back and lose himself to unconsciousness. He has almost lost, and then he fights, but it is not with a will of his own. He struggles against me, mind rattled, and I bite down on his lip like I did before, but harder now.
I taste him, and revel in it. His blood drips from my lip to my chest, painting the bodice of my dress and my breasts with a lustrous, ruddy red. It is the color of expensive wine and fragrant roses. It is his gift to me.
Why, thank you, Noah. You are sweet. This is a kind present.
I smile at him, but he has no idea. I wish my smile was genuine, but it is too difficult for me. Soon, though. Yes.
I slam the heel of my hand into the apex of his ribs and he gasps and wheezes as every ounce of breath leaves his body. Then I squeeze him close to me, wrapping my arms around him and embracing him. He cannot struggle, he does not have the energy to. His mind is still reeling and he barely has enough air to live.
He will live, though. I know this. Breathe, Noah, I implore him, staring past his eyes and into his soul. For me, please? I will love you, I will try, if only you continue to exist and to breathe.
His lip is still bleeding. Droplets shiver and quake on the outskirts of his mouth, as he struggles to try and live, to survive. It is hard. I know this. Life is hard. And then why do we continue to live it? Why not end our own suffering?
I do not know. That is hard, too. Sometimes it is easier to suffer than to die. I think it is because of hope. You do not have hope once you are dead, because you do not have anything. Who is to say that dying is less painful than living? We do not know. We will never know.
His blood smears my cheeks as I hold him. Tiny little beads of his life’s essence, like perfect garnets, fall onto my white dress, leaving drops of red. The red spreads, further and further. I suck on his lip and drink from him while he continues to try and breath. I feel his ragged breath tickling my nose as he gasps and heaves, throat wracked by spasmic coughing, fighting against suffocation.
I kiss him gently and give him some of my own breath. I help him. Breathe for me, Noah. You are so sweet. Breathe. Accept my gift as I have accepted yours. Is my breath as sweet as your blood?
He does. He breathes now, and his body slumps in his shackles, becoming calm. He must feel a lot of pain. I feel sorry for him. I am sorry, Noah.
I reach for his hand and hold it in mine, measuring the length of his fingers against my own. His hand is bigger, mine would fit easily within his if we were to hold hands and walk together along the sand at a beach during sunset. I would like that. I would enjoy the sound of the ocean at one side of me, with the bright purples, soft reds, and hints of devious orange painting the sky with cozy perfection.
I am not responsibl
e for anyone else’s actions. They must deal with their own consequences.
I grab Noah’s smallest finger and hold it with my own, as if we are making a promise to one another. I do not know what we are promising, and I do not believe he understands what is going on, but I am fine with that. I squeeze his finger with my own, wrapping mine around his.
Careful, smiling, I wrap my small hand around his smallest finger, and then I snap it to the side until it breaks with a crack. Noah screams out in pain and his body writhes in agony.
I leave him. I am sorry, Noah. There is nothing more I can do for you right now. You must accept the consequences of your actions.
“St-stop...” a voice says to me. It is her, the one he was with when I came for him. “St-stop! Stop it!”
She is pleading with me, pleading for him. I do not understand why. For all intents and purposes I have saved her. He was going to rape her before I found him. I have brought her along, but I did not want to. I cannot let her leave now. She will ruin everything.
“I have stopped,” I say.
“Don’t hurt him, please?” she begs.
I tilt my head to the side and stare at her oddly. “Why?” I ask. I am curious to know her answer. “He took you.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t... I think there’s more. He didn’t hurt me. He said he wouldn’t hurt me and then when I trusted him, he didn’t.”
“Yes,” I say, “but you saw what happened, did you not? I told him what to do and he defied me. When he told you what to do, did you defy him?”
She slowly shakes her head, but I do not believe she understands.
“What do you think he would have done if you did? If you refused to listen to him, do you think he would have hurt you? What would have happened?”
“I don’t know,” she says, a splash of tears dotting her cheeks. “I don’t know because it didn’t happen. I didn’t do that and he didn’t do that.”
“I know,” I say. “I know exactly what would have happened. I have seen it happen before. You are not special.”
I lick my lips, tasting the faint remnants of Noah’s blood. I would like to taste him more, but I do not want to hurt him. He was screaming, but now he has stopped. Someone will need to mend his finger, among other things.
“I will be back,” I say. The girl says nothing, has said nothing since I last spoke. Everything she has said is useless. “I apologize that you needed to witness that. It was for your own good. I will not force you to suffer through it again unless you choose to of your own accord. You may observe, or not, as you like.”
She says something through muffled cries, but I do not listen. I step softly across the room, the skirt of my white dress now dotted with red blood swishing around my legs as I walk. I go to the door, open it, and leave in order to find someone to tend to Noah’s affliction.
*** Noah
I wake up in a room and it’s raining. I can hear it like it’s right next to me. The raindrops sound large, like they’re as big as cherry tomatoes, and I can’t figure out why I’m not drenched. Some stupid fucking wind chime keeps ringing, too. It must be windy, but there’s no wind, no rain, and I have no idea what the fuck is going on. The whole situation is screwed up.
I open my eyes, but I feel lightheaded and almost close them again. My body feels distant, like I don’t exist inside of it anymore. Maybe I’m a ghost. That would explain why I can hear the rain right there, and that annoying wind chime, but I can’t feel the water or the wind.
I look around and I’m laying on a bed in a room. Everything is gentle and soft, like I’ve moved out of my house and wandered into some sweet little home out west on a prairie. I’m a farmer now, apparently. I milk cows and till soil for a living, I guess. Sounds like the dumbest job in the world. Where the hell are these thoughts coming from? I feel really messed up right. More than usual, and for different reasons.
