4The window showed proof of another day: dawn crawling steadily over the top of adjacent buildings and throwing a glare against the glass. Several feet from the window she lay on her side, silently begging the raucous of the morning rush to subside. The tile beneath her was cold against her skin and damp from her tears but it was evidence that she had survived the night. The sun light that blanketed her bare shoulder was warm, a stark contrast to the chill of the floor and made her hair stand up on her arms. The dried blood across her hands made her skin itch but she could not will herself to move to relieve herself of the distraction. There was a faint, nagging pain hovering just below her shoulder, pulsing into brilliance as she came to.
The smell was what caught her attention first. The smell was familiar to her in the same way that a mother's scent may soothe a new born. Except the smell did not sooth her: it was a most unwelcome intruder to her senses and made her heart skip in her chest. She drew in a labored breath and gingerly sat up, the crinoline of the dress beneath her sticking to the dried blood. A gentle shimmy released the dress with a small tear and she was able to sit full upright with her legs folded back toward one side and an unstable, wavering arm held out awkwardly to support her. That's when she saw him, her husband. Half of him was inside the standing shower; the other half was sprawled in a bloody mess across the tiles. The weight and condition of the dress made it difficult to stand but she got to her feet and stumbled toward the door. His ring, slick with blood, skittered across the tiles as she clumsily made her way across the bathroom toward the bedroom, having to step over his prone body.
The smell still tickled her nose. Leather, denim, and the smell of a recent cigarette that permeated each. The smell was intoxicating to her. She followed the scent into the next room, trusting her feet to guide her and her legs to not give way. With each step she felt as if the warmth from her skin was leaking out and trailing behind her. The pain was brilliant now and she found it difficult to keep her eyes open. All at once the smell that had lured her from the bathroom overwhelmed her and a large firm hand clasped her elbow.
"Is it done?" the hand was joined by another on the opposite shoulder, spinning her roughly around to face him."Tell me now. Is it done?"
Her lips couldn't form the words. She hazarded a glance over her shoulder and back to the bathroom to survey the scene. The blood. The veil around his throat. The blood. Where did the blood come from? A strong shake from the vice like grip at her shoulder brought her back to face him but she couldn't find the courage to lift her head. A firm thumb and forefinger dug into her jaw line and pried her face upward. In an instant he was almost smiling, a thin line carved against the rough stubble just above his chin. Then his nostrils flared slightly and the smile receded as quickly as it had appeared. She felt his gaze rake across the torn and stained satin of her dress. With a gentle pat on her back he urged her toward the bed where he took a seat and ushered her into his lap. He was almost gentle as he rocked her against him, always a firm hand against her throat to keep her pinned against his chest. His hand was deft at unlacing the bodice at her back. The sensation sickened her. If she had the strength she would have pushed him away, raked her nails down his face and try her luck at running. But her strength had abandoned her.
His grip tightened at her throat as she felt the warmth run out of her in tiny rivulets down her chest, the dress no longer impeding its passage. Shifting slightly, he pulled a handkerchief from an inside pocket of his leather jacket. Her breath caught in her throat as it was pressed against her wound. His hand, shaking slightly against her chest, betrayed his nerves. The gnashing of his teeth betrayed his hunger. From somewhere in the room she could hear a pathetic whimpering and a string of "I'm Sorry"s echoing through the empty flat like a prayer. It wasn't until her voice caught in her throat that she realized this waif of a voice was her own.
She felt him say it more than heard it. She felt the way his chest vibrated against her cheek. Without a steady beating to drown out the echoes, his words seemed to bounce off his ribs,
"Whose are ye?"
She had answered him many times before but this time brought fresh tears to spring to her eyes. She could taste them at the corner of her mouth as she parted her lips to speak. She forced her eyes shut and turned her face against the leather at his chest. Though the words rolled easily enough off her lips, she did not say them. It was her voice, as weak as it was. But she willed the other girl, the stronger girl, to answer for her. The girl who could stand this.
"I am yours, Wulf."