siete

****

She smiles slightly and takes my hand. "You're lucky. I just made warm water." The fact that she actually did it for herself is only worth a flickering thought. Suddenly I can't wait to remove the traces of the rape from me. The blood mixed with the semen is tense on my skin and a disgust makes me tremble. But what I suddenly recognize is her dress. That it's hanging at half past seven. And the little ribbon that usually holds Claire's brown curls in is more of a decoration than that served its real purpose. And that makes my heart sink. She just had a customer and wanted to wash up. I disturbed her. But she didn't let me feel it for a moment. Not even now. She pushes me towards hers with determination washing area,

Claire has a slightly larger iron tub. I can't stretch my legs there, but I can sit in it and the rim of the tub is almost up to my chest. This is heaven on earth for me. Suddenly I have hope that I can just wash away what happened. And so I reach for the sponge as I sit down in the still-empty tub. Claire heaves the bucket over to me and immediately pours the water over me. It is hot. Only now do I realize that my skin is freezing. These contrasts make me feel like thousands of ants are peeing on my hat. And so I gasp and automatically jerk away a little.

That's a good sign. it will help me And so I encourage my efforts. The sponge scratches and an unpleasant tingling sensation occurs. But that's good too. It covers up the pain. Let me forget for a moment.

"Kalota, stop it." I hear Claire's words, but they sink into a swamp. Only one thought counts: clean up. I want to feel like I was before I was raped. So I don't look up, I keep scrubbing. But I hardly stop "Scratch the sponge over my skin again, Claire grabs it. And that makes my blood run cold. "No," I whisper. It's too quiet. I want to yell at her to let go but my voice seems gone. And so I can only look at her pleadingly while she snatches the sponge from my hand.

"It won't help." A slight smile plays around Claire's lips while she slowly begins to clean me. And as scratchy as the rough fabric seemed to be, it is now so comfortable. She lets the saturated sponge glide almost gently over my breasts "Water runs down these and makes its way back to the tub. Back then we often washed together after a shift, talked and talked about customers. It all seems so far away. It was only a few days ago. A few Days that changed my entire life.

"What helps then?" I look at her with wide eyes and she grimaces apologetically. That alone is enough to know that nothing constructive follows. "Time."

And this word robs me of all my strength. I slump a bit, because that's exactly what I don't have. The wounds inside me are too big for that. Too deep. And it's not over yet. There still seems to be something inside me, tirelessly tearing my heart apart. It does not stop. The pain inside paralyzes me. Doesn't go out. Pulls me deep into the world of broken people. Those that a society doesn't accept. Who are cast out for their weakness. So I shake my head and close my eyes in resignation. Zaret took everything from me. I would love to kill him. But I don't have the strength for that. And so I look back at Claire. She still cleans my upper body. And suddenly I notice her slender hands. How delicate are the fingers. The beautiful nails. So different from a man. That calms me. So I watch the spectacle. How she repeatedly dips the sponge in the water, lifts it, rubs it over my skin and repeats the game. Then she is at my stomach, circles my wound and slowly slides lower.

And it's crazy, but with every centimeter that the sponge has worked off, the sadness in me fades away. The blackness is coming. The deep darkness takes my emotions with it. And that scares me. I cling to the sight of Claire. She is a good friend. Someone who went through the exact same thing as me. she can help me Certainly. Can take this miserable fainting away from me. And if only for a minute. So I stop thinking and lean towards her, gently pressing my lips to hers. Her hand just wanders between my thighs and very briefly she stops. Immediately I fear that she will spurn me. That she too no longer considers me desirable. But not even a second later she returns my kiss. Your lips are soft. I immediately notice the difference to a man again. The scratching of the stubble is missing, the hardness in the movements. Our lips touch each other as light as a feather, while together we find a beat that suits us. No designation of an individual. More of a coming together. And those differences are good. They make me sigh comfortably as I sit up a little more. The water reacts immediately to my little movement and sloshes menacingly. Something probably fell on the floor. But that's not important to either of us at this moment. And those differences are good. They make me sigh comfortably as I sit up a little more. The water reacts immediately to my little movement and sloshes menacingly. Something probably fell on the floor. But that's not important to either of us at this moment. And those differences are good. They make me sigh comfortably as I sit up a little more. The water reacts immediately to my little movement and sloshes menacingly. Something probably fell on the floor. But that's not important to either of us at this moment.

