Woman in Chains

She arrived every week, precisely on time. She arrived and she paid and she sat in the chair. She sat in the chair and she breathed and she flinched no more than most.

She said not a word past the necessary, polite but closed. Sometimes the tears fell fast and fierce and she placed a hand on his arm asking for just a moment please. Other times her eyes remained clear and tightly focused on something so real that only she could see. A few times, only a very few, twice perhaps, she softened. Not gently like butter or clay, but sudden with an audible snap, like a live wire when the current is cut.

Those he waited in patient vigil, his gaze blocked from her form as if stricken blind. A shuddering breath was his signal. Her exhale swept the scales from his eyes and he continued.

The pilgrim's companion, he blessed her with his silent presence and received absolution for his own loss that lay beyond all comfort. He had no need for her words or the privacy of her truth for he had her trust. And it was his honor to serve for he knew. So often, he drew the lines solely on the skin. Rarely the lines were carved on the soul and revealed by his hand.

The needle dug into her skin, past muscle, beyond bone, delving deep into cell and memory, scraping against history. Harsh, grating scratches to find an anchor, a brace to support the excavation.

Her knuckles locked and white, clawing at the cracked leather armrest as the metal tip finally caught and pulled upward, out across her skin. The dragging corroded weight, decades of downcast eyes and unspoken objections, unearthed, laid bare across her flesh.

Link by link the thick chains of cowardice and complacency surfaced on her shoulders. Each segment was unique, a different blend of grays and browns and speckled muddy reds. Some strained or twisted, worn thin in spots or almost rent but not quite, never enough to sunder the bonds.

The intertwined loops wound around her torso; one for each lie, for each unmeant smile, for each fucking nod and shrug. They hung heavy on her hips and draped her limbs counting off every retreat, every surrender, every lazy dream of escape. Manacles sealed ankles and wrists. Blocky letters etched into the wide bands, one for the child lost forever, the others for the three that remained.

She arrived and she sat and she endured. Her penance, her proof exposed, to be worn now with acceptance. The final piece was the collar. It rested easily on her neck, tarnished and fissured but eternal as their promise that became her constant hope at last made real. Til death, til death do us part, til death.