Love
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What's wrong with you, with us,
what's happening to us?
Ah our love is a harsh cord
that binds us wounding us
and if we want
to leave our wound,
to separate,
it makes a new knot for us and condemns us
to drain our blood and burn together.
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What's wrong with you? I look at you
and I find nothing in you but two eyes
like all eyes, a mouth
lost among a thousand mouths that I have kissed, more beautiful,
a body just like those that have slipped
beneath my body without leaving any memory.
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And how empty you went through the world
like a wheat-colored jar
without air, without sound, without substance!
I vainly sought in you
depth for my arms
that dig, without cease, beneath the earth:
beneath your skin, beneath your eyes,
nothing,
beneath your double breast scarcely
raised
a current of crystalline order
that does not know why it flows singing.
Why, why, why,
my love, why?
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Pablo Neruda
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She was screaming, and the men had begun to circle closer. One of them began walking towards her directly with a purposeful stride and a dark gleam in his eye. She reached into her purse, shuffling through the contents frantically, and her hand closed upon a bottle of perfume. It was the only hard object she could find. She threw the glass bottle as hard as she could at the approaching man, and her aim, amazingly, was good; it hit his head with a hard thunk and then shattered on the ground, spraying the cold winter air with the delicate scent of roses. The man fell over, apparently unconscious; for a second she was frozen, staring at him lying on the ground, and she felt a moment of wild triumph. But then she remembered, of course, that there were two other men; and she had nothing left to defend herself with.
They looked angry now, and no longer amused. They hovered for a moment, as if afraid she would take out another heavy object from her purse, but soon they saw from her look of panic that she had nothing left. They were coming closer and closer—suddenly one was by her side; he put his hand over her mouth to muffle her, she bit at it—he let go for a moment with a cry of pain and she screamed,
"Help me! HELP ME!!" at the top of her lungs, but his hand cut her off again, and she felt like she was choking. He reached around her and grabbed her arm, pulling it hard; she was clutching the streetlamp with all her strength, sure that the light was the only safety she had. They would try to drag her to a dark alley. She clung to the pole with all the strength of desperation, and the man was practically dislodging her arm socket without getting her to move an inch. She gasped in pain.
"Fuck," he said. He glanced at the other man, who was looking up and down the street nervously. "Grab the bitch's other arm," he growled.
After all, she was only an underweight teenage girl—between the two of them they had no trouble, though she kicked and tried to scream. She was dragging her feet so much that one of them actually picked her up off the ground, holding her against him—and helping himself to a generous feel—as they ran as quickly as they could away from the light until they reached the alley. Then the man held her up against the wall—she could feel the rough brick pressing against her unprotected skin—and tried to shove her dress up around her thighs; she resisted enough that he was frustrated and simply tore at the silk, and paused to crush her lips against his own. His dark stubble rubbed against her cheek and jaw, and one of his hands began to close tightly around her throat, so that she gasped, and as he thrust his tongue into her mouth dark spots began to swim in her vision. She tried to hold on to consciousness, and summoned a last great effort—she bit down hard on his tongue, she felt a salty taste in her mouth and then heard him yelp in pain and draw in his breath sharply—and then in fury the man slammed her hard against the brick wall, and she felt a slicing pain in her head as her skull connected with the brick—and then she saw stars, and then she blackness closed in, and she saw nothing.
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"Blair. Blair." She heard a low whisper, faintly; there was darkness behind her eyes, and a great deal of pain.
"Blair! Can you hear me?"
There it was again.
"BLAIR!" And there was a raw edge of panic behind the voice that, strangely, began to sound familiar.
"Please, please say something! Oh my god, Blair—oh god, please—"
Yes. It was familiar. It was the most familiar voice in the world. She fought the blackness as hard as she could so that he would see that she was alive—she wanted desperately to soothe that raw edge in his voice. But she could not move.
She lay absolutely still and cold in his arms, like a lifeless statue—a thin thread of scarlet began to seep from beneath her hair and wind down her face. He touched it gently with trembling fingers and held the blood up to his eyes in horror.
"Don't do this to me, Blair—you can't leave me here like this," he groaned in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion; "I WON'T LET YOU, YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME—!"
He checked her pulse frantically; but either because it was very weak or because he was too excited to concentrate on it, he could hear nothing.
He gathered her body in his arms so that her head could rest against his chest and got to his feet; her cold, lifeless legs swung freely over his arm. The two figures—the boy with a sharp, burning anguish in his eyes, cradling the unconscious pale girl in her torn silk dress—made a strange pieta, standing in the dark alley in the snow.
He stared down intently at her small, pale face, as if he could make her eyes open simply with the force of his will.
