Acquiescence

one : March 1, 2011

O N E

March 1, 2011

It was two in the morning. The room was filled with a mood of such desolation, such hopelessness, that light itself seemed to be afraid, peaking out only from miniscule cracks beneath locked doors. There was no sound other than breathing: two patterns, one frantic and one slow, dancing together in swirling gusts of animalistic noise. Each inhale was as arid as a desert, each exhale sharp enough to rake slits through the stoic air. It was cold too—cold enough to wreak havoc on uncovered skin, seeping through layers of cells until one’s entire body collapsed under the weight of a never-ending chill.

The room was on the fourth floor of a five star hotel: the bed was stripped bare, its accessories lying in defeated lumps on the surrounding floor. The teal blue couch was dismantled and ravaged, two vicious rips torn through its velvet skin. One of the curtains had been torn from the wall, its heavy fabric smothering the blood stained carpet, and the nearby lamp lay broken and shattered. The writing desk was toppled on its side, one leg twisted, another broken. The coffee table was overturned, the wine bottles either empty or bleeding deep purple stains, and the magazines ripped or thrown away.

On the naked bed lay a nearly naked young woman. Her eyes were shut, framed by black-and-blue bruises that colored her cheekbones like blush. Her lips were red and swollen, parted only enough to let through tiny gasps. Her hair was disheveled and tangled, fanning around her head like a demonic sort of halo—black against the red and white of the sheets.

Her body had lost all signs of vitality: skin pulled tight against bones, more bruises drawing patterns down her arms and legs, a single red gash down the right side of her stomach above a scarlet pool of blood. Her wrists were cut with red welts inflicted by the rope that bound them to the headboard. She was crying, but her sobs no longer made noise. The metallic smell of her blood mingled with the sinister scent of fear and surrender. She’d given up; she wanted it to be over.

Someone else had different plans. He wasn’t smiling, though he leaned over his victim with a confident air of victory. His pants were torn, and he wore no shirt, but from him radiated an undeniable indication of wealth. He was as beautiful as he was evil: ashy blond hair, falling in thin waves around his face. He had sharp, angular cheekbones and emerald eyes that glimmered even in darkness. He was fairly tall and thin, and yet each curve of his body was covered with lean muscle. He was strong, and he was dangerous.

“I told you I’d make it difficult,” he drawled, running his fingers across the girl’s neck, “if you said no.”

She winced, yearning to escape, but her body had already been crushed in the struggle. She’d lost. “Let me go. Please.”

He grinned, revealing the white teeth of a devilishly gorgeous smile. “You’re still keeping this up? Darling, tell me, how much does it hurt?” She didn’t respond. “How scared do you feel? How awful, how helpless? How worthless are you, now that you’ve given me your virginity? What do you have left?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, colder than the air biting her bare skin. “Please... I can’t tell you…”

“You can,” he said coldly. “You will. You know you will, because I’ve destroyed you. You have nothing left but the secret you’re keeping, and I’ll take that like I’ve taken everything else. You’re weak. You’re pathetic. You’re alone.”

“No…”

“Tell me.” He lunged forward, catching a fistful of her hair and tugging it downward. She squealed, although the sound was no longer powerful—a whimper, not a roar. She felt dizzy from the blood loss, and agony clawed at her from every angle, reminding her of one man’s brutality. The pain, perhaps, she could’ve endured; at the very least, she could have lost herself with in the growing numbness, dying in victory, in control of what little dignity she still claimed to have.