Excerpt
FROM K.H. KOEHLER’S THE DREADFUL DOCTOR FAUST
The girl who came from the river awoke to darkness and to the eroding echo of water falling on stone.
She blinked her eyes, but the darkness was the same either way. Her last echoing thought had been of crushing, unbreathablepain, and a base desire to move away from it. It spiked fear in her body, even now. She sucked in a deep breath that tasted of antiseptic and linen and sat bolt upright, prepared to rip at her face and the frightening bandages blinding her face—
“Don’t do that,” commanded a voice out of the impenetrable darkness.
She listened to her own panicked breathing—in, out, in, out—and slowly turned her head to find the direction of the voice.
“Do not,” the voice spoke again, “disturb the bandages.” And then, as if to make up for such sudden harshness: “You are still healing, my dear.”
The voice was soft, yet hard, almost metallic in strength, and very deep. It resonated around the black chamber and reminded her of some old British black and white movie watched on a long-ago Saturday morning. For some inexplicable reason, she was not afraid. She could listen to a voice like that forever. The wielder of such a voice could recite pi and hold someone spellbound.
But her body trembled with fear even as her spirit was quelled by the sound of the voice. “Where am I?” Each syllable sucked the bitter cloth into her mouth, and she had to stop herself from panicking at the awful pressure of the bandages.
Bandages meant something terrible had happened, something she was unprepared to deal with…
“You are safe,” said the voice unhurriedly from across the room. “You are safe here.”
“Where is here?”
“Below.”
She didn’t know what that meant, if anything. “Am…am I a prisoner?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“I don’t want to be a prisoner.”
“My dear, you have no choice.”
“Why?” she said. “Why am I here?”
Why am I alive? she wanted to ask. Her most recent memories were of a carnivorous darkness ripping at her flesh, tearing it off the bone.
“I found you,” answered the voice, with a touch of annoyance, “by the river. Washed up. I remade you. You belong to me. It’s only fair, don’t you agree?”
His words angered her. And anger was an old friend. “Fuck you,” she said defiantly.
The man who spoke to her stood up. “You must articulate. You do not want to fuck me, Poppet. You want to hurt me. To hurt me in response to the man who hurt you. Articulate.”
“Fuck you,” she responded. “Fuck you and fuck you and fuck you!” she screamed hysterically through the bitter bandages.
“You’re a stupid little bitch,” said the man. He was standing over her.
She swung her clawed hand at him, to strike him.
He caught it. His hand was cold and immovable, like a machine. An army of men could not have broken his grip on her.
She quivered, waiting for the killing blow to fall.
“You are mine,” said the man. The sound of his voice was scorching, like the grind of gears. “Forget the rest. Forget the rage. Forget the pain. And do not raise your hand to me again, Poppet. I gave you this hand,” his fingers closed incrementally tighter about her wrist until she groaned at his strength, “and I can take it off.”
He let her go.
He left her to wallow in darkness and questions for a long time.