Midwinter Sacrifice

I am . . . Where am I?

I’m lying on cold earth. Is this a grave? And I am dead, after all? Help me. Help me.

But it’s warm around me and if I was in a coffin there’d be wood.

Take this rope off, for God’s sake.

The rag in her mouth.

Strain hard enough and it might break, the rope. Twist back and forth.

Eventually the cloth is pulled away from her eyes.

A flickering light. A vaulted cellar? Earth walls? Where am I? Are those spiders and snakes moving around me?

A face. Faces?

Wearing a ski mask.

The eyes. Looking, yet not looking.

Now they’ve gone again, the faces.

Her body aches. But now is where the pain starts, isn’t it?

I wish I could do something.

But I am powerless.

I can only watch, and I will do, because the look in my eyes may give you some comfort.

I shall stay even if I would rather avert my gaze and disappear to all the places I can disappear to.

But I stay in the fear and the love and all the other feelings. It isn’t over yet, but do you have to do that? Do you imagine they’ll be impressed?

It hurts, I know, I had to feel the same. Stop it, stop it, I say, but I know, you can’t hear my voice. Do you think her pain will eradicate another pain? Will her pain open the doors? Mine didn’t, after all.

So I beg you: stop, stop, stop.

Did I say stop?

How can a single noise come out of my mouth when it is taped up, the rag pressed deep between my teeth?

She is naked. Someone tore off her clothes, splitting the seams with a knife and now someone brings a candle close to her shoulders and she is frightened, the voice mumbling, ‘This must, must, must happen.’

She screams.

Someone brings the candle close, close, and the heat is sharp and she screams as if she doesn’t know how to scream, as if the sound of her burning skin and the pain are one. She twists back and forth but gets nowhere.

‘Shall I burn your face off?’

Is that what the mumbling voice is saying?

‘Perhaps that would be enough. Perhaps I wouldn’t have to kill you then, because you won’t exist properly without a face, will you?’

She screams, screams. Soundlessly.

The other cheek. Her cheekbone burns. Circular movements, red, black, red, the colour of pain, and there is a smell of burned skin, her skin.

‘Shall I get the knife instead?

‘Hang on now.

‘Don’t faint, stay awake,’ the voice mumbles, but she wants to be gone.

The blade shines in the light, the pain has disappeared, adrenalin is pumping through her body and the only thing is her fear that she might never get away from here.

I want to get home to my loved ones.

He must be wondering where I am. How long have I been here? They must be missing me by now.

The knife is cold and warm and what is that warmth running down my thighs? A woodpecker with a steel beak is pecking at my breasts, eating its way down to my ribs. Let me vanish; my face burns when someone hits me in vain attempts to keep me awake.

But it doesn’t work.

I’m going now.

Whether you like it or not.

How much time has passed? I don’t know.

Are those chains rattling?

I’m tied to a post now with forest around me.