"Come back," he said fiercely. He bent over her head so that her blue lips were almost against his cheek, but he could not feel her breath against his skin. He strained himself—he waited—he could feel and hear nothing. He ran his fingers over her lips—they were still, and cold as ice—and his eyes lit up dangerously. He was sure, now, that she had died.
"Come back," he repeated with frightful vehemence, "come back—even though you're dead!" His arms that were holding her shook violently, and strange gleams passed through his eyes; the muscles of his face were contorted in agony. The girl still did not move.
"It's my fault you're dead," he said in a low, harsh whisper, after a moment. "Everything that's happened to you is my fault, and no one else's! Well, I've all but killed you—come back and haunt me, then!" He groaned in fury and despair.
"The murdered DO haunt their murderers, I know," he said. "I know that ghosts HAVE wandered on earth. Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad!"
He sank down to his knees, still holding her in his arms, his whole body shaking.
"Just don't leave me here—alone—where I can't find you! Oh, god—"
Dry sobs were racking his entire body. He couldn't speak anymore; his grief was beyond words. He held her in his arms, kneeling in the snow at a loss—time stretched on and on—it was horrifying, he could not think through the horror and pain. The minutes ticked by.
She had heard him, dimly—it felt like she was trapped at the bottom of the ocean, and she could hear his voice through walls of water. She tried to push the waves off her and swim back to the surface—but it was so heavy, and so dark.
The sounds of his grief were beginning to register; could it be that he was crying for her? She could scarcely believe it. She tried harder.
"Ch—Ch—" she gasped, unable to get the name out fully; she twitched. His arms stiffened around her.
"Blair?" he whispered through tears that scalded his eyes. "Blair, you're alive?" his voice was thin, ragged—and incredulous. He blinked furiously.
The world was coming back into focus for her, slowly.
"Ch—Chuck," she said. She was shivering.
He stared at her wide-eyed, apparently stunned into silence.
She winced; her head hurt.
"Wh—what happened?" She opened her eyes.
Her teeth were chattering.
Chuck let out a gasp of relief.
"Jesus, Blair—" he choked, "you—you scared me to death!" He pulled her against him even tighter, so his body heat might warm her.
"I'm fine," she said in a surprised voice; "I just hit my head, but I'm feeling better."
"Thank god," he said breathlessly, rocking back and forth. "Thank god."
"What happened?" She asked again.
He looked down at her worriedly, and winced when he saw the blood that matted her hair. He stood up again, still holding her very carefully and gently.
"Where are we going?" She asked faintly.
"The hospital," he replied in a shaky voice.
"I want to sleep," she murmured.
"You can't," he said more firmly. "You must have a concussion."
"Are you okay?" she asked. "You were upset—I could hear you—"
He let out a strangled laugh. "Am I okay?" He shook his head incredulously as he began to walk back to the main street. "You almost die, and you ask me if I'm okay?"
"I didn't almost die," she snapped. Some of the color was coming back to her cheeks. "I just hit my head."
"Shh," he said, amazement still written on his face, and he chuckled dryly. "I'm looking for a cab."
She was silent the whole trip to the hospital, and so was he; from time to time he looked down at her and touched her lips with his fingers and checked her pulse, as if to be sure she was still breathing. He seemed somewhat dazed.
The doctor cleaned her up and said it wasn't serious, and he laughed as though he could not believe it.
"She was probably out for a few minutes, right?" asked the doctor as he filled out a prescription for pain medication.
"Yes," Chuck said numbly.
"Don't worry, it's not a very serious concussion. What happened?"
"She hit her head," said Chuck in a tightly restrained voice. The doctor nodded, and did not ask any more questions. He was the private family doctor, and Chuck could trust him to be discreet.
She was so much better that she could walk on her own now; and somewhat warmer, because Chuck had wrapped her tightly in his coat. They took a taxi back to his apartment—she did not want to go home, and he did not insist—and she fell asleep immediately on his bed, still wearing his coat.
He removed it gently, trying not to disturb her—and he saw bruise marks in the shape of fingers on her arms and on her throat. He flinched, but said nothing, afraid to wake her. He drew the blankets up over her and settled himself beside her, on top of the covers, still wearing all his clothes. He drew an arm around her protectively, and settled in to watch her while she slept.
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Author's note: I borrowed a passage in this chapter, too, from the other Bronte sister. This is a very famous scene from Wuthering Heights that takes place after the death of Cathy:
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"May she wake in torment!' he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. 'Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not THERE - not in heaven - not perished - where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer - I repeat it till my tongue stiffens - Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you - haunt me, then! The murdered DO haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts HAVE wandered on earth. Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! only DO not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I CANNOT live without my life! I CANNOT live without my soul!"