Perihelion (Flying Too Close to the Sun)
WARNING: Rated HEAVY R. This is not for the kiddies because of violence and non-consensual sex. It is not graphic, but the essence is there. Please heed the warning.
She reminded herself that it was just like being a swallow agent. You never really signed up for the job, but the upper echelons would decide your fate anyway. And however you managed to get through it, detachment, drink, drugs, was fine until you had to relive it for the report. Then the guilt or remorse got you and you had to mentally slap yourself to get past what you had to do.
The first time was perfunctory, just as she had thought it might be. Two guards had taken her after the morning meal to his office for another day of work. Cuvee was not in the office when she arrived and, as was policy, the guards stood inside with her. She sat at the table and began translating conversations off the short wave radio channel that she had been monitoring for days. Time ticked by and just before noon Cuvee came into the office, smelling of cigars and stale alcohol. She looked up just long enough to determine that he was just coming in from an all night bender. He came up behind her and breathed heavily on her neck and she felt his eyes bore into the back of her skull. She steeled herself against what she knew was coming; her time was up.
Forgetting completely about the guards in the room, he grabbed her by the shoulder and swung her around to face him. His lips and mouth assaulted hers and his tongue probed mercilessly. He grabbed her arm, never quitting the attack on her mouth and pulled her to the low table in the middle of the room. He pulled at her top, tearing the buttons off and his hands began their assault.
Cuvee had been quick and indifferent to her. There had been no foreplay and she had been tight and dry. He forced himself into her and grunted away like a rutting pig at her grandfather's farm. She bit her lip to keep that image from making her laugh.
He ended with a final moan and noticing, for the first time, her disassociation and lack of involvement and he hit her. And
hit her, until her right eye swelled shut and the other one began to tear involuntarily. He really didn't injure her, she had been worse off more times then she could count, but it was painful just the same. She would remember next time to act as though she was enjoying him sweat on top of her and use her like some prostitute. She wouldn't make the same mistake again.
No, what really hurt, and not only in the physical sense, was his revenge. The beating had been to show her his ownership of her (or so he thought). The revenge for not begging for his attention, his gratitude was that when he had finished the first time, he offered her to the two guards.
She rebelled against the instinct to fight back, knowing full well that fighting would get her killed or at least illicit more revenge. She turned her head to the side as one guard, then the other, groped and slobbered on her. Smells of unwashed bodies, stale bread and vodka wafted around her as she tried desperately to find a silent, peaceful place in her mind. She traced the water stains on the ceiling. Just as the first guard was about to make his final assault and enter her, Cuvee hit him in the temple with the butt of the guard's discarded rifle.
"She's mine. Remember that and make sure everyone else does too. If I find out that anyone, and I mean anyone, tries to take a turn at our pretty one, I will kill them." Cuvee looked like a wild beast guarding his latest meal.
She lay there for a few moments after the guards left, coming back to the present. Finally she got up and gathered the remains of her clothes around her. She ran her hands through her hair to remove the tangles. She held the shirt closed because the buttons were missing and headed for the door. Cuvee grabbed her arm and pulled her to him and placed a hard dry kiss on her bruised lips.
"Just remember darling, you are mine. If you behave, this will be the one and only time I share." She slowly turned away and headed out the door. She held her head high as she walked down the hall, her tattered clothes hanging off her frame.
She walked deliberately back to her cell and lay on the bunk until it got dark. Dinner did not entice her off the mattress and her eyes did not waver from the ceiling. To anyone passing by, it appeared as though she was studying the cracks that the spider webbed the plaster above her. Under the cover of night she cried silent tears of defeat into her pillow. Silent sobs were masked by the soft snores of the other inmates.
In her head she knew that she couldn't have really prevented what Cuvee had done. If she had fought back, he still would have raped her, but she knew that he could have easily killed her. Same as with the actions of the guards. But that did not alleviate the sense of guilt that wracked her heart, the utter unworthiness and dirtiness that pervaded her skin. She felt completely alone and broken. A brief thought of Jack skipped through her mind and she reminded herself that now he would never have her back. This surrender of her body she had been frozen deep to the core. The last part of Laura that she had coveted in the deep corner of her heart had just been murdered and she mourned for the loss.
The need to remove their fingerprints overwhelmed her and in the darkness she searched for the rough rag and soap she had horded. The icy water coming out of the small sink in her cell was no more than a trickle, but it was enough. She maniacally scrubbed her flesh raw, cloth burns forming on her breasts and abdomen. Tiny pinpricks of blood seeped through the raw flesh further below.
Guilt.
Hate.
Sorrow.
Loathing.
Despair.
Anger.
Resentment.
Ache.
Cold, naked, and grieving she huddled in the corner of her cell. Between the bed and the far wall, she occupied the shadows, as she felt was her place. When the cold pale light of morning broke through the window, she got up, put on her tattered clothes and sat cross-legged on the bed. She stared at the far wall, unmoving for the entire day as her brain worked overtime. First pictures of her killing the guards and Cuvee, in a thousand different and horrifying ways, flashed through her mind. A few brief thoughts of killing herself seeped in at the corners. Tearful and sad reunions with Jack and Sydney crashed through, all ending in her being declared "dead to them".
Cuvee did not require her presence that day, but he did send around an undamaged shirt and pair of pants. She did not waiver from her position throughout the day, even when the guards brought in food, and as darkness fell, so the tears started again.
Sleep eluded her for the second night in a row, her thoughts running a marathon in her mind. Midway through the following morning, her body gave in to the need for sleep and she slumped against the wall in exhaustion. She slept 30 hours straight, during which Cuvee was concerned enough to check on her several times.
She awoke slowly, with a new dawning of herself, stronger, tougher and as emotionless as possible. IT was the only way she could distance herself from what had been done to her, what she hadn't prevented. What she knew had to happen for her survival , but what her mind resisted comprehending. Never again would any man break her or take advantage of her. She was the master of her destiny and she was in complete control; now and always. Cuvee would become her unwitting pawn.
She returned to her work with Cuvee, assisting in the translations, map reading and other odd tasks. To the outward observer, she became a willing lover to Cuvee, using him as she saw fit. He was none the wiser that he had lost control. She rarely smiled, rarely engaged in conversation. She had become even more introverted and Cuvee thought he had broken her. He felt powerful and relished in the control he was so mistakenly thought he had. The more power he sought, the more Irina gained. If the other inmates were afraid of Cuvee, it would be certain that they did not want to get on the bad side of his consort. In her own way, she ruled the prison with an iron fist.
One guard, a transferee from another detainment facility, crept in her cell one night and tried to use her. She fought back and the guard survived only long enough to have Cuvee put a bullet through his brain. She felt nothing but a fleeting sense of uneasiness and she reveled in her control.
Months later Cuvee shared a communiqué from Moscow concerning several artifacts that had been found and traced to an ancient and obscure Italian inventor. The name Rambaldi scorched her ears. She remembered Jack talking of the man and how this inventor had enthralled Arvin Sloane. She recalled the discussions they had whether Rambaldi was a true visionary or not. She dove into researching the man and his inventions, with Cuvee's blessings of course. Irina had found a new passion.