(Short Story)
She sat in the corner by the window, in the main parlor,
playing with her curls. She was wearing the kind of dress that only women of
her profession wear, an off the shoulder, crimson gown that showed off all the
right curves. Her never fading crimson lipstick matched the color of her dress,
and made her look as if she had an exquisite taste for either red wine or
blood. She caught glimpses of men entering The Establishment, none of them
holding her gaze for more than a second.
She didn’t care for any of them. She would be summoned when she catches
someone’s fancy, no need throw herself at them as they enter with eyes either
bouncing off every woman in shame or fixed on one as a wolf which has found its
prey.
He watched her from the other corner of the street, the Lady
in Red sitting in the window. He watched her as he’d been watching her every
night; with a longing so strong he did not know how it did not pull him to the
other corner of the street and into The Establishment. He remembered the smell
of it; the reek piss forced pleasure. The exterior would fool you, such a
beautiful Victorian house it was, but once you stepped inside and once the haze
of desire cleared from your senses, you would begin to truly realize where your
lust had dragged you to and you would begin to hate yourself just as much as
the whore who lay breathless and naked in front of you. The only thing that
could drag him into The Establishment again was the look on her face, the look
that challenged you to step forward and touch her and see if she does not fall
to your feet, in a million pieces.
Tonight was the night. Tonight he would step inside The
Establishment again, but this would be his last visit. Tonight he would do what
had to be done for that Lady in Red. Tonight he would prove to himself that
what he felt when he looked at her was neither pity nor lust, but an emotion
that was much more primal.
He crossed the street just as it began to drizzle and people
started running for shelter. Even the horses fastened to their carriages seemed
to be uneasy due to the weather. Maybe everything that surrounded him felt the
strength of his primal emotion, maybe everything around him was just as unsure
of what he was about to do as he was. But he would go about it anyway. He had
made a silent promise to those willing brown eyes that stole glances at the
world out of the window of her “prison” as though it was forbidden to her and a
glance too long would be the death of her.
He entered The Establishment and was surrounded by women
pushing their bodies against him, asking him what they could do for him,
whispering what they would do for him. But he did not want any of them. He
wanted to talk to the one who ran The Establishment; an old hag who still
dressed as if someone might still come calling for her, asking for her
services. He took her to a corner, and that’s when she noticed him. It was more
out of curiosity than interest, what would a man dressed so amiably, with his
fedora tipped slightly to the right and a top-of-the-line suit doing talking to
her owner. Such men usually got served as soon as the stepped across the
threshold. But he was talking to the Old Hag, and she was looking outraged. But
then he was handing her an envelope, a big one, and when she opened it, her
eyes shone as bright as the Moon. And with that she nodded, giving her approval
to whatever he was asking of her.
He turned her way and instead of looking away, she kept
looking at him. She saw his eyes and in spite of the place she was in and the
position she held there, she lost herself for a moment; she had never seen eyes
like his before. They were eyes that could be used to control the mind of
anyone who looked into them for a moment too long. Then she saw his whole face
and the determination on it. She realized he was walking straight towards her.
She stood up, ready to take him up to her boudoir. He reached her, extended a
hand and she took it. But instead of letting her lead him upstairs, he was
taking her in the direction of the main door, the exit. She wasn’t allowed to
step outside. But when she turned around to look at the Old Hag to protest
silently to her to make him stop, she was coming towards her with a wrap and
with that she whispered in her ear, “He paid enough for you for a lifetime, and
that’s how long you’ll be with him. I advise you keep him happy.”
She was confused. But she resisted the urge to open her
mouth at that moment. He offered her his arm as they stepped out of The
Establishment and into the cool weather that was hinting at a downpour. She
didn’t know who he was or whether or not he was going to lock her up somewhere
again, but in that moment she was thankful to him for letting her breath free
air. He took her across the street and around the corner where his carriage was
waiting for him. Once they were settled in and he had given instructions to be
taken home, he looked at her with eyes as intense as the summer heat. She felt
as if she should look away but she wouldn’t have it, so she matched his stare
for his. She knew who she was, and she knew what he required of her. And when
he smiled at her, she mistook it for pity.
But he smiled at her because he knew she was not ready for
what he was about to ask of her. And his smile was not one of pity but of
shame, for he knew what it takes it break a woman, and even though she looked
strong-willed, she had let herself be branded by all the men who walked into
The Establishment. He felt shame because at that moment, he knew she was
steeling herself for another battering of lust. But he could not offer an
explanation. He could not tell her who he was, not until they were in the
safety of home.
As they turned the last corner and he heard the gates swing
open, he saw her demeanor unchanged. She was sitting across him, now looking
out into the dark. All through the carriage ride, their knees would bump
against each other, but she did not once notice it. After all, she was an item
from The Establishment; she was used to her body being bumped into. And when
you are dragged into a place such as The Establishment, after your first few
nights of being “bumped” into behind the closed doors of your boudoir, you
learn to live outside your body, learn to step out and stand in the corner and
watch as a man’s lust turns into a hungry animal and devours his soul and spits
out a wasted skeleton onto your body, your shell. And then before you step back
into it, you wash it and cleanse it before the next animal forces you to repeat
the cycle.
