************************************************************************
Clarice Starling looks down at her watch, bracing for the odd feeling of emptiness that occurs at the exact moment the plane's wheels quit the tarmac and reach for the sky. She slumps back in her business class chair, ignoring the droning of the engines, the crying baby three rows up, the animated hands of the stewardess as she demonstrates the fine art of buckling a seatbelt.
Once they're safely in the sky, the stewardess wheels a beverage cart down the aisle, dispensing coffee and beer, juice and wine. Clarice opts for a sensible cranberry juice, but then changes her mind. Digging out a five from her wallet, she exchanges it for a plastic cup of sub-par whiskey. Why not? She'll be in the air for a few hours yet. Besides, even when she lands what could she possibly need her "A" game for? This is the third sighting stateside in as many months. A nice looking older gentleman with a Jag and a taste for expensive wine, and off she goes to "investigate". She remembers when even the slightest hint of a sighting set her blood on fire and kept her awake and alert and pacing for a week on end. But one disappointment after another has greeted her. It's always just a well dressed college professor, a German business man, a average Joe who happens to spark the imagination of a bored, restless housewife. But it's never him. Never. And as Clarice sinks back into the lonely embrace of her chair, with the sour tang of whiskey on her lips, and a damp draft of stale air in her heart, she prepares herself for one more pointless week in her mundane, unremarkable life.
************************************************************************
When I ask her to remember a time before the abuse started, Bonnie tells me of a warm, red velvet room, where the sound of her mother's heartbeat lulled her to sleep. The pattern of abuse, startling in its scope and variance, commenced almost immediately after her birth, and continued, unflagging, until the death of her father, three years ago. Her mother, a pitiful broken woman had succeeded where Bonnie had failed, leaving her young daughter to find her lifeless body swinging from the rafters in their decrepit old farmhouse. On that day, her father took a hacksaw to the cross beam, assuring that little Bonnie would not be able to follow in her mother's footsteps and leave him without hot meals and fleshy entertainment. And on that day, Bonnie tried to slit both her wrists with a rusty razor but only ended up ruining her favorite dress with traces of the blood that pumped so resolutely through her veins.
It is interesting to note that Bonnie carried for her father as he lay dying of cirrhosis on his grimy little bed in that crumbling house. She has never know the gentle touch of love or affection, but none the less finds love for those who have inflicted unimaginable pain and suffering onto her. And so, she seeks me out because in her mind she secretly equates pain with love, suffering with worth, and death with the only sort of peace she has known in her short life.
In this pliable state, caught in a spell of liberating drugs, and the soothing sound of my voice, Bonnie spills countless well-guarded secrets at my feet. It floods out of her, in a raging torrent of pain and shame; In a few hours time she has painted me a tapestry of violence, incest, and verbal abuse that rivals the most tawdry tabloid papers. When I wake my slumbering Aurora, she will not remember this couch side confession, the unspeakably ugly things she has told me simply because I asked, the way I've run my fingers over her body, cataloguing each and every crack and fissure in her world-weary flesh. Later, when the work has begun, it will unnerve her to realize just how much I know about her. I know several ways to break her with very little effort. I know precisely and without question, the most painful, and the easiest way for her to die. I do not know yet which way I will choose.
It is surprising, after listening to her vivid narrative that she is able to function to any degree in the outside world. Her odd clothing, her affected speaking, all tools to distance herself from anyone who crosses her path. Highly adaptable. Highly intelligent. Given a proper upbringing, I have no doubt that she would have excelled at any intellectual challenge, proved herself a willing pupil with an undying thirst for praise and accolades. But she has been sullied, derided into a shell so thick and yet so fragile that her only pursuit now is her escape and her demise. But not yet. At least for awhile, she is mine.
I leave her there, sleeping, dreaming on the plush leather couch, well assured that she'll be out for at least a few more hours. Ample time for a trip into town. I haven't had a guest in ages. There's so much to do.
************************************************************************
When she wakes, she is cradled between the whisper soft layers of Egyptian cotton sheets. She is nude, of course, but the temperature is perfectly regulated for her comfort. The drugs wear off slowly, as the her blood quickens and courses through her veins. I sit in the shadowed corner, observing her reactions. She cannot see me yet, a particular touch of which I am quite proud. She rises from the bed, looking briefly down at her nude body, before moving on. Her own nakedness is much less important to her than assessing her immediate surroundings. Her gaze swings around the room, her wide eyes looking right through me. She sees the dressing table covered with a wide assortment of expensive, fragranced lotions and creams. I've bought far more than she'll need for her time with me, but perhaps I can use the remainder later, after she has departed, a sensual reminder of things to come. She approaches the large closet, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the full-length mirrored doors. Sliding one open, she is greeted by a modest assortment of ladies wear: three pairs of shoes, a long and mid-length skirt, several blouses and sweaters, and an evening gown in understated steel gray. There is also a good quality handbag, two multi-colored scarves, and the piece de resistance, a hooded black velvet cape. I had admired the silly thing in a consignment store weeks earlier, but had no occasion to purchase it. I took it as a sign that it was still there during my afternoon errands.
