Verboten

17.

Your bare arms and legs are partially visible through the haze of crestfallen saltwater. Without even a proper look at your skin you understand that it's red and splotchy with broken blood vessels, the material of the damp washcloth scratching abrasive streaks into your limbs as you attempt to wash away any trace of the man who purchased you.

He was Harry's opposite in each and every way; reeking of beer and cigars, his clothes unwashed and his voice rocky from years of smoke inhalation, his features unattractive and heavy, his fingertips rough from coal mining and his actions coarse and loveless.

Sobs scratch the raw skin of your throat as you try to separate the two men in your mind as to not taint the slice of nirvana that you have created with Harry. Thinking about him makes your entire body feel empty and stuffed all at once, as if your lungs were hot air balloons filled with fire and your stomach was a cave avalanched with rocks.

At first you were angry with his truancy until premonition forced you to rethink his possible circumstance. Now all you can imagine is Harry laying face down in the dirt in the middle of town square, the mourning dove feather poking out of the ribbon of his hat and getting whisked away in the breeze to signify his soul's departure.

You imagine him held at knifepoint inside of a crowded saloon, the tip of the blade poking into the skin of his neck as his attacker asks him for any last words, only to hear him mutter that he's sorry he let you and his family down as the weapon drags a crimson line across his creamy skin.

The fantasy of him appearing at your window like a knight in shining armor had chipped away with each thrust of your purchaser's hips, the piercing scour of his teeth against the delicacy of your neck. Normally you reserve the thought of Harry as your island of brilliant elusion, but you refused to let him cross the path of the disgusting man who was sweating and writhing on top of you. He is too special, too luminous, too vivid to be wrapped up in that part of your brain even if he is possibly no longer alive.

Your entire body burns with repetitive rubbing, a never ending steam engine of memories rolling through your brain and forcing you only to scrub harder. After blood begins to gather on the fabric and taint the soapy water in your washbasin a sickening shade of red, you decide that the washcloth may be able to wash dirt and hair from your body but it'll never erase your self pity.

You empty out your gray water and lay naked atop your sheets, the sounds of the saloon and hotel having completely died down in the wee hours of the night. Your hand slides underneath your pillow to fumble with the objects that you stole from the man who claimed you tonight. You were much more brash than usual after he had fallen asleep, punchy from sorrow and madness, starved for retribution and penance.

While he laid on his back and snored to the heavens above, you absolutely raided his bedroom of cash, tobacco, whiskey, his Swiss watch and lastly his wedding ring from his fat, swollen finger for the sole purpose of angering his wife. You spat phlegm into his wallet and snapped it shut, leaving with your chin tilted upwards and a slam of the door that you knew couldn't possibly disturb his drunken slumber.

It seems plausible that Harry was gifted to you from beyond as a temporary deliverance from your realm of torture, a sweet escape like your favorite novels, a mirage of a figure who taught you a blip of self defense and gave you a taste of love before passing on. You don't want to give up hope for his welfare and possible return, but that gut wrenching feeling that jolted your nerves in the saloon earlier this evening still makes you feel queasy with doubt.

You wrap your body up in a long-sleeved nightgown, keeping his necklace tucked inside your collar and pressed against the angrily heated skin of your chest. The ride back into town on Charlotte yesterday flickers for an instant, the rhythm of his breathing against your cheek, his soft voice when he spoke to his horse, the romantic necklace exchange, his pining goodbye.