Shaken

Vermillion Claret

O wearisome condition of humanity!
Born under one law, to another bound;
Vainly begot and yet forbidden vanity;
Created sick, commanded to be sound.

Fulke Greville, first Lord Brooke's (b.1554) poem Chorus Sacerdotum.

Laboured breaths rip out of her heaving chest as the utter agony of her exposed wounds scores deep furrows around her sunken bloodshot eyes. Blood streams down her face, vermilion claret drips steadily onto her gaunt cheeks, both stained a vivid crimson with exertion. Black carnations bloom in her eyes, ringed with the red of her desperate anger as she claws away at the stone walls, her masticated nails giving way as they're raked down the unyielding granite, the bloody trails winding down the grey stone like grainy flecks of rust on iron. Scarcely feeling the pain she howls for freedom, the agonized sound slicing through the suffocating air, nourishing my bloodthirsty soul. Fracturing my senses even as the world suddenly comes into incredible clarity.

I step from the shadows,

Fire smolders in the dark depths of her eyes, flames lick at the edges of her pupils as they overwhelm the vivid blue of her irises, she has become little more than an animal. The dark, coarse fabric of her tunic hangs limp on her emaciated bones, her thin arms dwarfed by the short sleeves. Elflocks thrash around her head as she writhes, once thick and luxurious, her beautiful mane of lustrous auburn hair is no more, tangled with dirt and blood, she looks and smells like a wild thing. She belongs where the wild things are, in that fictional place where the wild things roar their terrible roars and gnash their terrible teeth and roll their terrible eyes and show their terrible claws,

I smile at childhood memories.

Unhurriedly I walk to the corner of the room and slowly sit, just out of her reach, no matter how violently she wrenches at the unyielding rope. Weak with hunger and delirious from thirst she is no match for the rough, abrasive strength of it. Bloodied teeth bared, she leans forward until her face is no more than an inch from mine, our eyes level, and she growls, a low rumble of desperate anger, vibrating in the stagnant air. Something lies broken and bleeding in those eyes, some crack in her humanity bleeds profusely, darkness spilling from her pupils as they intensify. Sharpened by her agony, they track my every movement, darting from my face to my hands, assessing the threat I present, the pain of her injuries no deterrent in the obstinate face of her anger. For a long moment we sit, staring at one another, breathing the same air, eyes locked and unmoving, at an impasse.

Broken bones, torn skin and a soul is all that is left of her, that and her vengeance, the undeniable hunger in her eyes for the smooth skin of my exposed throat. Exhilaration leaves me breathless as I sit inches away from this wild thing, apparently impassively, my shadow merging into hers in the oppressive confines of the small room.

This close, her warm breath wafting softly over my face, her tattered beauty seems almost...indelible. She still holds some trace, an ineradicable echo of the radiant artistry she once was, young and carefree, her simple innocence almost beautiful in itself, pure in its perfection, perfect in its purity. In her eyes, I saw the passionate toils of nature...in her mutilated face, I see the work of generations destroyed...I have done this, at my feet the careful, meticulous structure of human dignity lies conquered. Defeated and forlorn.

With a final, beautiful, wail of fury she sags, her little energy wasted. She barely has the strength to form fists of her grisly, ruined hands, her broken knuckles strain against her lacerated skin. On my tongue I taste the bitter-almond taint of suffering in the air and the silence stretches bowstring-taut. Anger shrouds me in her torrid embrace as I watch her slump, sliding backwards to curl up against the squalid wall at her back. I push myself to my feet and walk slowly to her quivering body. Anchoring my fingers in the filthy strands of her hair, I lift her limp form with one trembling hand.

My fingers surround her bruised throat with something like tenderness, and her pale skin flushes at the contact. Her dark eyes stay fastened to mine even as she begins to gasp for air. Shredded fingers grasp at my ever-tightening grip at her throat as I slowly suffocate her, my forehead pressed against hers. She fights to keep her eyes on mine knowing that her continued defiance infuriates me. Anger takes over, I feel myself reach for the knife in my pocket, and seconds later, her silence is eternal. Free from pain her body falls gracelessly to the ground as I drop her slackening form, her sightless eyes rolling back into her head as it tumbles indolently over the concrete, gushing scarlet lifeblood in its path.