A Goddamn Moskal

Her body swung mildly in the cold wind. Shivers ran through her spine and reached for every limb. Her naked body illuminated by neon-lights that shun through the dirty old French windows. Great peril concerned her troubled mind. She tried forcing her mind to think of the strobes of sharp light caressing her face. Her head ached as the blood massed. Her mind dwelled on the peculiar situation, seeking escape routes and such things.

Feeling remorse, as if her actions had accumulated to this very occasion. Struck by some inhumane justice. She sobbed, hoping for someone to acknowledge her suffering, and forgive her sins. An atheist turned religious standing bare on slippery cliff-face. An ocean of tears and pain-filled memories. Grasping for an imagined remedy to heal all ailment.

Suddenly she felt the warmth of a hand grab her shoulder. Petrified, she awaited his face as her body turned around. She hung high, Artiom stood straight and met her face to face. His scarred face smiled heartily. She tried to express joy through her tears as she mistook his kind face for someone else, a saviour. The man slowly reached his hand for her chest. His large hands slowly grazed her breast as she hung shivering in the cold. He smiled at her again before walking of towards a table, upon which there were tools by the hundreds.

“I do not usually talk to my work, it is in itself an act of disrespect I feel. The mind of someone awaiting their end should not be fouled by the words of others. However I do feel the need to express my joy of having you here tonight. Might I say you’re looking wonderful?”

The woman wasn’t sure what to feel. She felt as though the world had given up on her, and left her in hands of someone she couldn’t perceive as a normal functioning human being.

“Rape!”
She started screaming profusely. Sweat started trickling down her forehead and into the grey wooden flooring.

“Now miss, my handling may be rough and my approach less than subtle. But I can assure you I am not that sort of man.”
He held in his hand a blowtorch. He tested the flame.

“Now if you can’t keep such nonsense to yourself I am going to have to take necessary precautions.”
He stepped forward and aimed the blowtorch at the woman’s throat. She convulsed violently, forcing herself from the smoking muzzle. Her neck shock as Artiom’s hand grabbed her jaw, and applied the muzzle to her throat. She tried to utter pleas til the flame stabbed her throat. Artiom had to brace himself as the woman started shaking horribly. Carefully he burnt her throat just enough to silence her. Her mind told a different story.

A street on fire. Windows shattering in furious agony. Walls crumbling down. She burst into tears, like many before her. She clenched her fists, attempting to fend of the immense pain. As she opened her eyes she met Artiom’s terrifying gaze.

“Pain is an associate of life. Embrace it and you will never fear it again.”
As much as she despised him, she saw no other option than to try. She released herself, and with the coming of spring, the fire was quenched. She relaxed.

“You may see me a murderer, a demon. Many would agree, because you see, art is a wonderful thing. It rides upon the waves, it complies with society. But sometimes, something new arises, filth becomes art, objects of despise romanticized. I am merely a modern day Duchamp.”

He approached her with a razor, it’s blade reflected neon-green. He excused himself before slicing two small cuts just below her lower ribcage. The feeling was all-too unpleasant, but she realized that moving around wouldn’t benefit her in any way. She complied with her captive’s every action, knowing that countering it would harm her even greater. He then proceeded to cut the string tied around her wrists. She felt a glimpse of hope, as she was given the freedom to act, even though it may have been a restricted one. As Artiom left for the table once again, she tried reaching for her feet, tied firmly to the logs lining the roof. She managed only to grasp her own ankle before Artiom exclaimed;

“Trying our luck are we?”
She ignored him, still forcing her strained body. Artiom stod beside her, staring at this pitiful spectacle.

“Thou strength does impress.”

He grasped her hair and dragged her stressed torso down. She lacked the energy to resist, her abdominal muscles ached. He grabbed her upper arms and with utmost care placed his bloodied razor upon it. With surgical precision he started cutting along the muscles. When she came to it she realized her arms had gone numb. She panicked as she tried desperately to control her ghostly limbs. Artiom grabbed a hold of her arms, inserting them into the holes he had prepared below her ribcage. She felt no pain anymore. She watched in horror and disgust as she felt her fingers crammed between her intestines. Artiom then took the time to sew the wounds shut. She sobbed constantly. Knowing her captive felt no remorse, no guilt or emotions struck her even further. She blacked out.
She roamed her own street. Ashes covered the ground, infected the trees. The air was cold, as it filled her lungs. The sun shun no longer. Windows covered in smog. Shadowy figures sitting on bended knees. She hears crying echoing the street. Mother’s lying dead in stagnant pools of muddy water. Children burnt into concrete stairs. Fathers mutilated in murky shards.
“Belay me upon a field of tranquility.” Came a voice.

When she awoke, she hung again by her legs, this time over a cobblestone street. A noose tied around her neck, hanging from it a cloth-bag, local currency written upon it. She forgave herself, and called for her mother. With what little breath she had left she tried to accept her fate and greet death with a smile. The cloth bag, became heavier as the rain poured on.
“Forgive me father…” She cried as her mind fell into an empty abyss. Ending all hardship, embracing the final redeemer as it welcomed her home.