Instead, Claire lets go of the sponge and it's not a rough thing that touches me anymore, just the soft skin of her fingers. She gently strokes my clitoris. The touch is uncomfortable. My body defends itself against it and normally I would probably be trimmed to flee again immediately. But here, too, the difference to a man is clear. No cornea. No greed. And this is how I manage to defy instinct. And as if to reward Claire, she licks my bottom lip. I let her in immediately, hoping that's enough to take some of this paralysis away.

It's not the first time we're doing something like this. Claire and I have had threesomes with a man many times. It all started with a customer who wanted to watch two women. Claire and I didn't know each other well back then. But that evening had changed everything. I didn't know then how soft a woman's skin can be. How nice it feels when the muscles work under the orgasm and how exciting it is when the abdomen closes tightly around the fingers. The customer didn't cooperate at the time. He just sat on a chair, looked at us. How we rubbed our sweaty bodies together, how ecstasy took hold of us and how we explored each other's bodies. He didn't even touch us. Didn't even say anything. At first I glanced at him to make sure that he likes it. But Claire had quickly managed to make me forget. She had only played around my clitoris, paid attention to my body signals. That was enough.

And so it is now. Again the finger slides over my clit. Then she scratches it lightly with her fingernail. But it doesn't help. The emptiness remains. She also fails to wake me up. Claire seems to notice my movements getting more jerky, my concentration slipping. And so she breaks away from me. Our eyes meet immediately and she brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.

"You should get some rest." There's no voice of accusation, so I just nod as Claire reaches for the sponge again. And the cleaner I get, the more tempting the thought of just falling asleep. Falling asleep and never waking up again.

****

Trigger Warning: Self Harm

I sit in my room and look around. A cream that is supposed to have a numbing effect is in front of me and one of Claire's dresses adorns my body. It is cold. Dark. Quiet. Just like inside me. i feel so drained So infinitely tired. There are still the pains of my shame, but these are nothing compared to the hole in me. This is getting bigger. With every second it swallows more of my feelings. There's this inner powerlessness that's supposed to make it more bearable. That I don't stop breathing under the deep sadness. That my heart keeps beating evenly. And that may help with other people. But that's not how it is with me. Not in the slightest.

i feel miserable I would deal with all the deep sadness. But the paralysis shows me that something is wrong. I'm exhausted. Zaret broke me - took what was left of my will to live. Simply that way. Without a plan. For no reason. I'm a victim of his whim. And that should shock me. It should make me angry. But that's not the case. It's just emptiness inside me. A deep, miserable emptiness that shows me there is no way out.

I look at the small dresser in the corner of the room. The wood has splintered and it seems a miracle that she can still hold her own weight. But that's not what controls my thoughts, it's the content. Cutlery. Knife. And without being able to control it, without doing anything of my own, I get up. Slowly approach the small cabinet. And with it the content.

My mind would have to race. Everything in me would have to resist. But that's not the case. My head is still empty. It almost seems calm. The raging sea has turned into a lake. And even walking seems so easy. As if what I'm doing here is right. And so I can open the drawer. Only my trembling fingers show that none of this leaves me cold. But otherwise everything is dead. Drained. Like I'm wrapped in cotton. My spirit wants to protect me. Wants to blur the memory of the rape. But that's not what I want. Even my own body decides about my will - robs me of self-determination.

And there he is. That one moment when I question everything. I look at the silver, glimmering faintly, and twist the knife in the candle's dim light. It would be so easy. Just a deep cut. It would all be over. all the pain All the agony. And I look back to the past - want to find something that shows me that life is beautiful. But that doesn't help either. There is only sadness - only this miserable despair. Nothing worth living for. And the worst thing is that nobody would really care if I died. Yes, probably some would mourn and I would linger briefly in the memories. But these would go out.

So I grip the handle tighter. It's my only footing. The iron pierces my skin painfully. But even that doesn't bother me. The hole remains. The paralysis increases. I will never escape this one. Like other loves, this one will rule my life. And there's that fear again. I see my mother in front of me. How she wasn't even able to get up. The simplest things have been too much for her. And as I see the pale face in my mind's eye, it slowly turns into mine. It shows me the future.

