A Simple Request

At first he thought it was meant as a bad joke, her slight trace of a smile a hint of the fact. Thinking back now, that smirk might just as easily have been her glee in watching him squirm, or perhaps (even worse) longing for her own suffering? He didn't reply at first, neither by words nor action, too bewildered to make out if sincerity was present, just stopped mid-motion and gazed down at her, hoping for laughter or some other sign that it was all ridicule. But she repeated her plea, this time more intense and demanding, beautiful eyes still shut, and body moving like a snake in wet grass, in what he'd until now thought to be pleasure.
         As if she'd finally noticed his stillness, she also stopped moving, opened her eyes, and saw him as the ender of a delightful dream. With earnestness that could not be doubted she grabbed the wrist of his left arm, started pulling at it and repeated one more time those two horrifying words:
         “Hit me!”
         He remembered how he wanted to ask her if it was a joke, if she was feeling OK, if she was being ironic or maybe he had done something that had caused her pain. He stared down at her and tried asking, but words were expensive, and what came out was only a stuttering mumble. She finally tired of his pacifism, pushed him aside and got out of bed. After enveloping herself in her morning gown, she exited the room, whilst he rolled onto his back and searched for something solid focus on. The only thing he found, in the white ceiling, was the pink, funnel-shaped lamp, which he ogled up at with excruciating intensity, yet not seeing it all. His baffled thoughts teleported from disbelief to disgust, to sadness and desperation over to anger, which again made him feel sick about himself, then back to disbelief.
         She couldn’t actually have meant it, could she? I love her more than anyone I’ve ever known. She must know that? Maybe she doubted me… Had this been a test? Had I passed? She’d never before looked as displeased.
         The shadows of his thoughts hurt in his chest, and staring up at the light bulb for so long felt like needles in his retina, so he closed his eyelids, yet the light had scalded his vision and did not abate. Shutting his hands into firsts, like a dying spider, he grabbed the red sheets and banged his head on the pillow. Not for lack of wanting to, he hadn’t managed to cry, his whirlpool mind not resting at one emotion long enough.
         She had brewed some instant coffee, and sat at the small dining table for two in the kitchen, smoking a Camel Light. The skies outside matched the color of the smoke coming out of her mouth. As she took a sip of the strong, black coffee, she saw a leaf blow off the only tree on the lawn. Having once been a glowing temptation of red apples was now but an ugly old tree, casting menacing shadows at night, if the moon bothered illuminating it.
         A few hours later he was making dinner. Originally wanting to cook something delicious and romantic, he still couldn’t seem to focus and feared she’d interpret such a meal as a sign of gratification, so he threw the steaks back in the freezer and boiled some spaghetti instead, along with readymade Uncle Ben’s sauce. The meal finished, he made the table and called out for her in as placid a voice he could muster. She was reading one of the paperback romance novels she always complained about the stereotypical characters and predictable plot, yet continued to bring home from the library, in the tiny living room. She took her time before laying it down and coming over to eat.
         Did she take so long because of reluctance to my company, or was she simply engrossed in the book? They hadn’t spoken still.
         He started to fill his bowl with pasta and sauce, and then proceeded to eat, all before she’d sat down. The clanking, scraping noises as his fork twirled the spaghetti straws, seamed obnoxiously loud. Entering the kitchen, she made straight for the spice shelf, grabbing hold of the Parmesan cheese.
“Ah, sorry. I forgot” he said feeling even more stupid, but she didn’t reply.
As she finally sat down and helped herself to the dish, finishing by sprinkling the Parmesan on top, as if she had an inbuilt MUTE button, her eating utensils didn’t make a sound. His own racket agonized him even more so, knowing that she would surely be exceedingly annoyed by it. He tried to eat as silent as her, then thought he should perhaps say he was sorry for making such noise, but realising how stupid it would be, kept the excuse at bay. How did she manage to always be so perfect? So clean and neat? So tidy?
They ate at what seamed a painfully obese period of time, him constantly studying her for any emotion to respond to. She kept her silence, whilst staring at the plate, periodically glancing up and out the window when the wind sometimes wheezed.
