Page 9 of Madame X

“Clean yourself.”

I obey, and return the cloth, roll to my side, and let my eyes slide closed. Let my emotions welter, tumble, let the post-orgasmic drowsiness tug me under. Let the deep, powerful riptide of my most private thoughts and fears and desires spin me into a disoriented tumble, far beneath the tumultuous surface of the sea that is consciousness.

Blood. Sirens. Loss. Confusion. Rain in the darkness, lightning gouging the blackness, thunder throbbing in the distance. Weeping. Alone.

“X—wake up. Wake up. You’re dreaming again.” Hands on my waist, lips at my ear, a comforting whisper.

I bolt upright, sobbing. Hair sticks to my forehead in sweat-smeared tangles. Strands in my mouth. My back is damp with sweat. My arms shake. My heart is hammering.

“Sshh. Hush. You’re okay now.”

I shake my head. I’m not okay. Eyes closed, fighting for breath—I can see nothing but snatches of nightmare:

Blood, crimson and thick, swirling and mixing with rain on a sidewalk. A pair of eyes, open, vacant and unseeing. Limbs bent at unnatural angles. A stab of lightning, sudden and bright, illuminating the night for the space of a heartbeat. An all-consuming sensation of horror, terror, the kind of loss that steals your breath and sucks the marrow from your bones.

Sobs. Wracked, shaking, incapable of speech. I try to push it down, gain control, but I cannot. I can only sob and gasp and tremble, shiver and weep. My lungs ache. I cannot breathe, cannot think, can only see the blood, the blood, scarlet and thick as syrup, arterial, lifeblood leaking away and mixing with rain.

“X. Breathe. Breathe, okay? Look at me. Look at my eyes.” I seek dark eyes, find them strangely warm, concerned.

“Can’t—can’t breathe—” I gasp.

Pulled against a firm, smooth chest. Heartbeat under my ear. I tense; comfort like this is alien. I still cannot breathe, or blink. Paralyzed with fear, with the poison of nightmares in my blood.

“How did we meet, X?”

“You—s-s-saved me.”

“That’s right. What did I save you from?”

“Him. Him.” I feel a presence from my dream, a malevolence, a hunger for that scarlet lifeblood.

“I found you on the sidewalk, bleeding to death. You’d been badly hurt. Beaten nearly to death. Savaged almost beyond recognition. I took you in my arms and carried you to the hospital. You’d crawled, alone, dying... so far. A mile, almost. They think you knew where the hospital was, and you were trying to get there. But you didn’t quite make it.”

“You carried me to the hospital.” In reciting the words, I can begin to find my breath.

“That’s right.” A pause, a breath. “I brought you in, and they wouldn’t let me go back with you, but you had no identification and you were unconscious. I just couldn’t leave you alone, not knowing what had happened to you. Not knowing if you’d be okay. So they let me stay in the triage room while they worked on you.”

“You waited for six hours. I died on the table, but they brought me back.” I know these words, this story. It is the only history I have.

“Your head had been badly damaged. Of your many injuries, your cranial injury was the most worrisome, they told me. You might never regain consciousness, they told me. And if you did, you might remember nothing. Or some things but not others. Or everything. Or you might be paralyzed, or have a stroke. With the damage to your brain, there was no way to know until you woke up.”

“And I almost didn’t wake up.”

“I had to leave eventually, but I came back the next day, to check on you.”

“And the next, and the next.” I know all the beats, all the pauses, where to say my lines. I can breathe. I can work my lungs: inflate, deflate; inhale, exhale. Flex my fingers, blink my eyes, focus on curling my toes. Familiar exercises.

“The police found the crime scene where you’d been attacked. It was murder. You had a family, but they’d been murdered. And you’d witnessed it. Seen it all. Barely survived.”

“And he’s still out there.”

“Waiting for you to show your face. Waiting to make sure you can’t ever tell anyone what you know.”

“But I don’t know anything. I can’t remember anything.” This is true. This is a part of the ritual, but it is true.

“I know that, andyouknow that. But he doesn’t. The murderer is out there, and knows you survived, and knows you saw everything.”

“You’ll protect me.” Another truth.