Today I take part in the hate blogfest over at Tessa’s Blurb! The aim is to write about hate, something I actually found incredibly hard to do. Even once I’d decided on a part of my story which runs entirely on old hate, I wrote it quickly. I think the whole scene comes off as kind of numb, though that actually works in the context of the story. This is a scene from “Scarlet Woman” (test title) where Daniel is experiencing vivid dreams in which he is a young woman being abused. He pieces together the story and discovers that she was someone in his life that he also wronged and has since killed herself. The dreams are becoming more and more vivid and interfere with his life a great deal. In this scene, the dream has presented the young woman being viscously raped by her abuser, who until now relied on co-ersion rather than actual force. Daniel wakes up.
My eyes open and I know: this is the only chance. Hollow rage writhes within me but for the first time I feel motion not impotence as I rise out of bed. His tongue lavishes my thin neck, his hands gripping my throat as I leave the flat. His fingers harm and tear as I start the car and begin to drive. The air is sick with his scent and the atmosphere potent with his words.
You’re mine, you knew that but now I have to teach you properly.
My breath jumps at how real his voice sounds and I grip the steering wheel until I can feel every muscle strain with the tension. My mind repeats his invasion over and over until I want to close my eyes and howl but the rage continues. The rage moves me forwards as the hours pass. I barely notice the signs but I’m driving for him.
You think he can save you?
I know where he is, where I last saw him. I know what to do because I feel strong, angry and filled to the brim with hatred. Every bubble that I pressed down to remain as I wanted to me has exploded to the surface at once. His ass is mine.
Just fucking take it!
I stop before I hit his house and get out slamming the door so hard the car seems to wince. I stride towards the house he used to keep me in, his dumb 15-year-old pet and even though the memories get louder I don’t quake. I’m going to silence this.
The river, the bridge where I finally ran. Unbelievably, he’s waiting for me. Drunk out of his mind, he’s lurching his way home from a bar, from a woman’s house or from the streets. Acid floods my mouth and my head feels too hot and too distant. In a moment I’m next to him and I think he speaks but all I hear is ringing. I’m unsteady, wavering on my feet as I sway with adrenaline. He doesn’t know me. I put my hand on his shoulder and he tries to shrug me off. I hear myself scream in his head and beg for mercy and suddenly the anger passes. The red mist clears. I don’t need to torture him and listen to him beg. I’m above that.
I push him off the bridge and hurry back to my car as Sandra’s dream begins to phase away from me. I drive back, the spell slowly disappearing just like the man toppling over the bridge. Her hate, weak and impotent had finally met mine, selfish and unforgiving. I drive home, touched deeply by the hatred we shared, touched by the mind of a woman not long dead.
I drive back and park the car in the drive. None of the lights are on around me, the night is still dark and I enter my house without concern for being spotted. Anya stands in the bedroom, her face streaked with tears and holding my mobile like a talisman.
“I thought-” her voice cracks and she’s in my arms.