         Finally finished his course, he finished off with half a glass of cold lemon water. She was drinking red wine. Had been sipping it whilst she was reading and brought the bottle and glass with her to the table. She never touched the water he’d set out for her. Once his thirst was drenched and he let out a little “Ahh” like he always did, she closed her eyes briefly. Seeing it, he felt even more like being voted off some reality show.
         “Look,… about what you…” he said, trying his best to sound confident and make it seam like it wasn’t that big a deal, but was interrupted by a snarl, stating:
         “Just forget about it, ok?”

         They didn’t see each other at all the following day. She got up and off for Uni at 5am, him sleeping till 8. The previous day distanced by sleep, the episode wasn’t as threatening anymore, and he felt much relieved.
         It wasn’t that big a deal. Only a mindless cry of passion. Of course she hadn’t really wanted me to… actually… to really… Hehe, the idea was so silly he laughed of his own perturbing.
         As the beads plastered his body in the shower, he even started to hum Singing in the Rain, a tune from one of his favourite movies: A Clockwork Orange. That melody always made him happy. How ironic, he thought, that in the film, it was sung by characters that were about to… He stopped his performance.
         Chaos reigned that day at the local TV station where he worked. The other video editor, who was usually in charge of the sports broadcasts, had called in sick, and on top of that there had occurred a rape-murder in town. The perpetrator had been caught straight away and it was pretty much an open and shut case, yet the three journalists, tired of reporting about amounts of rain compared to last year, new promising local companies (which would go bankrupt in half a year) and theatre shows (whose only audience were family of the performers) all wanted to outdo each other in spectacular broadcasts. However, since none of them knew how to edit (or actually they did, but they lacked the artistic finesse which John acquired, and they all knew it) he was diligent the entire day cutting together their material, which consisted of mostly the same stuff being said over and over again. The grotesque details of the incident were of course overtly exposed, to cause shock and grief and sell extra commercial breaks. It didn’t really bother him though. He’d seen it all before. What did vexaton him were the three reporters despicable self pampering. ‘Cause once they’d run out of policemen, neighbours and possible witnesses to interview, they went further and further away from the case at hand, interviewing the mayor about crime (who promised more funds to police forces) and researchers who blamed the high standard of welfare and youths driven to depravity by boredom.
         One segment did unsettle him though. It was a clever little piece showing an old, black preacher man giving his sermon.
         “Yes Satan walks among us, brothers and sisters” he nearly screamed.
         “He’s always lurking, awaiting his moment. But he can’t get to us virtuous church goers, nooooo” to which the audience replied with agreeing cheers. 
         “So he’s waiting for us to be forgetful. Waiting for us to forget to pray to our Lord. Waiting for us to forget to go to church. He’s WAITING, my brothers and sisters. Oh yes, he’s waiting for us to forget our integrity. Watching for decadence to which he can aid grow! Waiting for men to forget their sobriety, and women to forget their honour and decency. ‘Cause once you men forget about our Lord and start drinking and gambling, and once you women start dressing like whores and hang around bars, you have abandoned God! And that is what Satan is waiting for, children. He will strike you down and have a feast on your loss of memory. He will show you his evil power, if you ever doubted his existence.”
         “Nooooo” cried the crowd.
         “And then there is only one thing you can do and that is pray”
         “Hallelujah” the crowd said.
         “Pray for His forgiveness. Let him know that you regret your ways. Accept Jesus as the only drug you need. And if your repentance is heartfelt, then God will save your soul!”
         It went on for a little while longer, but strayed from the topic. The producer was afraid to air it, because it could scare away potential buyers of commercial time, so it was scrapped. How ironic, he thought, that a station would spare no expense at emphasizing the most gruesome of detail, yet didn’t dare show a holy man’s outcry. But he didn’t argue. He’d learned a long time ago what his job description consisted of, and that it wasn’t in his place to make suggestions. He knew how to edit, and although he was fairly good at that, it was all he knew, and had been meticulously explained that he should avoid pretending otherwise, if he wanted to keep his job.
         When he finally got home it was past 11pm, and Sarah was already asleep. He put the rose he’d bought in a vase on the dining table, before he also lay down and fell instantly asleep.

