Once she was restrained he’d be able to do what he wanted.
—fuckherhurtherrapeher—
The Mariner held out a trembling hand to take hold of the wooden shutter, eye still on the oblivious bathing woman. Ready to strike.
And stopped.
Just what was he doing? How could this possibly be right? This was wrong, terribly wrong. True, he was only acting so that he could be cured in the long term, but wasn’t that nonsense? How could raping someone so that he never raped in the future, possibly make sense?
But he wanted to. Oh god, he wanted to. Perhaps he should just embrace the madness? After all, he was no doctor, he was just a mariner, nothing more. Why not give himself over to the more intelligent guidance of another?
But that wasn’t right. He felt it in his gut, even though his cock screamed the contrary. He shouldn’t be doing this. It was wrong.
Yet despite his conscience, the Mariner still felt his hands moving towards the shutters, still his cock strained and grew harder. The acceptance of the act’s moral depravity only made it all the more alluring. He was going to act—
Don’t!
—and he was going to rape this woman. His lust was too great, his mind too trapped in the whirlpool of sordid fantasy. He had to taste her, touch her, violate her; nothing else mattered.
NO!
In a swift movement, acting on an impulse far beneath the fantasies of rape and torture, the Mariner pulled his knife from his pocket and yanked his left shirt sleeve up to the elbow. With barely a moment to think, he slashed, carving a deep red groove where before there was only dirty skin and ancient scars.
Pain erupted in his mind, dominating the foreground. The fantasies, the images of fucking and hurting, were suddenly pushed back; where once they were bright and dazzling, they were now grey monochrome. Distraction brought with it blissful, yet momentary, respite.
But colour began to leak back, so the Mariner slashed again.
Biting down on his tongue to maintain silence, the Mariner carved into his arm, Each strike brought pain, but with that came release, a release from his thoughts and his urges, a release from everything but the blinding white agony.
As the pain reached a cacophony, his lust finally dissipated. His penis, sore and tired, became flaccid once more.
The Mariner slumped onto the leafy ground, blood thick around his arm. It ran onto his chest soaking his shirt, the scarlet fluid he’d expelled in place of another. Pain to bring control.
And with the control came the guilt.
Patient Number 0020644
Name: John Doe
I awoke this morning with the image of a wasp. I don’t know how it lodged so firmly in my mind, to my knowledge there are no wasps in Sighisoara, though it is entirely possible a nest could be aboard any one of the many ships that dock here. Still, something tells me that this wasp didn’t fly into my mind through sight, but through recall. A memory, something on the tip of my brain’s tongue, only just out of reach.
It is hardly surprising that I should be thinking so much about memories, given the peculiar nature of our ‘John Doe’. His addictions have turned out to be deeply entwined with his personality, and problematic to treat. Though tragic, it is imperative that the conflict inside be resolved. Only then will we begin answering the larger questions.
This evening I attended a sermon by the Reverend McConnell. I am not a religious man (though like many I have been sorely tempted by the madness that has grasped our world), but I wanted to speak to the reverend about his interactions with my latest patient.
When I arrived, however, he was preaching to the ignorant masses about ‘The Shattering’. His notion is that our predicament is a punishment from God, a time in the wilderness before the return of Jesus Christ (who will sew reality together — what utter tosh); rather fanciful, but the name is apt. Shattering.
Our world has splintered and fallen apart; if only we could grasp what it once resembled, might we piece it together?
But that image is lost to us now. We’ve forgotten. Too far down the path, and we’ve lost the route back.
And yet I awoke this morning with a buzzing in my head. Something about a wasp. Something I’ve forgotten. I reached out to grasp it, and for a moment felt its wings brush against my fingertips, but then it escaped, flying out of my mind and away into the forgetful mist.
21. NOT A WAGON IN SIGHT
THE GRASS FELT COOL AGAINST the Mariner’s face. He breathed deeply, inhaling the fresh scent. Dirt went up his nose, but he didn’t mind. The pain in his left arm was a more pressing concern. He didn’t begrudge it though, it was a pain he deserved.
Bloody and distraught, he’d staggered away from Beth’s quarters and made his way up to Tetrazzini’s rehab centre. There, shy of the building by around ten foot, he’d collapsed, exhausted.
He’d failed.
Completely.
He clenched his fists in frustration, grass and soil scrunched between digits, and he let out a muffled groan into the ground, but the trembling earth gave no reply, instead it came from above.
“Did you do it?” Grace’s voice surprised him, making him look up with a jolt, green strands sticking to his cheek.
“Do what?”
“What he suggested you do.” Grace stood in the dim, partly illuminated by lamplight coming out of the many rehab windows.
The Mariner pulled himself into sitting position. “You listened?” He was too weary to be angry. Too ashamed for any further revelation to sink him further. There was nothing lower than him. “You spied on my therapy session?”
“I often listen. He doesn’t think I can hear from the outside, but I can. That’s how I knew about Donna and your boat. Thank you for trying to talk to him about the zoo. It’s no good though. No-one ever remembers.”
The Mariner swayed where he sat, trying to ingest the information. “You heard our session?” he asked again, dumbly.
“Yeah. I’m sorry. Did you do it?”
The Mariner looked to the ground and shook his head, chin scraping his chest.
“You won’t get better if you don’t.”
“I know.” He looked at the girl, amazed how calmly she talked with a man she knew to be a dangerous predator. “Aren’t you afraid of me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you didn’t do it.”
“But I wanted to. I really wanted to.”
She shrugged as if this was entirely inconsequential. “You still didn’t.”
The Mariner looked up at the sky. The clouds had parted in a small patch, allowing a collection of stars to peek through. They glittered against the black and the Mariner felt small. Small and powerless.
“A memory haunts me, and I’ve spoken to both a doctor and a priest about it. The doctor says I should cast the memory aside, because it only exists in my head. The priest says I should use it to find forgiveness. What do you think?”
She took a moment to think. “That zoo existed.”
“But it doesn’t any-more.”
In the dark it was easy to imagine Grace as being four times the age she was, such was the world-weary sadness upon her face. When she spoke, her voice carried experience beyond her years. “We are made up of everything that’s happened to us. We can’t toss it aside and pretend otherwise. Nor can we force ourselves to feel something we don’t.”
The Mariner stared at the girl, his breath short, realisation and suspicion running through his mind like heroin in the mainline. “You’re an addict aren’t you? You don’t run this place with your father, he built it to treat you! That’s why he’s obsessed with curing every addiction he finds. What was it?”