She had been ruined in a day.
But for him, she would always be flawless.
Flawless as the old pictures, posters and memorabilia hanging around the room portrayed her. Each item seemed to showcase a separate aspect of her beauty. The glossy magazine covers made special emphasis on her exquisite facial features – the softness of her skin, the delicacy of her long, dreamlike hair. The vintage cosmetics ads seemed to favor the endless depth of her evergreen eyes- a depth that suggested worlds within worlds within world. Finally, of course, the somewhat garish posters of the classic action films (still somehow elegant by means of her presence) spotlighted the forever sensuous shape of her body, embarking the spectators’ eye in a journey, a crash course in the essentials of feminine beauty, which started on her gossamer legs and ended (in more ways than one for some) on her legendary torso, voluptuous yet still in exquisite proportion to the rest of her figure.
And yet, as always, the whole was more than the sum of its parts. Here was a woman who would forever embody every male fantasy, forever constitute the ultimate goal every other woman would aspire to. Standards of beauty may change along the centuries, but they would never taint her, for she was the concrete from which the concept of beauty was arrived at.
She had, nevertheless, been tainted, albeit by an altogether different force. If things went well tonight, however, there wouldn’t be any further need to keep dwelling in the past for the fleeting respite of reminiscence.
It was the long-awaited opening of the bedroom door which finally drifted him away from the depths of his contemplations back into the absoluteness of reality. The reality of her – her at that moment, five years after the unspeakable atrocity. Her coming to him, as a survivor of a society gone mad. She definitely wasn’t as ugly as he had expected- she even still retained some of her alluring shape and the arresting quality of her eyes. She was, nevertheless, a woman of average beauty- which, considering the situation, was a feat of strength in and of itself.
And it was more than enough for him.
Even in her present state, most men would have found it hard not to be aroused when she started taking off her clothes. He, on the other hand, surrounded as he was by an array of remnants from his boyhood fantasies and moved by the irresistible pull of a lifetime of expectations, had already been on the point of coming the moment he had seen her silhouette reflected against the dim bedroom light. Memories overwhelmed him as he possessed her, memories which kept driving him onwards and onwards - memories associated with each movie he had seen a hundred times, each magazine he had collected and read from cover to cover, each useless product he had bought only to see her name printed on it; memories of a time where values had correspondence to reality, where happiness was tangible and attainable, where beauty was more than an anachronism.
She was not oblivious to this worship. She let herself be had as she hadn’t been a long time. It almost felt just like the old days, when men would not just dominate her but also revere her as they did so. She hadn’t thought such passion, such devotion would be possible after the incident. That her face was partly covered by darkness and that he kept looking more at the pictures around him than at her was of no consequence. The worshipping was still directed at her, at what she had been and even, yes, at what she was now, for it was her current body that he was caressing. For that moment, no matter the circumstances, she was complete.
Which made it all the more terrible once it was over. The full extent of her emptiness, not the emptiness of something that had never been filled but the excruciating emptiness of that which had been full but then had been depleted, suddenly came to her mercilessly. She had never believed she would be able to feel, to truly feel again. Now that she had, she knew she wouldn’t be able to settle for anything less. Not again. Which, in her present state, could only lead to perpetual sorrow.
It had been good, no doubt- more than good. Much more than she had dared to expect. But how long would this man remain at her side- this man who needed old pictures to make love to her?
If she had uttered this question, his answer would have been: “For eternity.”
*
That night she slept soundly for the first time in five years. Rays of light coming in through the bedroom window drifted her back to consciousness- rays of light which for her seemed to herald, for once, a certain unspoken promise for the day in hand. But it was mere illusion, she knew, for her man would surely have left by then. Strange that she hadn’t heard all the familiar sounds involved with the after-experience: the rushed scattering of clothes, the soft shower washing away all the remaining signs of the physical ordeal as if they had never happened, the harsh slam on the door, separating her once again from any prospect of companionship. Her sleep must have been heavier than she thought.
And then she noticed that the clothes had been untouched, that the shower showed no signs of use, than both sets of keys were still atop the table – realizing that maybe she hadn’t heard the sounds because there hadn’t been any sounds to hear after all.