I take a deep breath and shake my head. Somehow I want to reflect. But there's no sign in me that says it's a mistake. No candle. No inhibition. And so I look at the knife again. And again I feel nothing. It's as if none of this concerns me. That none of that matters. It wouldn't change anything. Only I would finally be redeemed.

My stomach wound is red. Shows that this needs rest. And then she would have it. Quiet. Forever. A way out of paralysis. A way into the miserable blackness. But it wouldn't make a difference. After all, the darkness is already omnipresent.

And so I set the knife. Not on the wrist. But in the crook of your arm. I want to feel pain physical. Maybe I'll wake up Maybe a cut could wake me up again. bring me back to life And so I squeeze. The knife is not very sharp. So the tip digs deep into your arm, creating uncomfortable pressure. But my skin holds up. And so I strengthen the power. And that's when the first drop of blood appears. That makes me falter. I see the red. How it works its way up my arm and drips onto the floor. Nothing. I feel nothing. So I push the silver deeper into my skin. More and more blood comes out of the wound. Shows I'm hurt. That I hurt myself But I do not care. I don't wake up am trapped There is a pain though. But this one is too short. Over too soon. It doesn't look real. The blackness in me swallows everything.

And so I remove the knife and close my eyes in resignation. There is no escape. I see my mother again. The deep circles under the eyes. The veil that swallows any emotion. The hopelessness.

And with that, I lean against the dresser. I should probably sit. Should give me as much steadfastness as I can. That would be important. But I don't care about that either. If it doesn't work this time, then next time. Nobody will stop me. Nobody will notice. After all, I'm isolated now. No brothel. No Zaret. So I start at my wrist and briefly pause. A tear lands on my hand. On the one that should end my life. I didn't even realize I felt like crying. It's funny how isolated I am from my own body. It shows how much power the mind holds. That I'm nothing without my soul. And maybe I always have been. A nobody. Do the others see it that way - have they always recognized it? Have I been too blind to see the truth?

But it does not matter. I see her now. Accept this. take her into me And as I squeeze harder with the knife, my heart cramps. I groan in agony. But it's too late. blood forms. I look at it again. Again nothing. My heart shows the pain. cramped. My breathing is ragged. But the hole is getting bigger. constantly. Then I slowly pull the blade further down. Watch as more and more red drops form. Until a loud bang makes me jump. Immediately a tremor overtakes me and it is precisely this that ensures that I can no longer hold on to the handle.

The iron falls to the ground. Clink softly. And me? All I can do is stare at the bloodstained edge in complete disbelief. I'm too weak even for that. I can't even bring myself to redeem myself. And as I look up to see what made that loud sound, another tear slides down my cheek. Hot. And this salty drop, no matter how small, carries all my despair, my hope, my strength. I will not experience salvation today. Not even by me.

Two men are standing in my room. you look at me Look down. Everyone here knows what I was about to do. It can be seen in their eyes. The strong ups and downs of her larynx, showing that she is swallowing with difficulty. That they don't know such a sight. Silence falls over us. Then one of the men stretches out his hand.

"Come with me." The voice is sensitive. As if she cares that I wanted to redeem myself. But that's a lie too. I know that. I look at the knife again, at the blood, then I nod and kick I take a step towards her. But a thought solidifies. Later. Later the knife is still there. Later I can try again. And then finally sleep.

And as I take another step towards her, I remember the cream. This is from Claire - to help me so that pain doesn't drive me insane while the rich man rages on me. So I squint at the small wooden box lying on my mattress. I know it would be wise to take these with me - that I should lessen the agony myself. But isn't that what I'm missing right now? The emotions that every human being possesses? That feeling that shows I'm alive?

It is clear that the cream should be taken from me. I know she would make everything easier. But that's exactly what I don't want. No easy way. No way that numbs me. I want to feel it wanna feel something So I walk on, chin up and take a closer look at the guards. They too are elegantly dressed. Their coats look warm. Leather is recognizable and the fur underneath shows that they come from high up. But that doesn't reveal their origin. But the attitude. This one is too proud. Too straight. Delivered. It may be natural for the rich. But for people like me - for people from the normal world - it seems too extreme. As if a broomstick was fastened to her back. And it is the same here. Again and again the men squinted at my bleeding arm. This shows the uncertainty that they don't like what they see. But that is exactly what is not reflected in the attitude. And that makes it look wrong.