My voice interrupts her explorations, and breaks the spell. She whirls around to face me.
"I trust you slept well."
She twitches, startled, but finds herself unable to cover her nudity without diving for the bed, or pulling a garment off it's hanger. She sighs and faces me resolutely. She manages to look almost stately, like Arsinoe in chains, regal even paraded naked before her captors.
"Yes, Thank you. I remember talking with you. What were we talking about?"
"Oh nothing very interesting. The clothing is acceptable, I hope?"
"They're lovely, if a little but wasteful."
A smile plays on the corners of my lips. Oh Arsinoe, did you think to leave so quickly? It would serve you well to remember who has captured who.
"Cloaking a lovely woman in lovely clothes is never wasteful."
Her jaw clenches. Not even a hint of a blush. She hadn't mentioned her father ever complimenting her body, but the look is unmistakable. He must have whispered dirty praises between the grunts. I make a mental note to refrain from verbally admiring her beauty.
"I plan to take you out tomorrow evening."
"Why?"
"That doesn't concern you. For now, I'd like to perform a little experiment."
She stands stock still in the middle of the room as I rise. Her poise is commendable. I don't think she even sees it coming as I thrust the pillowcase over her head and pull it taut around her neck. She thrashes for just a moment before I clench my forearm against her carotid artery and ease her back out of consciousness.
************************************************************************
In her waking moments there is a strange, disorienting feeling of floating. She struggles to get her footing, and finds purchase on the soft, plush carpeting. Her hands are tied smartly above her head, across the crossbeam of the high living room ceiling. She gives a little tug, once, twice, but the knots only tighten in on her wrists. I can see goose bumps rising across her skin as she realizes where she is tied. If I was to peer into her eyes I'm almost convinced I could she the reflection of her mother's dancing feet dangling in their deep gray ash. Instead I creep up behind her and breathe softly against the back of her neck.
"Hello Bonnie."
"Sir."
It's a lovely word on her lips, a mixture of respect and disgust personified in one little syllable.
"How are you feeling?"
"My shoulders are sore."
"Hmm. Yes, they are tied in a rather awkward position, aren't they."
"Yes."
"Not to worry. I won't leave you like that forever."
I stop to run my tongue along the downy curve of her neck. She stiffens. She tastes like tears and summer apricots.
"Bonnie, I've devised some entertainment for this evening. A little game if you will. The rules are very simple. You decide when it begins, and I decide when it's finished. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Very good. Then are you ready to begin?"
She pauses a moment, and breathes out a sigh. I can sense that she wants to look me in the eyes, gauge my motives and intent, but I prefer to remain behind her, out of site.
"Yes."
"Excellent. Okey Dokey then. Here we go."
There is a whispering rustle of fine gabardine wool as I unlatch my belt, drawing it lowly through the loops and into my hands. I can feel an itch starting to grow in the base of my spine. My hands tingle as they grasp the cool metal buckle. Stepping back, I school my thoughts for a moment, quiet my thinking, and then I send the belt out, lashing with a distinctive "Crack" across the white expanse of her back. An angry red welt springs up in the belt's wake. Bonnie flinches so subtly that I almost miss it. I pause to let the pain fade, then strike her again. And then I begin the deluge in earnest. Over and over, I strike her back, her thighs, coloring the tender flesh crimson in the low lights of the room. The room is silent except for the frenzied cracking of the belt resonating in the hollow chambers of my inner ear. Capillaries burst, bleeding under the skin, forming bleary-edged marks on her back and thighs. And finally, as the belt breaks the skin over her upper back, her lips part and a whimper escapes. The sound is intoxicating; it enflames my blood in an achingly familiar way. Slinging the belt over her head, I wrap it tightly around her neck and yank backwards. Her naked body is pressed against me, her eyes wild in profile as my iron grip tightens further. Her face turns a deep red and her hands fly up to the belt, digging frantically at the edges. It would be so easy…just a second more…more…I can feel the salivary gland at the base of my jaw come to life. I have to swallow to stem the tide. She gasps, sputters, coughs out the last of her breath…
I drop the belt, and reflexively she sucks in a deep gulp of air. In the span of three heartbeats I have calmed my reaction. I come around to face her. Leaning down to reclaim my belt. There are limpid tears in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. She can barely whisper.
"Why didn't you finish?"
I lean in close and taste the rim of her pink, moist eyelid. I've never been more hungry.
"I'm absolutely famished. Would you care to join me for dinner?"
The dam breaks and sobs rack her battered, swinging body. I leave her hanging there while I decide what to cook.