The vague sense of hope that had been hinted at by the sunlight sparkled again deep within her, this time a bit more strongly than before. You should stop, she tried to command herself. You know where this all leads to. You will be destroyed once again. You have already given everything you possibly could – but, somehow, there will always be something else that they can take away. They know. And they may vary in their methods and in their degree of commitment to their empty slogans, but not in their basic premises. She should keep refraining from them as she had done successfully during the past five years, engaging in contact only out of physical necessity, but detaching her mind from the process.
All this her mind repeated to herself time and time again, while her body kept walking steadily towards the living-room, while her heart kept hoping against all hope that he would find her there and embrace her.
As she approached the closed door of the living room, a familiar voice stopped her dead in her tracks. Irrational fear suddenly overwhelmed her. “He’s here!” She panicked for an instant, but only for an instant--- it only took a second for reason to once again saver her from the caverns of mindless fear. “He can’t be here- he’s supposed to be abroad.” Of course, Hugo Winning’s voice was coming from the television set. They must be broadcasting one of the Minister of Culture's old speeches.
Upon listening more attentively, she found she knew this one by heart: “… And it is today, on a day to which we can give no other name than “Freedom Day”, that the trivial factors which have accursed men and women for centuries, that have sown the seeds of discontent, hatred and justified envy against brothers and sisters, will be forever cast aside as the pitiful remnants of mankind’s selfish, greedy, self-serving past.”
“Beauty. So many unenlightened ones have cherished this ephemeral, relational concept, when in fact it’s nothing more than another synonym for “curse”. For what could be worse for a person than to be born “beautiful”? Beauty sets you apart from your fellow brothers and sisters--- it makes others admire you, envy you, scorn you, imitate you, respect you, resent you--- but never will it make others consider you as what you really are: an equal. It is a fact well known by any educated citizen that in the past special privileges were given to the “beautiful”. They were consistently given the best jobs, the best education, the best opportunities--- while the rest of us struggled endlessly just to maintain a bare level of minimum sustenance. But it is not for our sake that this law is being passed today, my friends. As always, it is not revenge that motivates us (though we would be very well justified in wanting to obtain it) --- it is love.”
“Love for the very same ones who have oppressed us, enslaved us, made us feel less than they are by their very existence. For, how can “beautiful” people be ever truly happy? How can even such depraved human beings find any measure of solace in knowing that all of their phony achievements, of which they are so pathetically proud of, are based only on their outward appearance--- not on the strength of their spiritual values, but on the mere aspect of their soon-to-be-decaying flesh?”
“We owe the landmark of this day, in part, to the efforts of our valiant scientists and scientesses who, unlike so many others, have placed the needs and well-being of society over their own selfish, individual pursuit of knowledge. “Gratitude”, of course, is only a figure of speech – after all, it is that same society that has provided them with goals worth pursuing them and the means to accomplish them. Yet this is such a breathtaking an achievement that I cannot help but resurrect this outdated archaism, at least for a moment. I have no other concept to express the feeling that now pervades me, and that I’m sure pervades all of you as well, to formally announce that today we can finally achieve the end product of the cultural reform that our forefathers foresaw: the socialization of beauty.”
For the past few minutes she had stood in her place, transfixed, paralyzed by the words that had destroyed her life. Now she couldn’t take it anymore. She didn’t want to make a scene in front of her newfound-would-be-lover, but this act of moral treason provided enough justification for it.
She stormed into the room and shut off the television which such violence that his lover momentarily shuddered.
Only that it wasn’t his lover she was now facing.
It was a woman.
She wouldn’t have called her beautiful – nobody was beautiful anymore, not really- but she achieved the average state of “non-ugliness” which was the best a person could aspire to these days. Her eyes were standard black but at least retained some of their color, her hair was unremarkable but still feminine to some extent, and her figure was a bit on the plump side though not obese like most. The latter, nevertheless, could only be glimpsed at through the loose shirt and massive overcoat that were covering it- man’s clothes, definitely, which served the apparent purpose of obscuring her last ephemeral traces of femininity well. Still, no matter how hard she tried to hide it, she was clearly a woman- and a somehow familiar one.
“Who are you?” she asked the stranger.