But that night, when he stepped out of the carriage and
turned around to offer her, the woman he had just bought, a hand to steady her,
she could not find the animal behind his eyes. She knew it was there, hiding
right behind the curtain of his humanity. But at that moment, just as
throughout the carriage ride and even when he took her hand at The
Establishment, she did not see it. Still, the night was young.
She saw his home, and at once knew how he could afford to
buy a whore instead of getting himself a wife. He lived in a mansion fit for a
king. And women who would love a man for who he was in spite of his wealth were
scarce in the day. He offered her his arm again, and she took it with all the
dignity she could muster for she knew what awaited her behind the grand doors
to his mansion.
He took her through the main entrance and up the grand
stairs. She saw closed doors and only thought of grandeur; a grand ballroom, a
grand library, a grand dining hall. On top of the stairs, he turned left and
entered a corridor, and took her to the door at the end of it. He opened the
door and ushered her in. She saw a bed, a vanity and a powder room to the
right. Out of habit, she took of her wrap and went straight for the bed. When
she turned around, he was still standing at the door, his arms crossed over his
chest, looking at her with all the attention of a patient man. ‘How could a man
buy a woman and bring her home and not even tell her his name’, she
thought. But he didn’t want to introduce
himself. He didn’t want her to know him by his name; he wanted her to
familiarize herself only with his primal longing for her. He walked over to
her, and he realized his breathing was ragged. He knew her far better than she
could ever imagine. She knew the shape of her body, the feel of her skin. He
was far more accustomed to him than she would give him credit for. He raised a
hand and took a strand of her curls between his fingers and they were as soft
as he remembered them to be.
“Would you care to change?”, he asked.
“Whatever you want, sir.” was her reply.
“There’s a dress for the night hanging behind the door of
the powder room.”, he told her.
She went to the powder room, closed the door and what she
saw surprised her. She was expecting something… well, something less decent. It
was a simple night-gown, made of cotton and not the sheer fabric she was used
to. She undid her corset and took off her clothes. She took a glance in the
mirror after she had changed into the night-gown and she looked like someone’s
wife, rather than a woman who was a member of The Establishment only an hour
ago.
When she stepped back into the room, she saw that he had
taken off his coat and suspenders and was sitting at the edge of the bed. For a
moment she let her mind wander into the illusion that they were just a married
couple getting ready for bed. It only took a minute for her reality to shatter
that illusion and she stood there awaiting further instructions, just as she
had been trained to do. After a few moments he turned to see her standing and
for a second she thought she saw an expression of sadness on his face. But the
moment passed and he asked her to lie in bed. She was ready for what was
supposed to come next. But she was not ready for this man. As she lay in bed,
he put an arm around her waist and buried his head in her shoulder, in her
curls, and within seconds he was asleep. She couldn’t help but get confused.
Who was this man? Is this what he wanted from her, to sleep with him without
actually sleeping with him?
She fell asleep with the weight of her question on her mind
only to wake up to him kissing her neck. He had resolved not to let his primal
longing take hold of him, he knew what happened after. But when he woke up next
to her, his resolve broke. He kissed her neck, the way he always did. And she
woke up, the way she always did. And he kissed her mouth and she tasted of
life, of pure energy, and then of greed. He tangled his fingers in her hair and
she grabbed his shoulders. A tangle of limbs, they could not get free of each
other, neither did they want to.
But then she felt it, the surge of energy flowing from him
to her. And in that instant she remembered. He had been standing in the corner
across the street and she had been sitting in the window of The Establishment
so many times before. He had bought her and brought her home, so many times
before. She had worn that cotton night-gown so many times before. She had slept
next to him and woken up to his caress so many times before. And with that came
the memory of the first time they had done this dance and the horror that
followed. The person he had become, the knife in his hand, the panic in her
mind. And she remembered what happened when the knife had struck her and she
went rigid.
He felt her grow cold, felt her hands go limp and he knew it
was too late, again. And just as you are pulled out of a dream, he was pulled
out of the one he had put himself in. He woke up in the basement of his
mansion, pulled the electric-hat off his head. Beside him, on another bed, lay
the Lady in Red, the only woman he had loved enough to sacrifice. Her eyes were
like glass, her hands cold to the touch and her face void of expression.
She would not awake from the slumber she had slipped into.
She would not awake, no matter how many times he tried to wake her up by
putting her in that dream, by letting her feel his primal longing. She would
not awake for every time his resolve faltered when he felt her warm and next to
him, and she remembered.
She would not awake for she remembered the knife in his
hand. She would not awake for he had tried to rip out her beating heart, only
to make it eternally his.
2012 was a good year. Might not have been the best, but it
definitely was one of the good. It had its fair share of firsts and lasts. And with
every laugh, every tear, the only thing that was constant was the feeling that ‘this
too shall pass’.
