Season of the Witch, Part Two
Part one is here.
—-
Elizabeth was awake. Awake when she should be dead. First thoughts: The cold. So very cold. And the silence. Late at night, yes, but there was a deeper silence. Something lost. Something failed. She tried to gasp for air, but couldn’t. She panicked. Thought she was suffocating, and as she slowly realized that she was fine, alive.
A childhood memory: Buried in a snow drift by friends, not able to breathe, the all-consuming cold inching through her body. The sensation dominated the joyous laughter afterwards. A blizzard, a storm, no school.
Her eyes focused. She was at the table, in her kitchen, in the dark. The streetlights outside cast a false-moon glow on the man sitting opposite her, and she had no fear. She knew the man. Or, at least, knew what he was. She looked down at her arms. The two gaping, bloodless slashes. Skin laying open like pale chicken breasts, tendons visible on the left. She was out of blood, her heart was still, and she was suffocating beneath the snow. She blinked dry eyes and sneered at the man. He smiled in return.
“Good evening, Elizabeth.”
“What do you want?”
The man spread his arms and his face darkened. “That’s what I’m here to ask you.”
“I want to die.”
“Do you?”
She couldn’t say yes. She couldn’t say no. She set her jaw and stared over his shoulder.
“Ah, well. Maybe you do.” He muttered sadly. “You did a good job. Everything planned out.” She followed his hand as he took in her personal items with a wave. Her purse, her passwords, her credit cards and ID’s all neatly laid out for the neighbors, the police, her family. “You’re very thoughtful.”
“No point in making their lives any harder.” She replied.
“No. I agree.”
“Good. Let me die, then.”
“Oh, okay. First, a question. May I?”
“Is that the question?”
He barked a laugh, “No, no. Here’s the question: What if you could get even?”
“With whom?”
Flash: Brown hair, a missing front tooth, a fat face. She flinched. Slamming her to the concrete in the piss-stink of the stairwell, lifting her skirt, tearing her underwear off, a punch to the eye, her head bouncing, his cock ramming into her and his jackal howl. Cotton button down, khakis, 25-30. Overweight. That shit-stink mixed with spray-on Right Guard. Acidic, chemical, foul.
Flash: Shaved head, 30’s, huge inside of her, hands on her throat, laughter as her arms are held above her head, grinding into the concrete. Screaming as he cums, slapping her repeatedly. Cargo pants, nice shoes, Cardinals hoodie. Had an accent. Baltimore, maybe. Eyes close together.
Flash: Skinny, sweating profusely. Smells like stale milk. Hunched, bony. Dirty blonde. Nervous the whole time. Numb by then, he was fast. Long fingers. Came on her stomach and cheered himself weakly. Spit in her mouth. Giggled. Pullover, Calvin Klein. Jeans. Work boots.
She was shivering. Not cold now, but unable to stop. She planted her hands on the table, unable to be sick. She blinked her dry eyes, she pressed against the table so hard the wounds in her wrists opened wider, but there was no more pain anywhere. There was no sensation at all.
How beautiful.
Nothing.
She was free of life’s endless torment. Free of cracking knees and the bunion on her foot, free of the pain of what they did…what they did…
“What they did…”
The man nodded sadly. “Elizabeth, I know you know who and what I am. But I don’t operate the way you think I do. You know only myth and not how things really are. I can give you the power to avenge yourself, and all those women like you.”
He stood, walked around the table to stand behind her, hands on her shoulders, and she flinched.
“How many silently hold in their pain? How many innocents are also dying on their bathroom floors tonight? How many girls are going to get off the bus tomorrow and never be seen again?”
She somehow found the strength to speak. “No deals. I want nothing to do with you.”
“The deal is in your favor. I give you a second chance. Simple as that. Your only requirement is that you get even. Not just with the men who raped you, but with all men who rape, who abuse, and who prey upon women. No need for underhanded deeds, no need to sabotage the good and the faithful. I don’t care. I have no need to undermine goodness in the world. My war was fought and lost long ago. My purpose now is simply to help maintain the status quo. I want Mankind’s evildoers.” He moved close to her ear, “I want the bad men. They’re coming to me anyway, so there’s no harm if you speed things up.”
“I have no power,” she muttered, wishing for tears that couldn’t come.
“I will give you power, and you will operate with no consequence. You can use the power as you see fit. You can be an agent of good, and that will be fine by me. You can save countless thousands.”
“No tricks?”
“None. I heal you tonight and, tomorrow, you become an avenging angel. But you must use the power. You must carry through and send the evil back to me. That’s all. Pick the worst of the worst, those who do not deserve to continue, and destroy them.”
She was staring at her belongings, no longer feeling his hands on her shoulders. She liked her purse. Found it in a thrift shop for ten bucks. Little secret hidey-places. Another out of place childhood memory crept into her mind. Her hiding place behind the old riverstones that made up the arch to the Henryton tunnel. She worked one free when she was 13, stuck in all of her prized possessions – stupid little trinkets and gim-cracks. Hiding it from her father.
And there was the worst of the childhood memories. The one she always avoided. Her father searching her room, tossing her mattress, Jim Beam rage slapping her so hard she flew like a doll against the far wall. Other nights when his hand would move up her leg, or cup her budding breasts, drunken weeping in her ear. So beautiful…my beautiful Lizzy. My beautiful little girl.
“I want to cry.” She whispered.
“Sorry?”
“Please let me cry…”
“Choice made?”
“I’ll do it.”
His hands moved down to her upper arms, clutched her biceps, and she felt a wave of heat spread through her body. Her heart starting up like an old car, choking to life, the engine grinding. Her eyes teared up like she’d been in a sandstorm and started to flow, her body electric-shocked and jerked from muscle to muscle, foot to leg, finger to hand, her neck straightening and her face tilting up to see him upside down as she sucked in breath with a gasping, rattling relief. She cried into her hairline, her head tilted back, as she looked into his soft blue eyes.
Then she felt a prickling along her forearms and looked down, turning her hands palm up. The wound down the length of her left arm started to close, leaving a faded, puckered scar. A memory of suicide from years and years and years ago. Her right arm followed, sealing up and forming a long, razor-straight, seemingly old scar.
She cried. She put her face in her hands and let it all go. He kneeled and held her, his body warming hers. Time had no meaning as the pain flowed back into her body and out through her eyes, her running nose, her choking sobs. He picked her up and took her to bed. He tucked her in. He shushed her and put a hand on her forehead. He placed a glass of water and a box of Kleenex on the nightstand. Then he was gone. And he hadn’t touched her, he hadn’t raped her, he hadn’t betrayed her or lied to her or cheated on her. He hadn’t made a move, or stared at her tits. Her hadn’t watched her ass, or threatened her, or closed up and locked her out.
The first man to treat her right was no man at all. So she slept. The new life coming with dawn, and the sun’s healing light radiating against the pink curtains of her bedroom windows.