“My name is Francisca. I’m pleased to meet you, Angela Blessworth. Like many, I was a fan.”
“What are you doing here??? How did you come in, how…?” Angela did her best to sound hysterical and bewildered, because she knew they were the natural reactions to such an unusual and potentially dangerous situation, but her heart just wasn’t in it. She didn’t feel threatened in the presence of this woman. For some unfathomable reason, and even though she was quite positive she had never seen her before, she felt they had both shared something special, something unique--- that something that bonded them and would protect them from any possible harm.
“How I entered is of no consequence. It’s not as if you still had the massive security machinery that used to work for you during your glory days. The reason for my presence, however, is grave: I’m on the trail of a murderer.”
“A murderer! But how…”
“Please, Ms. Blessworth, I understand this whole situation must be something of a shock to you, but due to the utmost importance of my task, I beseech you to listen without interrupting further with your inane questions.”
The command in Francisca’s voice was such that Angela, who would have normally punched anybody on the face for much less insolence than that, passively accepted her request.
This seemed to ease her interlocutor’s demeanor a little.
“Thank you for your cooperation. I shall now proceed, for the matter on our hands is one of utmost importance. I’ll put it bluntly: the man with whom you slept last night is a serial killer, and the leiv motif of his murders is his obsession with you.”
That same morning, for a few brief moments, Angela Blessworth had contemplated the possibility of a lifetime of happiness with “the man with whom she slept last night.” If Francisca’s statement failed to break her, it was only because Angela could no longer be truly surprised at the depth of people’s depravity. Not at this point in her life. Not after what had been done to her.
Francisca seemed to take this lack of emotional outburst on her part as a sign of levelheadedness.
“It is not my intention to force you to dwell once again in what must be beyond doubt the most painful memories of your life, but many more people will die if you won’t. Listen carefully, Angela Blessworth: five years ago, your beauty was “socialized.” Every distinctive physical feature that set you apart from the rest was taken away from you and shared among “beneficiaries” both reluctant and voluntary. In keeping with the law, you were not given the names of these beneficiaries, but I’m sure you did your research and ended up with the names of at least some of them. I have good reason to believe the killer is out to get them. I need those names so that I can find them and warn them before it is too late.”
“I’m sure that, if you’re as clever as you desperately try to show with your highfaluting manner of speech, you will provide me with at least some evidence to support your unlikely story.”
“Unlikely? You find the fact that a killer is on the loose unlikely? Haven’t you learned anything about the world, not even after what it’s done to you?”
“Of course I have. But “learning about the world” doesn’t mean blurring my reason. If this man is really a serial killer… - and she thought for a moment, “a killer would never be able to love in the way he did”, but then kept it to herself - …. How come I’m still here?”
A look of true concern and sympathy permeated Francisca’s face. For some reason only her subconscious was privy to, Angela found it completely heartbreaking. They stood still for a moment, this faded beauty of the past who still clung to life with an air of quiet dignity, and this mysterious, commanding woman still capable of compassion. Then Francisca went on, softly, finally:
“My dear… but he has already killed you. He poisoned you while you slept.”
Throughout all these years, neither the scorn, the envy, the injustice, the mockery, the ridicule, the hatred – for it was all reduced to hatred- had been completely capable of breaking Angela’s spirit. She had faltered briefly along the way, and had suffered bouts of severe depression, yes, but she had never succumbed to despair. Deep down, in the midst of this benevolent universe, she still cherished life. And now even this absolute primary had been taken from her.
Francisca was able to grasp all this terrible meaning in Angela’s eyes as she collapsed to the floor, no longer part of this world which had never proven worthy of her.
“No!” Francisca yelled out loud, as if Fate could hear her. “Not this soon! It can’t be…”
She wanted to cry, but found herself unable to.
And then, by chance, as she was taking in the once-beautiful Angela’s features for the last time, a crumpled piece of paper on the floor caught her attention.
She picked it up at once. She knew what was on the paper before opening it. In a second her suspicions were confirmed:
“ELIJAH MASTERS
CATALINA CASE
BETSY KROECHE
… SEE YOU THERE XOXO”
He wanted her to find him. Typical of his wicked ways. Well, she would find him. And put an end to him once and for all.
Story