Tacit Resonances

Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

Helena stopped at the bistro near the bus stop, desperately needing to make a phone call and find some clothes.

As she entered, the door's chime alerted the person at the counter. A tall, middle-aged woman with a messy collection of greasy hair approached her, her fiery red locks contrasting sharply with her unkempt appearance.

"What happened at the count's house? You came from there! You're naked! You escaped. We heard a terrible bang!"

The sound of sirens in the distance confirmed that the house had been detonated.

"I need to make a phone call. And I need some clothes," Helena explained.

"Did I ask you what happened to Count Henry?" the woman retorted sharply.

Helena was taken aback by the woman's hostility. She realized that she was being too aggressive and tried to soften her tone.

"I don't know. I fell on my bike," she replied cautiously.

The woman's face turned crimson, a throbbing vein visible on her temple as she continued to berate Helena.

"You know! You're naked! You rebelled! You escaped."

"Escaped from what?" Helena asked, genuinely confused.

"You want to rebel, you want to be an emancipated woman, with a motorbike, your tits in the wind... we have a lot of fun here with people like you, you know!?" the woman sneered.

Helena decided to back away toward the door, sensing the growing hostility.

"I see you guys really play nice," she retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

The woman's rage intensified. She stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavily and staring at Helena with wide, bulging eyes. Helena reached the front door, lightly pushing it to exit, and it rang with a trill.

But her escape was halted by a grotesque figure a man with a swollen, flabby belly. He blocked her path, grinning obscenely.

"Where are you going, pretty pussy?" he taunted, his voice oozing malice.

The man reeked of filth and dung, dressed in a red and white plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up, and faded jeans. A grotesque Harlequin mustache adorned his upper lip.

"I like my dinners...don't go away just yet," he chuckled, revealing a gleaming cleaver in his hand, the type used for slicing meat.

In one swift motion, he slid the cleaver horizontally across Helena's abdomen, as if giving her a cruel, macabre belt.

Helena stood there, stunned by the sudden attack. Had it really happened? After all the effort, she had been impaled by this repulsive, grotesque figure with a penchant for macabre humor.

"You don't want me to go on a diet right now when meat tastes this good?" he quipped with a sinister smile.

And just like that, they seized her.

He was dying, feeling his heartbeat racing and his life draining away. He knew he had to calm down or it would only hasten his demise. Perhaps it was his liver. He had read that dying from liver damage was excruciatingly painful, but strangely, he felt nothing now.

An idea, a desperate idea, began to form in his fading consciousness. It was an idea that might be his only chance for salvation. He musters his remaining strength.

With shaky steps, Helena staggered towards the center of the pub, her vision blurred, and the pain in her abdomen unbearable. The woman who had berated her earlier took a step back, not wanting to get involved or dirty.

Blood poured from Helena's wound, drenching her clothes, the floor, and everything in its path. She managed to muster a faint cry for help, her voice trembling and weak, with an immovable point of focus. Her life was slipping away, and she was dying naked in boots, a gruesome cleaver lodged in her belly, cleaving her in two.

The woman sneered, showing no sign of compassion or help.

Helena collapsed to her knees, her strength waning by the second. She tried to use her trembling hands to stem the bleeding, but there was so much blood, dark red and thick, a venous flow that seemed unstoppable. She knew she was a goner.

"We'll cook this one," the woman declared callously, "it's muscular. The meat will have to be marinated well; otherwise, it stays stringy."

As the horrifying realization of their intentions struck Helena, disgust and nausea overwhelmed her. Adrenaline surged through her veins, causing her to vomit uncontrollably, even as her life continued to ebb away.

Helena's mind screamed in sheer terror and desperation. She couldn't accept that her life would end in this gruesome manner, becoming a meal for these deranged individuals. She couldn't die like this, not here, not now.

With a burst of newfound determination and strength, she charged at the woman who held the cleaver. She refused to accept her fate; she didn't want to die. Though the words might not have left her lips audibly, in her mind, they echoed like a powerful scream.

The woman fell to the floor, taken by surprise. Helena knew she had little time left before she passed out from blood loss, but she wasn't going to die alone or become part of that man's grotesque meal.

The Hells Angels closed in, their movements sluggish and disjointed, mumbled threats escaping their lips. But Helena could barely hear them now; the deafening thumping of her heart resonated in her head. She knew she needed to act quickly.

She stumbled into the kitchen, her unsteady pursuer following close behind. Helena's main focus was the door at the back of the kitchen, her only hope for escape. She pushed herself forward, clutching the cleaver and her bleeding abdomen. Desperation coursed through her veins, driving her onward.

Outside, more cars had parked, and the commotion was growing. A red Chevy caught her eye; its window was open. Helena wasted no time. She got inside the car, hastily rolled up the window, and locked the doors. The large man lunged at her, slamming his hefty body onto the closed door and pounding on the hood with his meaty fists.

Desperation and fear flooded Helena's mind as she realized there were no keys in the ignition. She needed a way out, a way to start the car and escape. She reached under the steering wheel, grabbing the cables, and with the cleaver, she cut and pulled them closer. The car roared to life; it was an automatic transmission.

With the car now running, she shifted it into reverse. The massive man, caught off guard, stumbled backward. Helena revved the engine and struck him full in the waist, sending him sprawling onto the hood. She reversed again, rolling over his prone body.

She saw the crushed head on the asphalt, but she didn't have time to dwell on it. She had a choice to make: to die here or to make a desperate dash for survival. The wound would hold for about an hour, and she had a range of 250 kilometers left in the car. Hope, that tiny glimmer of a chance at survival, pushed her decision.

Helena turned the car around and sped away, leaving behind the horror and madness that had almost claimed her life.