         Next day there were no lectures, so she stayed at home and slept a little longer. Not as long as him though. Still, when he woke, he felt like a helium balloon, just knowing that she was in the apartment. Even if he usually would have waited one more day or two, he implanted shaving into his morning routine, applying an extra splash of aftershave.
         She was sitting by the table, drinking her coffee and reading her book, her back turned to the bedroom door. Tom Clancy would have been impressed by his stealth approach, before he landed a kiss on her cheek.
         “I love you” he said.
         “Well good morning to you too, and my, don’t we smell good today” she said, whilst reaching up and grabbing hold of the back of his neck. He kissed her once more, and everything was perfect again.

         The next time it happened was worse. With flimsy time always evaporating, it was a week till they made love again. They had never “fucked” always “made love”. He’d many times wanted to suggest something a little different, but never dared. She just wasn’t that kind of girl.
         There was a sale on romance, and he prepared candles on each of their nightstands. Fifth one lit, she threw herself at him, overturning his balance and they fell together, landing on the bed. The flame within her gave shame to the candle, as she rapid fired kisses and pulled of his clothes. Not the most effective, their passion fuelled tossing and turning, made the process of undressing unnecessarily complex. After a while he had nothing but his boxers left, and covering of her topless body, nibbling on her right nipple, as she combed her fingers through his hair.
         “Get the candle” she whispered.
         He looked up at her with dopy eyes, brows low.
         “What?” he said genuinely intrigued.
         “Pick up that candle” she said again, this time nodding her head a little in its direction.
         Somewhat amused at her mystery, he gently smiled, but complied and reached out for it, grabbed hold and held it above her, once hand beneath to protect from possible drops.
         “You are so beautiful” he said, and indeed the flames agreed as they toyed with making shadows on her features.
         “I love you” she said, sat up and kissed him intensively. As she lay back down, he thought nothing could ever get as good as this very moment, admiring her beauty, and seeing her indisputable affection for him in her eyes. But then she said:
         “Drip some wax on my nipple” before biting her lower lip. He replied by a sigh and slight shake of the head, and was about to pretend to himself that he’d misunderstood, when she spoke again.
         “I’m serious, I want you to. Just a few drops”
         “You’re kidding right?”
         “No I’m not” she said, slightly annoyed that he would never take her serious. He didn’t move.
         “I really want you to take that candle, tilt it a little to the side, and let a few drops hit my nipple” she said again, as if further explanation was needed. There was a pause as he studied her face for any sign that she was joking, but could find none.
         “You really mean it?”
         “Yes” she said, not losing her patience, as she sensed she was winning him over.
         “You sure?”
         “Yes” again, calm as ever.
He shook his head another time and sighed, but said:
“Ok”
He cautiously moved a little downward and positioned himself, before tilting the green candle ever so slightly, as careful as a chemist. The drop was anxious to obey gravity’s law and hit her nipple in two seconds. With closed eyes she let out an:
“Ooohh!” simultaneously as he straightened the candle again.
“Are you ok” he said immediately, already filling with remorse.
“Oh yeas, I am” she said, perfect white teeth showing by her captivating smile.
He bent over to set the candle back down and kiss her, but she put her right hand on his left shoulder and said:
“Do it again”

Hands shaking too bad, he gave up pouring himself a drink and drank from the bottle instead. She was mad at him, that was the only thing he could be sure about. Not even a rose would mend her anger this time. Maybe I should try cleaning up at bit? Vacuuming perhaps? Make my best meal and fold cute origami figures?
He’d dripped the wax on her again when she asked. Three times. And she had revelled in it. It had awoken an ecstatic turmoil in her, which he’d never known existed. She threw herself at him and pinned his hands down. She clawed, bit, wheezed and gnarled. Treated his body unheard of pleasures, always balancing on pain’s threshold. Feeling like a porn star, sex had never been as good. They had rolled around, trying more positions than he could remember, she constantly moaning and calling out his name along with sleaze he was almost embarrassed about, till he found himself on top of her, lost in her beauty. Eyes closed, she licked and bit her lips, opened and closed her mouth and tossed her head side to side. But then suddenly she’d stopped and looked straight up at him. Her right hand around his neck, she’d pulled herself up and kissed him hard, sucking at his lower lip as she let go. Then she said:
“Hit me hard”
She had disappeared before him along with the rest of the world, as his senses left him like a frightened animal. A white nothingness engulfed him, so terrifying that he shook in uneven rhythms. Like innocent monsters fleeing from a lynch mob, lust was gone in an instant. Close to hyperventilating prior to, now he couldn’t breathe. Although it felt like minutes passed, it couldn’t have been more than sparse seconds before he started to recall reality. His hearing was the first to return, as he picked up her voice repeat the demand over and over.
