him? How many times had he forced his way back inside her while she lay limp and bleeding on the floor? She didn’t want to think about it, but the thoughts were there and so was the dark, and between the two of them, Olivia wept and wept.
After a long time, she finally wet her rags again, found the soap, and tried to wash up, hunting out sticky clots of semen by touch and scrubbing them away. How many times was a drumbeat in her mind, but in due course even that lost its meaning. She’d live, wouldn’t she? As bad as it was…she’d live. Eventually, she become conscious of the fact that she was still wearing the legs of her slacks in pools around her ankles, so she stepped out of them and stooped to scrub at the dried patches of blood and cum that had trickled down her legs.
Then she realized that she had seen the remains of her slacks because there was light in the washroom. She turned and saw him standing in the doorway with a candle in both hands.
She thought she could be brave, but at the sight of him, her eyes welled up again and she blurted, “Why did you do that?”
He did not answer.
“I would have…I would have…” She broke off and hid from him behind her hands, braying hoarse and ugly sobs.
He set the candle on the ground in the doorway and left her.
4
He was gone more than ten hours, and when he returned with his ancient canvas backpack, she was hunched in her alcove, wrapped in a sleeping bag. He inched towards her as if fearing she would try to flee from him, but she only watched him come with glazed, pain-dulled eyes. He set the backpack on the stone ground before her and retreated to the doorway, where he hunkered down and looked at her with helpless remorse.
Olivia stared at the backpack expressionlessly.
The fire hissed and snapped.
She saw one of her hands reaching out to unzip the pack. There was a skirt in there, a stiffish leather skirt to replace her office slacks, and under that, a good-sized bundle of food: Bread, mushrooms, a haunch of something that might be rabbit or dog or whatever came little and blunt-legged like that, a handful of smushy blackberries, and an unopened bottle of apple juice. Real apple juice. Treetop, even.
She peeled back the plastic tie that kept it safety-sealed for her protection, unscrewed the top, and sniffed it. Smelled applely. She took a sip. Sweetness burst in her mouth; tartness stung it. She held the juice in her mouth, closing her eyes to savor it. Swallowed. Capped the juice and looked back at her captor. She could see the whites around his eyes.
She looked down at the food again, selected the haunch of meat, thought a moment, and held it out to him.
His face clouded in wretchedness. He crept towards her, still hunkered low to the ground, low enough that his folded wings dragged behind him. He stopped just beyond her arm’s reach, tentatively stretched out and took her offering. Then he just sat, holding it in his hands and gazing at her unhappily.
“Food,” Olivia said, in his language.
He closed his eyes as if in pain.
“Meat,” she amplified. “For eating.”
He said something she did not know; it sounded like he pulled it from his throat with razors.
Olivia looked up, watched their shadows flicker over the ceiling, and then looked back at him. He hadn’t moved. She said, “Are you hurt?”
He groaned, twisted his face away, said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her breath beginning to catch in her chest. “For… whatever…I did.”
“Please, stop.” He breathed raggedly for a long time. “You did nothing. You were—” And he said something else she did not know.
She shook her head, too tired to puzzle out the meaning of it.
“I am sorry,” he said heavily. “I am very sorry.”
Olivia picked up a berry and ate it. Sweet and just a little tart, very juicy. She did not know how to tell him that she thought she was all right.
After a long time, she finally wet her rags again, found the soap, and tried to wash up, hunting out sticky clots of semen by touch and scrubbing them away. How many times was a drumbeat in her mind, but in due course even that lost its meaning. She’d live, wouldn’t she? As bad as it was…she’d live. Eventually, she become conscious of the fact that she was still wearing the legs of her slacks in pools around her ankles, so she stepped out of them and stooped to scrub at the dried patches of blood and cum that had trickled down her legs.
Then she realized that she had seen the remains of her slacks because there was light in the washroom. She turned and saw him standing in the doorway with a candle in both hands.
She thought she could be brave, but at the sight of him, her eyes welled up again and she blurted, “Why did you do that?”
He did not answer.
“I would have…I would have…” She broke off and hid from him behind her hands, braying hoarse and ugly sobs.
He set the candle on the ground in the doorway and left her.
4
He was gone more than ten hours, and when he returned with his ancient canvas backpack, she was hunched in her alcove, wrapped in a sleeping bag. He inched towards her as if fearing she would try to flee from him, but she only watched him come with glazed, pain-dulled eyes. He set the backpack on the stone ground before her and retreated to the doorway, where he hunkered down and looked at her with helpless remorse.
Olivia stared at the backpack expressionlessly.
The fire hissed and snapped.
She saw one of her hands reaching out to unzip the pack. There was a skirt in there, a stiffish leather skirt to replace her office slacks, and under that, a good-sized bundle of food: Bread, mushrooms, a haunch of something that might be rabbit or dog or whatever came little and blunt-legged like that, a handful of smushy blackberries, and an unopened bottle of apple juice. Real apple juice. Treetop, even.
She peeled back the plastic tie that kept it safety-sealed for her protection, unscrewed the top, and sniffed it. Smelled applely. She took a sip. Sweetness burst in her mouth; tartness stung it. She held the juice in her mouth, closing her eyes to savor it. Swallowed. Capped the juice and looked back at her captor. She could see the whites around his eyes.
She looked down at the food again, selected the haunch of meat, thought a moment, and held it out to him.
His face clouded in wretchedness. He crept towards her, still hunkered low to the ground, low enough that his folded wings dragged behind him. He stopped just beyond her arm’s reach, tentatively stretched out and took her offering. Then he just sat, holding it in his hands and gazing at her unhappily.
“Food,” Olivia said, in his language.
He closed his eyes as if in pain.
“Meat,” she amplified. “For eating.”
He said something she did not know; it sounded like he pulled it from his throat with razors.
Olivia looked up, watched their shadows flicker over the ceiling, and then looked back at him. He hadn’t moved. She said, “Are you hurt?”
He groaned, twisted his face away, said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her breath beginning to catch in her chest. “For… whatever…I did.”
“Please, stop.” He breathed raggedly for a long time. “You did nothing. You were—” And he said something else she did not know.
She shook her head, too tired to puzzle out the meaning of it.
“I am sorry,” he said heavily. “I am very sorry.”
Olivia picked up a berry and ate it. Sweet and just a little tart, very juicy. She did not know how to tell him that she thought she was all right.
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