Holidays

(Disclaimer: Written for a friend who wished exactly to read something with very strict parametres.)

You have driven long and far, you needed to get out of your city, your routine, a change of pace; You’ve picked ten days of holidays for yourself, driving almost aimlessly for two days now, stopping at cheap road motels, with a backpack and your tent, you ache for contact with nature, to cleanse your mind.

Finally you made your mind, you parked your car and followed a trail into a beautiful and isolated place by a small lake. It is so peaceful, shining like a mirror. You are caressed by the scented fresh breeze in this untouched greeness. Your tent, a small fire and just the silence; or better yet: the non-silence, for you always hear creaks of trees, wind howls, drops of water and all this landscape talking softly to you. You’ve never sleep so good in years.

Next day you enjoyed the simpled things: sun, swim, clean air. You’re just laying down on the lake’s beach, soaking the sun, closing your eyes and disconnecting your brain.

You didn’t heard him arrive. How could he close the distance to you so fast? Clenching strong hands fetched you and lifted you from the ground like if you were a ragdoll. A strong slap on your face makes your head spin, dizzed and confused he drags you to your tent pulling you from your hair, while you kick the dust and cuss, feeling blood in the inside of your mouth.

A second punch to your face and another on your stomach keeps you down. He hits like if he had bricks in his hands. He wraps your arms with crude tape and lifts you again. He hangs you in a lower branch stump on a tree as if you were some kind of meat. He looks at you playfully. His rough hand lifts your head, looks you in the eye with dark deep sight, staring every curve of your body, smiling threatenly. His hand gropes you over your clothes, taking his time to savour the freezing terror of your hanging self.

He draws a knife, sharp and with a jagged edge, big and heavy, in dull dark iron, not shiny like those who use knives for show. He puts it in front of your eyes so you can study it ; the menacing point could transperce your ribcage with the slightest of pressures. You can feel it through your clothes, on your stomach, on your soft breasts, the tip playing against the piercings of your nipples.

You panick, your body reacts, from fleeing to fighting. You scream, you twitch, you kick him. Suddenly you realise the big error for he looks at you with severe eyes, and punches you again and again and again. Your face, your ribs, your stomach, your breasts. Blood pours from your nose, your side of your face is swollen and throbbing; there’s a dull pain running through your whole body; your willing to fight is reduced to a sorry meeping.

He pinches hard both of your cheeks on your face with his left hand, his thumb burrowing on your swelling. He makes you look at him , you cannot close your eyes. He uses his kinfe to cleanly cut your clothes. Your trousers, your shirt, your pants, exposing your body to him as if he were some kind of butcher. He undresses you with the blade, taking his time to observe you, to study you, ripping pieces of your clothes to unveil you carefully.

Your body trembles, your meeping is turned into crying. You’re so terrified to even breath, but with your uncontrollably shaking red lines have been slightly cut on your skin, leaving red traces on you. He hasn’ t spoken a word yet in all this time.

Your crying turns into a violent outburst of tears, your body escapes your control and you cannot stop shaking. He looks at your eyes unamused and tired of your ceaselessly whimpering. He leaves the knife in its sheath. He clenches both his hands around your neck and squeezes. Not your windpipe, just the sides. You begin to lose conciousness, feeling heavy, always looking at his eyes, until you pass out.

You wake up face down and naked on the ground. He’s penetrating you from behind and at each hump little stones, pine needles and bark scratch and dig into your skin. You don’t feel anything, your eyes and your mind is lost to a beetle moving in front of your vision field. It’s like if everything was happening to somebody else, somewhere far away from you, to the body of another person.

He turns you face up and keeps hitting you, doing with your body as he pleases. You’ve zoned out, your mind escaping in the sky, the trees surrounding you; the sound of the river stream is more audible than his grunts to you. Suddenly your body reacts on its own, a warmth flowing from your clitoris, fully expanding on your womb, your stomach and your chest. You can feel your heart pounding savagely, your legs shaking, but your mind is out of there; you don’t even moan, or blink, or anything. Just the taste of blood in your lips feels real.

He finishes and leaves you lying exposed to the wind, naked on the ground, dirty and covered in red spots, welts, and black and blue marks. Your eye is rapidly bruising, there’s blood pouring from your lips and nose as well as the dozen cuts on your skin. He stares at you. You don’t see him, but you know he is there, standing in front of you, like if you were some kind of trophy.

As a flash, everything becomes real in the espace of a heartbeat. You feel again the chill wind, the cold ground, each and single one of the cuts , abrasions, bruises, knots and bumps in your skin; like if time had stopped and now it were suddenly going fast forward and you felt all the abuse at the same time. Each punch, each strike, each cut. You cry, you wail, you curl into yourself. Your matrix hurts like it’s never hurt you before, like if your inner sex had been pounded. It contracts and expands in fast successions. You moan like if it were a primal roar, your body becomes uncontrolable, you are lost in your orgasmic epilepsy.


Night. You’re on your tent with a hot mug of strong coffee in your hands; wrapped in warm soft towels that you didn’t bring here. An ice pack upon your eye, bandages and strips on your cuts; some soothing balms on your swollen bruised torso.

He’s outside, cooking something on the bonfire that smells delicious. You sip your cofee, still with the lingering aftertaste of blood in your mouth.

+ So how are you feeling? - He asks with his cavernous voice.

- Much better - you answer - I needed it. I feel cleansed. You’ve emptied me.

+ Take this, you need to eat and recover.

- Thank you for coming. I know that I left you a message in such a short notice..

+ I needed to clear my schedule in a hurry. I began to chase you when you were already left. I’ve been following you for days. You almost lost me.

- I thought I lost you when you didn’t came last night at the motel.

+ What, would you have liked to be beaten in that flea-ridden cranky place?

- Oh, fuck no, much better here!.

+ I saw you had a tent in your car. I wished to take you down somewhere much more meaningful for you.

- That’s what I like about you, your attention to the detail - A little laughter escapes from your mouth. Your jaw hurts, your throat hurts; you bite the small pieces and swallow them with difficulty. - It’s exciting to know that you’re hunting me. But honestly, I thought I got away this time.

+ Do you want to be here some more time, or go to the hotel?

- Lets be here together. Let’s take photos in nature. Let’s swim naked in the lake. - You smile.

After a moment of silence where he strokes your hair, you say: - Thank you so much for always delivering.

+ Hey, what are friends for? Just tell me when you’d want to do this again.

-You will lose my track next time. - You say with determination, looking at his eyes .

He smiles while he brushes his thumb on your painfully swollen eyebrow, which is sagging upon your eye + I’m a proficient tracker, sweetheart.