The Wall Crossers

Sail on Golden Perle Girl

Olivia's perspective

I stand at the front door, stare at it. I now know it is unsecured. But I feel hopeless. This is why Patrizia forced me to wear the dress—she knew I could not leave, go out into the storm, in this dress. No one would help me, I would be picked up, or freeze to death. And if picked up, she would have her goons come and collect me again at the Polizeistation, only this time she would show no mercy. Oh no, indeed she would not.

I consider pulling off this pretty bitchy cruel dress and slinging it outside into the snow! She would discover it, on her return, would think I had fled! That would serve her right, to feel such urgent sudden fear. I smell the outside snowy cold through the door, I would smell her fear leaching out of her feral oozing sex, I would place my hand to touch her in her death throes, a patterned, easy conquest there, then clench my fists, now rip her furiously beating fractured dying heart out through her scheide past her perle. I reach my shaking hand to the handle, hyperventilating. Try to clear my mind with further fixed hatred—I think of her knife, probably locked inside my room. I would find instead a weapon in the kitchen, a tool placed there at the behest of the blue stone, just for her destruction, would wait for her just inside the lounge and then lunge at her in a blitzingly rapid infantry tactical assault, pierce her with great force and at the precise spot, watch her collapse onto the floor, blood gushing, eyes staring, the shock of realization, incapacitated helplessness setting in, my face scrunched up in delirious delicious pain-relieving revenge, her evil grin and evil eye vanquished forever, remove and smash her heart under my bare foot. Then deal with Franz with all the might I can muster, puncture his neck, watch him stagger out into the frozen night to bleed out such raw red, staining a pure and frightfully awful snow.

I wait, considering these things. I hear music coming from inside the closed door of Patrizia's room—Geena. I cannot make out the song. She will check on me soon. Patrizia told her to watch over me. My body's shaking continues. Should I kill Geena? Momentary disorientation, confusion... is she the enemy, preparing to interrogate me? I have one chance to overpower her, while her guard is down, before her other soldiers reappear. I shake my head, realizing, this is hallucination. I steady myself. I think of Geena's smile—is it the smile of her mother, who loves her? Who am I to take that smile away? Plus, she made herself vulnerable to me, gave me affection. At least that is what it seemed to be. She seems to understand me. There is something about her that is so like me. She just appears to be so young, except has much experience with Kush! Why does Patrizia need her as an agent? It makes no sense. I close my eyes, still facing the unlocked door.

After a minute, I turn, look up the hall. I feel cold, now hot, flushed with smoke-born chemical, so upset, mind agitated, nerves set on edge, falling over the threshold of tripping. Geena begins another song inside the room. I can hear it, but only faintly. Why did she mention blue stones? That is what flipped me out—making my blood run cold, even now.

I focus hard, clear my mind enough to think about what Patrizia had earlier said, You are not capable of hurting me. This means she is underestimating me, will be unsuspecting. I now have the advantage. Yes, I will surprise her, attack when she returns, subdue her, and then, finally, get out of this terrible hellhole! Maybe first I will overcome Geena and restrain her, tie her up. She is messing with my mind with talk about blue stones.

Just as I am thinking these thoughts of her, Patrizia's door opens abruptly and Geena's head appears, leaning out around the door frame, tilted, staring down the hall at me. The music swells and now I recognize it—it is The Long and Winding Road, by the Beatles. She leans a bit further out and I see she still wears nothing but her underwear. Just thinking of her gazing at me moments ago moves my heart to soften and wavers my hostility.