Clarice Starling looks down at her watch, bracing for the odd feeling of emptiness that occurs at the exact moment the plane's wheels quit the tarmac and reach for the sky. She slumps back in her business class chair, ignoring the droning of the engines, the crying baby three rows up, the animated hands of the stewardess as she demonstrates the fine art of buckling a seatbelt.
Once they're safely in the sky, the stewardess wheels a beverage cart down the aisle, dispensing coffee and beer, juice and wine. Clarice opts for a sensible cranberry juice, but then changes her mind. Digging out a five from her wallet, she exchanges it for a plastic cup of sub-par whiskey. Why not? She'll be in the air for a few hours yet. Besides, even when she lands what could she possibly need her "A" game for? This is the third sighting stateside in as many months. A nice looking older gentleman with a Jag and a taste for expensive wine, and off she goes to "investigate". She remembers when even the slightest hint of a sighting set her blood on fire and kept her awake and alert and pacing for a week on end. But one disappointment after another has greeted her. It's always just a well dressed college professor, a German business man, a average Joe who happens to spark the imagination of a bored, restless housewife. But it's never him. Never. And as Clarice sinks back into the lonely embrace of her chair, with the sour tang of whiskey on her lips, and a damp draft of stale air in her heart, she prepares herself for one more pointless week in her mundane, unremarkable life.
************************************************************************
When I ask her to remember a time before the abuse started, Bonnie tells me of a warm, red velvet room, where the sound of her mother's heartbeat lulled her to sleep. The pattern of abuse, startling in its scope and variance, commenced almost immediately after her birth, and continued, unflagging, until the death of her father, three years ago. Her mother, a pitiful broken woman had succeeded where Bonnie had failed, leaving her young daughter to find her lifeless body swinging from the rafters in their decrepit old farmhouse. On that day, her father took a hacksaw to the cross beam, assuring that little Bonnie would not be able to follow in her mother's footsteps and leave him without hot meals and fleshy entertainment. And on that day, Bonnie tried to slit both her wrists with a rusty razor but only ended up ruining her favorite dress with traces of the blood that pumped so resolutely through her veins.
It is interesting to note that Bonnie carried for her father as he lay dying of cirrhosis on his grimy little bed in that crumbling house. She has never know the gentle touch of love or affection, but none the less finds love for those who have inflicted unimaginable pain and suffering onto her. And so, she seeks me out because in her mind she secretly equates pain with love, suffering with worth, and death with the only sort of peace she has known in her short life.
In this pliable state, caught in a spell of liberating drugs, and the soothing sound of my voice, Bonnie spills countless well-guarded secrets at my feet. It floods out of her, in a raging torrent of pain and shame; In a few hours time she has painted me a tapestry of violence, incest, and verbal abuse that rivals the most tawdry tabloid papers. When I wake my slumbering Aurora, she will not remember this couch side confession, the unspeakably ugly things she has told me simply because I asked, the way I've run my fingers over her body, cataloguing each and every crack and fissure in her world-weary flesh. Later, when the work has begun, it will unnerve her to realize just how much I know about her. I know several ways to break her with very little effort. I know precisely and without question, the most painful, and the easiest way for her to die. I do not know yet which way I will choose.
It is surprising, after listening to her vivid narrative that she is able to function to any degree in the outside world. Her odd clothing, her affected speaking, all tools to distance herself from anyone who crosses her path. Highly adaptable. Highly intelligent. Given a proper upbringing, I have no doubt that she would have excelled at any intellectual challenge, proved herself a willing pupil with an undying thirst for praise and accolades. But she has been sullied, derided into a shell so thick and yet so fragile that her only pursuit now is her escape and her demise. But not yet. At least for awhile, she is mine.
I leave her there, sleeping, dreaming on the plush leather couch, well assured that she'll be out for at least a few more hours. Ample time for a trip into town. I haven't had a guest in ages. There's so much to do.
************************************************************************
When she wakes, she is cradled between the whisper soft layers of Egyptian cotton sheets. She is nude, of course, but the temperature is perfectly regulated for her comfort. The drugs wear off slowly, as the her blood quickens and courses through her veins. I sit in the shadowed corner, observing her reactions. She cannot see me yet, a particular touch of which I am quite proud. She rises from the bed, looking briefly down at her nude body, before moving on. Her own nakedness is much less important to her than assessing her immediate surroundings. Her gaze swings around the room, her wide eyes looking right through me. She sees the dressing table covered with a wide assortment of expensive, fragranced lotions and creams. I've bought far more than she'll need for her time with me, but perhaps I can use the remainder later, after she has departed, a sensual reminder of things to come. She approaches the large closet, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the full-length mirrored doors. Sliding one open, she is greeted by a modest assortment of ladies wear: three pairs of shoes, a long and mid-length skirt, several blouses and sweaters, and an evening gown in understated steel gray. There is also a good quality handbag, two multi-colored scarves, and the piece de resistance, a hooded black velvet cape. I had admired the silly thing in a consignment store weeks earlier, but had no occasion to purchase it. I took it as a sign that it was still there during my afternoon errands.
