Tacit Resonances

Chapter Eleven, II

...

It was time to show her their little game; she would understand and imagine a suitable remedy.

He was bleeding. He took off his helmet.

In the study, he found the boots and put them on at once. The overalls were useless; they would clog every movement.

I opened another door for her, sideways in the hallway.

"Who's here?"

Did you understand? We didn't have time for bold and beautiful Helena. Go ahead, ask the questions later.

I lit the stairwell light for her. It was obvious; he had to get off. Don't worry; I'll close every window and every door for you. They won't come in yet.

Helena went down the steps, one at a time; she was hesitant. Another door was wide open for her, another corridor lit up.

Be a good girl, follow the breadcrumbs; they will lead you to the horrible truth. You saw the operating room; it was spotless. Mrs. Boff was a wonderful housekeeper.

I was sorry to upset her; she was such a good girl.

I opened the last door. The spectacle was gruesome. Hospital beds were methodically arranged in a circle. Thirty-four women, three in advanced stages of pregnancy, were armless and legless, with scarred stumps, tied at the waist and throat to their coffins. They were made up and combed, some shaved in the genitals, completely naked. Two of them had silver piercings embellishing their nipples. Pain relief and saline solutions hung from the cots, and sedatives were administered for pain and agony. They were alive, awake, and angry.

"Who are you? How did you get here?"

"Are you with the police?"

"You're naked! He wanted to cut you... you ran away! Where is he?"

"Did you kill him?"

"Call the police!"

"No! Kill me! I can't take another minute of this life."

"Kill me too."

Clara spoke, her blonde hair had grown a little, now cut short.

"I think I'm pregnant. I haven't had my period in two months, or at least, I think it's been two months. Time seems relative in this place. Please, just kill me. I can't go back to my parents, my friends."

Tears streamed down her face as she sobbed.

Helena, now wiping away her own tears, had been silently crying like a man – no sobs, just silent, continuous streams of tears dripping from her eyes onto her chest and the floor.

He whispered, "I can't do that. Please, I'll call a doctor. They can fit you with prosthetics. There must be a way to fix this."

Clara's voice was filled with anguish. "He raped me every day! He'd come in with an erection and force it down my throat! You can't fix that!"

"Me too," another woman chimed in, "they move the cots to the center, I think they're different each time. Even if they wear stockings, one time one is fat, the other is shorter. Then there's the doctor. He has a beard, you can see it under the stocking."

A chorus of agreement followed. "I know them by their genitals. They're all different."

"They also use a dildo on us, in the ass, they put us in the middle. For the others. Then they turn us as they want, we're stumps anyway. PLEASE, LET ME DIE!"

"No, not me," he replied. "I can't do it. I have to go now; they're outside. I have to reach the real police and get a doctor here."

Helena, it's impossible to comprehend. There's no way to fix this. This is an inescapable reality.

She wiped her tears away with her arm. I knocked on the door twice.

Helena understood instantly and turned to run down the stairs. We could hear their screams in the distance.

I led Clara to the kitchen.

"Turn on the stove," I urged.

"Who's here with me?" Clara's voice was trembling; she was genuinely scared. I didn't want to diminish her strength; I wanted to help her.

Mrs. Boff appeared in the doorway.

"What's going on? Who's banging on the door like that?"

Fat old woman, you knew everything, yet you tolerated it. You cooked your stupid meat soup and thought that with a swollen belly, we'd be raped more willingly.

At that moment, a thunderous roar shook the air.

"What's happening? Sweet Jesus! It's an explosion!"

Helena delivered a powerful punch to Mrs. Boff's belly and then landed a well-aimed blow to her jaw. There was a distinct crack, and she probably had a broken jaw now.

The old woman crumpled onto the cold kitchen floor.

I increased the flames on the stovetop.

"Who are you?" Helena looked around the room in confusion.

Silly, I'm right behind you.

But we don't have time for conversation. Besides, I've always been a woman of action.

I blew on the flames, and the smell of gas became overwhelming.

Helena coughed.

I opened the window to the garden. The willow trees swayed beautifully in the warm breeze, carrying the scent of the fire that had now begun to engulf the garden. Soon, it would reach the house.

Henry and his accomplices rushed to the garage, trying to extinguish the flames with two fire hydrants.

We could only wonder: would the firemen arrive first, or would the mansion explode? And how long would it take for it all to go up in flames?

Helena took a detour, returned to the entrance, and grabbed the bike.

The bike's red fairings had seen better days but were still intact. The engine roared to life.

He no longer wore a helmet, but his boots were firmly on.

"I'm leaving, thank you," he said urgently. "Can you hear me? Thank you."

With a twist of the throttle, he accelerated away, disappearing into the distance within minutes.

I watched him go, filled with admiration for Helena.