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The Wild Caress

Mart31

“Quiet you!”

he shouts with undisguisable hatred, and as he does this, his belly swells up—with hatred and disgust, maybe, who knows?—so much that I can hardly breathe. As the woman continues babbling in an incomprehensible tone that still manages to be frustrating, I feel him inhale slowly—my body tenser than ever and my headache growing with each inhalation.

“All right”

I hear him say, and I know, as soon as I hear the words, that he will begin his show.

As the gloomy shadow of his gigantic hands falls on me, I know that there is no escape. He grabs me by my thigh and begins to unbutton me. No, I cry but his fingers are deaf. I won’t let you! His touch is so fervent, so inexplicably impatient that I almost feel that it is reflexive; there is no room for even a bit of hesitation or a moment of consideration; it is as if he was born to do this.

When he is done with unbuttoning, he pulls me fiercely and—without a look or a word or any sort of indication to prove him human and not a ferocious animal attacking on its prey—opens my legs wide apart. No, I cry again, desperately this time because I know that once he comes this far, there is no way to stop him. As I sense his aggressive touch going down my left thigh, my knee, and all the way through my ankle, I look for a trace of lust on the tips of his fingers. To my amazement, I find none. Realization hits me hard: This is not the usual routine that repeats every night; his fingers are not impatient to get rid of me to touch someone else but to use me to do so. To use me—“Oh, you don’t have to use the belt on her.”—as a puppet; to use me—“Do you have to use the belt?”—as a weapon.

It is only then that I see the girl’s face. Her young and almost naive features harbor feelings more intense and elderly than her frail body can bear. There is fear and shock widening in her pupils; embarrassment reddening her cheeks and something else, something inexplicable growing all over her face. Is it acceptance? Or obedience, maybe? Why? I scream at her, and I know that she will not fight back. She will remain obedient as he performs his show, her silent lips along with mine counting to infinity till the torture ends.

Holding me tightly by the ankle, he gets closer to the girl and heaves me right to her face. This is the first time we are eye-to-eye, face-to-face, and for the tenth of a second we are so close that I almost think we will kiss. And we do. I put a swift, chaste peck on her lips, and our lips fall apart as he fiercely pulls me back. He throws me again, and this time I kiss her on the cheek. Yet, coming back again, I am shocked to see her fragile lips and her soft cheeks bloating after my light kisses. I don’t want to do this anymore, I shout as I hear her scream, running away and begging him to stop, me to stop. Forgive me! Oh please, forgive me! He is deaf as are his stoic fingers, and he aims at her ears to deafen her too. And the torture of kissing continues; I kiss her on her right ear, her left ear, on her forehead, and once more on her cheeks; regretting every touch and every kiss, both of us crying at the top of our lungs at every wild caress.

Then he throws me away.

And as I hug the linoleum—my body sore, my voice hoarse and my lips bloated; her cries getting louder and louder—I let oblivion embrace me.

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(This passage is an attempt to rewrite a scene in Alice Munro’s The Beggar Maid from a different point of view. The scene takes place on pages 17-19 where Rose’s father beats her with his belt.)

 
Sevde Kaldiroglu
October 7, 2013

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