Tacit Resonances

Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

I had just taken a lukewarm shower, and now I was cocooned in soft blankets. An almost weightless but warm and embracing duvet covered me completely, up to just above my chin. I desperately needed a good night's sleep; it had been a day filled with too much excitement and too many adventures. Even for someone like me, it was simply overwhelming.

I closed my eyes, and the dimness of the room bathed me in a soothing nocturnal hue. Faint footsteps echoed in the hallway, someone was busy, pacing back and forth. Perhaps it wasn't him, but the maid. However, the incessant movement was starting to become bothersome.

I inhaled the room's scents lavender, rose, and the clean aroma of the blankets, like freshly laundered clothes, soft, fresh, and fragrant.

The footsteps continued, a never-ending rhythm that seemed determined to keep me awake. I attempted to shift to my side, clutching the pillow tightly.

My thoughts began to drift, envisioning his powerful passion thrusting into me violently, dominating my senses.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and I jolted within the blankets, blinking into the thick darkness. I recognized the silhouette of a man.

"Oh, it's you! You frightened me!!"

The silhouette settled on the edge of my bed, wearing sneakers and exuding the scent of musky aftershave, likely a niche brand given the intensity of the aroma.

I struggled to sit up, but with the man's weight pressing down on my chest and my arms immobilized beneath the covers, I could only move my head.

"You're scaring me! Stop it!"

I heard a soft chuckle.

Her blood turned to ice, and fear surged like an acidic lump in her throat. She noticed that the man had his face obscured by a pair of women's tights, distorting his features through the gossamer fabric.

"Is this some sort of bedroom game?" He yelled. If it was, he certainly wasn't enjoying it.

She attempted to kick, forcing her legs together and struggling to lift her torso. But she found herself firmly pinned to the bed.

The man brandished a long table knife, the type used for slicing bread, its blade serrated and gleaming. It was held in his two hands, the thin wooden handle gripped tightly.

Her heart pounded in her temples, life felt too short, she wanted more of it, so much more. She continued to kick and squirm. She saw the blade inching closer, held menacingly above her.

Then, he began to scream, a blood-curdling shriek. But it was strange; nothing seemed to come out, nothing at all. In this twisted twist of fate, she, who had always possessed the power of words, was now silenced, unable to utter anything.

The blade slowly pierced her skin, and a warm rush of blood sprayed into her eyes, momentarily blinding her before the searing pain set in. Strangely, fear was an effective painkiller. It was true, one could die before it actually happened. The terror of death was so vivid and intense that it flooded her body with adrenaline.

She blinked, and a stream of blood poured out of her mouth, like a gruesome burp filled with thick, crimson liquid. She seemed to utter a feeble "no." No, she didn't want to die now. No, not when she was a wealthy businesswoman who could have anyone she desired, whenever she desired. No, thank you. She did not like this ending. Let's move on, she thought, let's head to the nightlife, enjoy youth, beauty, and copious amounts of alcoholic drinks.

The blade penetrated again, a grotesque jewel embedded in her sternum. She could feel her pulse racing wildly as she attempted once more to move her legs. Her nightgown was soaked with urine, and she was dying without panties, in her own mess.

Still, she could hear the blood gushing out, feel it escaping, relentlessly, like a breached dam. Help.

"Arrgh ito," she garbled, as if attempting to sing a foreign language fluently.

He gazed down at her head, wrapped in the woman's stocking.

Why? What had he done?

In this moment of excruciating pain and impending death, she couldn't fathom who was killing her or why. All she could think about was the brutal, degrading way in which she was dying, her life slipping away barbarically, covered in filth. Her lifeless body would soon be pale and cold, marred by a horrifying gash where her once proud breasts had been. Now they would be limp, soaked, and empty, devoid of life, a grotesque sight against her new deceased form. The gruesome wound would continue to widen, reaching her sternum, splitting it, and finally invading the heart muscle that had been pumping desperately. It would slowly penetrate her, claiming her in the final throes of bloodshed and death.

All the bodily fluids flowed forth, bowels emptied without restraint. The air became saturated with the stench of sweat, blood, and feces.

Her eyes dimmed, the man fading into the darkness. The curtains were drawn, the scene was over, the show couldn't go on. The protagonist had exited the stage. Close the curtain quickly.

And this is how I envision her now, my beautiful Anna, lying supine on the bed, enveloped in a grotesque shroud of her own bodily fluids. The stench was unbearable, her skin a deathly pallor, her image utterly disreputable. Dead, with a man straddling her, yet not quite, his weight pressing the blade of a bread-cutting knife, with a wooden handle, perhaps, into her chest.

The rest was darkness and night.