But I shouldn't care. and thats the way it is. So let's go outside. I immediately wrap my arms around my upper body and shiver slightly. It's freezing out here. It won't be long before the first snow falls. My wrist hurts from the slight pressure of my upper body. But even that seems too dull - too far away.

One of the men puts his hand on my upper back. This is by no means meant to make me walk faster. But there is no pressure that pushes me forward. It's probably supposed to have a calming effect. But that fails. It's rather uncomfortable that they just touch me like that. Approach my body without any hesitation. That has never bothered me. But there it is again: the feeling of not having the power to make decisions. What Zaret awakened in me.

Nobody utters a word. I realize they just don't know how to deal with my arm wound. After all, I am a woman. So someone who is not entitled to feelings. women have to function. To cook. Clean up. please the man. It's not that women don't have a voice. But then they are strong - upset. Not weak.

So we walk on in silence. From the edge deeper and deeper into the city and thus up the hill. The poor live on the outskirts and the richer the people are, the closer they live to the city center. And at the top of the hill is the king's castle. It's only logical that the city is divided up like this. Those with the least money are the wall against the attackers. Those who can be sacrificed.

And even the slight incline is enough to make your forehead sweat. My breathing is getting heavier too. But we don't stop. Go higher and higher and only when we are near the town center do we stop in front of a hut. It looks so different. Only now and then a wooden beam is visible. Otherwise clay holds the house together. I'm rarely higher. And I've probably never gone that far into the city. And I would love to touch the clay. It looks kind of soft. But I can't follow the urge, the door is already opened. A pleasant warmth immediately penetrates me and without thinking too much, I go inside.

It's a tap room. Absolutely. a counter. Lots of tables and benches. The smell of stale beer. But there are no guests here. And I'm starting to have a queasy feeling about the new customer. He must be a big shot. I can't explain it any other way. And even as I look around, one of the men pushes me forward. Up a flight of stairs and into a narrow hallway. And now voices can be heard. Quietly. Hardly to hear and yet present for me. The slight flicker of fire can be seen through the slit in the door. And it is precisely this door that is pushed open energetically.

"Where are you?" a woman calls, looking around vigorously. As she turns in our direction, her face lights up. But despite the smile, she looks instructive. "There you are at last. My goodness, so help me God, a moment later and I would have been scouring the streets for you personally." As the words just flow out of her mouth, she approaches me. she is fat Almost round and this sight is also something new for me. No one in our neighborhood could ever afford to eat so much to get a figure like that. It represents prosperity. And normally I would be nervous, because that too suggests that this client must be very wealthy. But the paralysis in me manages to look at everything neutrally. I don't feel intimidated.

Her dress rustles as she takes the last step toward me, and as our eyes meet, her satisfaction increases. "She is really beautiful. At least when you know where they come from." It's almost interesting that as soon as she looks at me there's a warmth in her eyes, but that heat goes away as soon as she looks at one of the two men. Like a switch. And that's not this time "I'm the one who's being looked at like an insect, a small smile creeps onto my lips. The smile isn't real. But I need this woman to realize how much I appreciate her efforts. After all, we're all here I realize that I'm poor. That they wouldn't normally even notice me if I died before them. But my attempt to show her gratitude through that fades away, when she sees the wound on my arm. She points to the still bleeding spot and purses her mouth. "What's that?" Immediately she looks at the two men as if they were the ones who inflicted this wound on me. "Platura said something about a cut on my stomach. That's new."

platura. That must be the tester. It's almost interesting that I don't even care that my suicide attempt is told. And it's also not important to me that others are blamed for it. Normally I would probably sink into the ground with embarrassment. But again the emptiness steals this human emotion from me. Would I ever feel something like embarrassment again?