“Hit me, hit me, hit me goddamit!”
Soon after he felt her fists pounding at his chest, as if showing him how to do it. Then the rest followed in a flash, sickening him with the smell of sweat and worst of all, her horrible face, angry like that of a gargoyle.
“Why wont you hit me?” she cried out, the shrill voice still not hurting as much as the words. She finally shoved him aside and stormed out of the room. Lying limp on the bed, he heard her walk hastily around the apartment for a minute of two before the door slammed and it was completely silent.
As he sat in the kitchen, drinking and looking miserable, his thoughts raced the same track over and over. Why on earth does she want me to hit her? Why wonot she accept my love? Is love painful to her, or is pain love? Would she still love me if he had actually hit her?
The Famous Grouse Whiskey seeped from the bottle and found its way to his mouth. The strong, harsh taste was soothing. He didn’t want to think nor feel a thing. Although he knew there would be an intolerable aftermath to getting drunk, he didn’t care. In fact he invited it. He wanted to feel sick and not remember a thing, yet be full of remorse. Wanted it to be as agonizing as possible. Wanted the agony to be so severe that he couldn’t think about nothing more than breathing.
Because he’d almost done it. Or he had thought about it, at least. And that was just as bad. When she was lying there beneath him, hammering his chest with her tiny hands, demanding that he’d hurt her, just for a second, he had wondered if he should do it. How she would react if he’d grant her wish. He’d even folded his fingers ever so slightly.
Would I have gone through with it if she’d continued to scream for it to happen? Does such evil really live inside me? Why is she doing this to me? What had I done to deserve such cruelty?
The liquor steadily descended into his throat. The resilient smell and warm feeling it gave his chest as he swallowed, had made him cringe at first, wasn’t as bad anymore. It was rather enjoy full actually. Because it was doing its job. His lips felt somewhat numb, and his head dizzy. Not having looked at the bottle as he started to drink, thus not knowing how much it had contained or having any idea how much time had passed, he suddenly noticed the drops stopped coming. The bottle was as empty. It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t content. He could still remember what she had asked. How it had hurt to hear her say it. But why she would do such a thing he had no clue. How infuriating that was! She must have known how it would hurt me? Does she want to give me pain? What had I done to deserve that? I have always been so good to her. Why the hell does she have to go and hurt me in return? What right does she have? Wasn’t she grateful for all I’ve done for her? Why the fuck does she do this to me?
The bottle felt bigger and bigger in his hands. His breathing had accelerated greatly. He closed his eyes and pitched the bottle against the wall. Shards of glass splintered all over the room after impact. He rose up and went out to get more. He had to forget. But life was vicious that way.
The local drug store sold liquor, but the snot-nosed clerk was a smart ass and denied Jack to purchase.
“I’m sorry sir, but we’re not allowed….”
“Just give me the damn bottle!” John said, glad that there weren’t any other customers.
“You’re gonna have to leave…” the clerk said, never having been told that patience is a virtue.
“Oh I’ll leave all right, as soon as you give me that fucking bottle! I’m having a really shitty day, and so will you if you don’t take the fucking money.” Some tiny part of his mind was astounded at hearing himself speak. Like some cheesy TV-show, it watched as the rest of him played his part.
The clerk realized that he wasn’t going to get rid of him easily so he changed tactics. This was the part of the show where the raving drunk grabbed hold of the clerk’s collar and a fight broke out, and John had been psyching himself up for it. Therefore he was thoroughly surprised when the clerk leaned over the counter and said in a low voice:
“Look, do you promise to leave straight away?”
“eh… yes” John said, actually a little disappointed.
