I look at the woman in front of me.
She is dressed smartly, dress and coat and boots and hat conspiring to protect her from the howling winds as she stands in the doorway.
She looks at me, the pity in her eyes obviously disguising some kind of malice.
That’s the way things are, after all.
She invites me in, all politeness and platitudes and pleasing words. She bids me to sit by the fire, warm myself. She brings blankets to help with this. She offers me food, I refuse. She offers me a drink, I refuse. She asks me my name, I pretend not to hear.
She takes no note of my sword, seeing it as no threat to herself.
I do not speak. I do not move.
I wait.
She talks a lot. She tells me about the things she’s made for a meal, one she’d happily share with me. She tells me about the plants in the forest, and the ones that I might find useful. She tells me how beautiful I am, and how happy she would be to have me.
I feel tempted to give in, and stay here for the rest of my life.
She smiles softly at me, as if she knows this.
Her fingers trace up the flesh of my arm, suddenly revealed from under layers of blankets.
She tells me she could help me. She tells me I wouldn’t have to worry any more. She tells me I would be hers, perfect and eternal.
My arm goes cold, as though it were turning to ice. My joints feel stiff. A sudden stillness begins to overtake me.
This is a game to her, surely, and it seems she is winning.
She tells me I will have purpose, and the spell breaks.
I move my hand. I clench my fist around something.
My arm swings forwards.
She looks down.
Blood blooms from her torso, centred around the ugly iron implement that protrudes from her body.
Her eyes flick upwards, and I look away.
She goes still in my arms, much as I had gone still at the touch of hers.
I have won.
I cannot leave quickly enough.
Her house burns, all her food and plants and promises going up in flame.
Her offers nag at the back of my mind. She offered purpose, perfection, happiness, and most of all, stillness.
I have won this game.
So why do I so dearly wish that I had lost?
She never was able to sleep very easily.
No matter how hard she tried, her mind always dredged up some embarrassing memory, or started imagining hypothetical scenarios, or decided to overthink every last detail of the day she’d had.
Now she stands - well not quite.
She’s suspended in the air by an assortment of chains, wires, tethers, ropes, and more. Her arms are held above her and pulled apart. Her legs do not hang limply beneath her. They too are embraced and held.
In particular, the tightness around her ribs, the back of her neck, and her waist paradoxically seems to relax her.
If she were able to move in any significant manner, she would notice how none of the things keeping her in the air dig into her, or restrict circulation, or otherwise hurt her or cause discomfort.
She is held.
Nothing more, nothing less.
That is, until something else is brought down by a set of ropes.
Is positioned in front of her.
Is moved slowly backwards to cover her face, hold her lips closed, ensure that all she can see is a deep shadow.
Her restraints seem to tighten. Only ever so slightly, but it’s enough.
As she hangs there silently, she drifts off to sleep faster than she ever has before.
For once, she dreams.
And when she does, she dreams of beautiful things.
She sits on the chair, legs crossed, waiting in anticipation.
Her friend takes an object, shows it to her to reassure her.
Explains what it is, how it works, what it does. Something to do with electromagnets, currents in the brain, and depth of stimulation.
Explains how it can have an impact on activity in specific parts of the brain.
She doesn’t understand half of it, but she gets the gist, and it sounds fun.
A couple of switches are flicked. Maybe a button is pressed, or a large dial is turned.
Her friend moves the object back, holding it to the side of her head.
Nothing happens.
She opens her mouth to enquire, and gibberish falls out. She can’t even form a word, let alone a sentence.
Her friend smiles.
She blushes.
She does not collapse, or raise her hands to cover her face. She wouldn’t be a good test subject if she did that.
Her friend moves the object to the back of her head, and flashes of light appear in her vision.
Her friend moves the object to the top of her head, and she jolts a little bit, her senses feel off.
Her friend moves the object to the front of her head.
Her mind goes blank.
If she could plan, or reason, or imagine, she would hear the pleasure in the voice of her friend as she explains the role of the frontal lobe in complex thought.
As it is, she sits limply, eyes open and empty.
The object is removed, turned off.
Thoughts rush back into her mind.
Her friend takes her hand.
Moves it up to her lips.
Thanks her for being such a perfect thing to study.
Kisses the back of her hand.
Once more, her mind goes blank.
She smiles, stands, and together they sweep out of the room.
The hooks push through her hands as she hangs there, motionless, swinging limply from the chains that connect her body to the ceiling.
It’s cold.
It’s dark.
It’s lonely.
Two sharp thumps can be heard as the door in front of her is unlocked. A harsh scraping noise emanates as it is pulled aside, struggling against the ice that conspires to hold it shut.
Her butcher stands, framed by the light from the doorway. As she waits there, taking in the sight before her, glimmering crystals of frost formed from her breath appear, then fall, then vanish.
Her butcher cuts her down, leaving behind a few vestigial bits of flesh. The ones with five fingers and palms and all those useless scraps.
Her legs fail to support her, buckling as she collapses towards the ground.
Her butcher catches her.
Holds her.
Changes her grip.
Carries her out of the room.
And then she is carved apart.
She is asphyxiated by smoke. She is dehydrated and left to dry on racks. She is minced and placed in neat little shells. She is burnt. She is chilled. She is preserved.
Under the watchful eyes of her lovely butcher, she is irrevocably divided and forever changed. Under her care she is given purpose and made to look perfect.
In the end, when all is said and done, it is the caring teeth of her butcher that sink into her. It is her tongue that tastes her. It is down her gullet that she is swallowed.
Her butcher appreciates her, savours her, values her.
Her butcher consumes her.