One of the men raises his hands defensively and the other doesn't seem to like the accusation either, so he immediately shakes his head. "We weren't. She got it for herself...", he doesn't get any further when the woman interrupts him with a quick gesture. "Of course she did. You think I'm blind. But if you hadn't dawdled to pick her up, then I wouldn't have to spend the valuable time doctoring." She braces her arms in front of her full chest and snorts in frustration. In fact, she seems likeable. She's clearly upset. But she still has a soft quality about her. The one that looks inviting. Just as a mother should always act on her child. And that thought gives me a stab in my heart. Because my mother never seemed like that.

"It's not deep enough," she murmurs softly, then looks at me. It's almost as if she's pondering that fact. And maybe it is. Not deep enough. Shows that this was my first attempt That I don't have any experience. And so for the first time I feel the need to say something, but I can't even open my mouth when she keeps talking: "Come on child. I'll connect it for you quickly and then we'll see we continue." And with that she pulls me with her. On my injured arm. And this time the pain is more present. I make a strained tone as I follow her. And as small as this woman is, she can walk as fast. I have trouble keeping up with her and it's only when we're in the room that she lets me go. I breathe out a sigh of relief and gently touch my wrist. It's throbbing. Unusual. I hardly felt the knife in my skin before.

But even if the physical pain is perceived more, the emptiness remains in me. So I decide to ignore it and just look around. But there isn't much to look at. A chair and a fire in the stove. That's about it. I sigh softly and again I wish with more emotion. I lack the curiosity, the tingling, which shows that I'm looking forward to what's to come. But nothing like that. And so, without changing my expression, I watch the woman bandage my arm. It's a little too tight. But even that is only worth a weary thought. When she's finished, she wipes away the last streaks of blood and nods contentedly. "Done." She gives me an encouraging smile and moves away a bit. "You have to undress."

I nod and slowly slide the dress off my shoulders when someone knocks on the door. But without waiting for an answer, it already opens. I turn around immediately and there's that telltale pounding of my heart again, showing that there's still a fear in me of Zaret storming in here. It's bullshit. He would never come here. And yet I can't help but think that way. I have an indescribable panic that now he wants to rape me too. And that he goes beyond borders. But it's not Zaret that comes in, it's the tester. platura. He just gives me a quick look before turning to the woman. "Is she almost finished? He just came."

And that sentence seems to do something to the woman. Immediately she becomes hectic and rushes through the room. "Yes / Yes. Luckily she was washed."

And as carelessly as these words leave her mouth, they hurt me so much that I close my eyes in resignation. Yes, I am washed. Claire cleaned every inch with the sponge. Double and triple. And yet I feel filthier than ever. But that is not important. So I just let the dress fall to the floor. The pleasant, warm air of the fire immediately settles on my breasts. No underwear adorns my body. That's not really the way to go. I do not care. And very briefly the question arises in me, why I'm actually here. It actually makes sense. As soon as he sees blood between my thighs, the rich man won't want me anymore. After all, I've been violated. But there's something in me that keeps me from just leaving this house. I don't really know what it is. Maybe hope? Hope swallowed by the darkness?

The lady rushes towards me and stands behind me. "You're getting something in front of your eyes because he wants to evaluate you before he makes a decision," she whispers to me, and I frown. Again, this isn't normal behavior. Again, it's that gut feeling that's telling me "that something is wrong. But since I can't and don't want to do anything about it, I just stare stubbornly at the tester. He examines me and seems a little too stiff. As if he's trying to come across as upper class, but none of them is. And as a heavy cloth falls before my eyes, I know my assessment is correct. Platura is not one who has been rich to begin with. I recognize the masquerade he wears. That it is not Is real And when I wonder wondering if he was once as poor as me, someone roughly grabs my wrist and pulls me with them. It can't be the woman. The hand is too big for that - the grip is too tight.

And that's exactly what sends an icy shiver down my spine. Right now I'm realizing that vision loss isn't good. Then my brain can weave things together - can make me see things that aren't real. And while the panic creeps up my limbs, we stop.

"I vouched for you. So don't disappoint him." I immediately want to shake my head, recognizing my own stupidity. We just couldn't take the cream with me? Haven't I suffered enough? But I can't protest. The words get stuck in my throat. So I can be pushed into a room unresistingly My heart is racing, pounding painfully in my chest And as I curse myself inside there is a soft cracking sound That signifies the door has been closed That I am now involved in all that follows myself to blame.