“Ok, here” the clerk said, taking a whiskey bottle down from the rack, stuffing it in a small paper bag and putting it on the counter. He took John’s money and said:
“Now get out”
It was cold outside. He hadn’t really noticed before, because he had a goal to achieve which he’d focused on. Finally accomplished, now he found, without destination, the wind was not the best drinking companion. He stumbled purposeless around, knocking over thrash bins and yelling at people who weren’t there. It had started to rain at some point. He slipped and fell, mumbling ever more incoherently. Still he could not forget her. Not after what she’d done. The snot-nosed bitch. She had never cared for me. Was only using me. Who the fuck does she think she is?
He slipped and fell again, this time landing softly in a heap of wet leaves. Bottle in left hand, he steadied himself with his right, without looking where he put it. Something sticky squashed beneath his palm. Now up on his knees, he inspected the hand to find a flat, rotten apple lying beneath it. It smelt putrid. Somehow his unconsciousness had led him home.
John couldn’t remember if he’d locked or not, but the door was oblivious to what he remembered, because it wouldn’t open now. Miraculously there was a keychain in his pocket, and after trying all of them to no avail, he found the first one actually worked after all. The door slammed open and was left with a hand shaped, apple pulp mark. Stabilizing himself with the wall, he kicked off his shoes in opposite directions, and then took another giant mouthful of whiskey. The rug was treacherous as he almost fell into the kitchen, barely kept up straight as the tiny table came to his rescue. Waiting a few seconds to regain his balance, he put the bottle to his mouth yet another time, before setting it down on the table. His breath was heavy along with his head. It swayed from side to side, apparently not wanting to stay on top of things.
Suddenly he turned to the left and there she stood. As a wax doll from some museum, she looked almost dead. Holding a broom in her right hand, mopping up the glass, she stood totally still. Her mouth opened a little but closed again. That was all.
“So there you are, huh?” John shouted.
“Not saying much today are we?” he had to concentrate to blurt out.
“I…” she said, but stopped.
“You what? Don’t know what to say?” He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, head always rolling from side to side.
“It doesn’t matter anyway, cause I know what you want bitch. Oh yeah, I know.” His right index finger pointed at her, he started to move towards her in wavering steps.
“Oh yeah, I know!”
“Please don’t John” Her eyes became glossy.
“Please don’t what? HUH? Don’t what? You mean this?” he slapped her on the face with his outstretched hand. It was the signal her tears had been waiting for and they started to run down her cheeks eagerly. The broom fell to the floor.
“Is that what you meant, huh? Is that what?” He slapped her again, harder this time.
“No….” she cried, choking by her tears.
He grabbed hold of her jacket and shook her hard against the wall.
“What is it you don’t want me to do, huh? Tell me! Is this it?” Holding her up with his right hand, he hit her stomach hard with his left.
“Was that it? Huh?” He slapped her in the face again.
“Was that is, huh?
The beating continued for several minutes, until he let go of her and she fell to the floor. Sprawled amongst the broken glass, she lay there in tears.

His head hurt. Oh how it hurt. Closing his eyes and covering his face with his hand did no good, so he let it drop to the table and started tapping it irregularly. Out of all days, today the sun had decided it was a good day to emerge. She set out a big glass of water and lay two painkillers in front of him. He hardly noticed. His mind was elsewhere, thinking about when they’d first met. It had rained that night as well.
Her beauty was somewhat of a legend back then. He’d heard her name countless times amongst his colleagues. “The most stunning girl in town”.  But when he finally got to see her, it was not as enthralling as he’d been told.
She had been crying. Much like today, her face had been covered with bruises and marks. She came running out of a house and cried out for help. Seeing her fall on the wet grass, he had stopped his car, gotten out and helped her back to her feet. Her clothes were torn in several places, so he’d taken off his coat and folded it around her. She could barely stand up. He’d half-carried her over to his small car and helped her inside, before driving off.
“You’re safe now” he’d said, glancing over to her. She was shaking violently with an absent look in her eyes.
“I promise. You’re safe.” She only stared out the car window and there was a long pause. When the worst of her shaking had subsided he’d finally said:
“I’ll never let anyone hurt you again” to which her reply had been tears.