My farmwife is sitting in a chair nearby, rocking back and forth, smiling at me. She looks kind? I guess? Pretty attractive. How is she in bed? If I’m married to her, I should damn well know. Her smile mesmerizes me, but then I see her eyes. They stare at me, void of expression or emotion.
Motherfucker. It’s Angeline.
“Hello, Noah,” she says.
“Fuck you,” I say.
I’m not a farmer, this isn’t a shithole farmhouse on some prairie, and Angeline sure as hell isn’t my wife. I’d still fuck her, but probably not until I had her chained to the bed with reinforced steel.
What the fuck did she do to me? I can remember bits and pieces. I remember struggling to breathe, then the bitch is kissing me and hugging me, I think. That part’s a blur. She broke my fucking finger, though. I definitely remember that part. I try to move it, but my entire hand is locked in a cast. I lift the whole thing, staring at my forearm.
“You’re fucking crazy,” I tell her, partly because I’m pissed off at her, but mostly because it’s true.
“You need to stop cursing,” she says. “I am a lady, Noah.”
“Fuck you, you’re not a fucking lady, you’re a fucking wild fucking--” I can’t think. I’m positive she’s drugged me with painkillers. I end my raging at her with the only thing I can think of. “--fuck.”
Yeah, that’s right. Angeline’s a fucking wild fucking fuck.
“I told you what to do,” she says. “You did not do it.”
“Why the fuck--” I stop, because maybe she’s right. Not about telling me what to do, but these fucks are getting out of hand. “Look, Ange, why would I listen to you? Do you not get it or something? I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”
She clenches her jaw. “Mistress Angeline,” she corrects me.
“The fuck? You still think I’m going to let you pull that bullshit? Is that what this is about? Har har,” I say, faking a laugh. “You’ve proved a point.” I know I shouldn’t do this, but I do it anyways. “You sure showed me, Ange.”
She keeps her jaw clenched but she’s trying to smile. That’s it, love, let it all out. You’re not better than me and you didn’t prove a point. You’ve proved my point by sitting here looking after me while I recover. She’s just some weak ass woman, some stupid bitch who doesn’t understand her place in the grand scheme of the universe.
I don’t hate woman, alright. I don’t like them much, but I try not to think about it. I just don’t care either way. If they’ve got their shit together and know their place, then I’m content. I kidnap them, I train them, and eventually they become better. That’s how it’s supposed to work, at least. I’m skipping a step at the end, but I’m not involved with that. I can’t be. I’m too good at everything else. It’s impossible for me to be good at that, too.
The point here is, Angeline needs to back the fuck up and re-evaluate what’s going on and who she’s dealing with. In fact, I’m going to show her right now. Whether I’m drugged or not, she’s made a big mistake.
I jerk my body up, intending to slam my cast into the side of her head, grab her throat, and pull her onto the bed with me. I’m going to straddle her and strangle her. I don’t know what I’ll do after that. Maybe I’ll fuck her after she loses consciousness. Maybe I’ll kill her. That might be a bad idea, because I don’t know where the fuck I am, but I’m beyond caring at the moment.
I start to jerk upwards, then I fall back to the bed. I am chained. Angeline chained me to the fucking bed. I can feel the weight of fetters digging into my stomach and my chest and my other arm and my legs. She left one arm free, the one with a cast, but that’s it. What the fuck am I supposed to do with one arm? She’s too far away for me to hit her, and I overestimated myself in my drugged state, anyways. I can’t move fast enough. If I wasn’t chained, I might be able to overcome my sluggishness with strength, but I’m not and I can’t.
Fuck you, Angeline. Just fuck you.
She smiles at me sweetly. I think she must be amused, because I sure would be if I were her, but she doesn’t look it. Her eyes are soft and im
passive, just staring at me. I don’t like how she looks at me. It’s like she’s fucking obsessed or something.
“Are you hungry?” she asks. “I have soup for you.”
“I don’t know how the fuck you expect me to eat it,” I say.
“I will feed you.”
At that, she gets up and goes to the bedside table. I can’t even see the fucking bedside table. Where the fuck is that rain coming from, too? This room is driving me crazy.
I strain my head to the side, because at least that’s not chained to the bed. There’s a window, and it’s raining outside. Then I realize it’s raining twice. There’s two rain sounds. I keep turning my head to the side, enough to see Angeline picking up a tray with a bowl of soup. Next to the tray is some white circle art box thing. It looks fancy, and just looking at it pisses me off.
There’s a speaker on the front of the box, or that’s what it looks like. The sound is coming from that. It’s some ambient noise machine, spouting rain and wind chimes at me.
“Can you turn that shit off?” I ask her. Why am I asking her anything. Turn the fucking noise machine off, Angeline. Do it, bitch.
“It is relaxing,” she says. “It will calm you.”
“I’m anything but calm, love.”
“Mistress Angeline,” she says, correcting me.
“Fuck off.”
She thrusts a spoon into the soup and lifts it up once it’s full, then slams it against my mouth. Thank fucking God it’s not hot anymore, but I’m pissed that she just splashed warm chicken noodle soup all over my face.
“I thought you said you were going to feed me,” I say. “What the fuck was that about?”
“Noah, you are incorrigible and rude.”
“You fucking kidnapped me. You bit me. You slammed my head against a fucking wall. What the fuck do you want from me, love?”
“Open,” she orders me, “your mouth.”