My voice interrupts her explorations, and breaks the spell. She whirls around to face me.
"I trust you slept well."
She twitches, startled, but finds herself unable to cover her nudity without diving for the bed, or pulling a garment off it's hanger. She sighs and faces me resolutely. She manages to look almost stately, like Arsinoe in chains, regal even paraded naked before her captors.
"Yes, Thank you. I remember talking with you. What were we talking about?"
"Oh nothing very interesting. The clothing is acceptable, I hope?"
"They're lovely, if a little but wasteful."
A smile plays on the corners of my lips. Oh Arsinoe, did you think to leave so quickly? It would serve you well to remember who has captured who.
"Cloaking a lovely woman in lovely clothes is never wasteful."
Her jaw clenches. Not even a hint of a blush. She hadn't mentioned her father ever complimenting her body, but the look is unmistakable. He must have whispered dirty praises between the grunts. I make a mental note to refrain from verbally admiring her beauty.
"I plan to take you out tomorrow evening."
"Why?"
"That doesn't concern you. For now, I'd like to perform a little experiment."
She stands stock still in the middle of the room as I rise. Her poise is commendable. I don't think she even sees it coming as I thrust the pillowcase over her head and pull it taut around her neck. She thrashes for just a moment before I clench my forearm against her carotid artery and ease her back out of consciousness.
************************************************************************
In her waking moments there is a strange, disorienting feeling of floating. She struggles to get her footing, and finds purchase on the soft, plush carpeting. Her hands are tied smartly above her head, across the crossbeam of the high living room ceiling. She gives a little tug, once, twice, but the knots only tighten in on her wrists. I can see goose bumps rising across her skin as she realizes where she is tied. If I was to peer into her eyes I'm almost convinced I could she the reflection of her mother's dancing feet dangling in their deep gray ash. Instead I creep up behind her and breathe softly against the back of her neck.
"Hello Bonnie."
"Sir."
It's a lovely word on her lips, a mixture of respect and disgust personified in one little syllable.
"How are you feeling?"
"My shoulders are sore."
"Hmm. Yes, they are tied in a rather awkward position, aren't they."
"Yes."
"Not to worry. I won't leave you like that forever."
I stop to run my tongue along the downy curve of her neck. She stiffens. She tastes like tears and summer apricots.
"Bonnie, I've devised some entertainment for this evening. A little game if you will. The rules are very simple. You decide when it begins, and I decide when it's finished. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Very good. Then are you ready to begin?"
She pauses a moment, and breathes out a sigh. I can sense that she wants to look me in the eyes, gauge my motives and intent, but I prefer to remain behind her, out of site.
"Yes."
"Excellent. Okey Dokey then. Here we go."
There is a whispering rustle of fine gabardine wool as I unlatch my belt, drawing it lowly through the loops and into my hands. I can feel an itch starting to grow in the base of my spine. My hands tingle as they grasp the cool metal buckle. Stepping back, I school my thoughts for a moment, quiet my thinking, and then I send the belt out, lashing with a distinctive "Crack" across the white expanse of her back. An angry red welt springs up in the belt's wake. Bonnie flinches so subtly that I almost miss it. I pause to let the pain fade, then strike her again. And then I begin the deluge in earnest. Over and over, I strike her back, her thighs, coloring the tender flesh crimson in the low lights of the room. The room is silent except for the frenzied cracking of the belt resonating in the hollow chambers of my inner ear. Capillaries burst, bleeding under the skin, forming bleary-edged marks on her back and thighs. And finally, as the belt breaks the skin over her upper back, her lips part and a whimper escapes. The sound is intoxicating; it enflames my blood in an achingly familiar way. Slinging the belt over her head, I wrap it tightly around her neck and yank backwards. Her naked body is pressed against me, her eyes wild in profile as my iron grip tightens further. Her face turns a deep red and her hands fly up to the belt, digging frantically at the edges. It would be so easy…just a second more…more…I can feel the salivary gland at the base of my jaw come to life. I have to swallow to stem the tide. She gasps, sputters, coughs out the last of her breath…
I drop the belt, and reflexively she sucks in a deep gulp of air. In the span of three heartbeats I have calmed my reaction. I come around to face her. Leaning down to reclaim my belt. There are limpid tears in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. She can barely whisper.
"Why didn't you finish?"
I lean in close and taste the rim of her pink, moist eyelid. I've never been more hungry.
"I'm absolutely famished. Would you care to join me for dinner?"
The dam breaks and sobs rack her battered, swinging body. I leave her hanging there while I decide what to cook.