Toccata and Fugue (reprise)
Toccata and Fugue in D minor – J.S. Bach
Toccata and Fugue
There was a knock at the door. It was almost lost in the crash of thunder outside, where the thunderstorm was raging. All the local stations would be blaring red warning signs on their screens, she thought. Stay home! But she hadn’t listened, and so far it had been a terrific idea!
Answer that, will ya? He stuck his head out of the kitchen, smiling again, his hair tussled but still wet.
The sheets smelled like vomit. Her vomit. There was no doubt about that. And she could taste it still. She’d had to swallow most of it down to keep from choking, to keep from making any more noise. Just doing so had almost made her puke again, and the horrid emptiness in her stomach, less from the vomit than the overwhelming fear, kept her from retching again.
Thunder rolled across the night somewhere in the distance. The storm was growing more violent, a reflection of the night. It was all she could hear. And she couldn’t open her eyes. She couldn’t see him again. She couldn’t see what he’d done. Not again.
Shivering racked her body. She couldn’t stop it. Her teeth would have chattered against each other if not for the cloth in her mouth, stifling anything above a sob or groan. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to hold her body still, willed herself to be still, prayed again to a God only hours before she’d not believed in. Was God real? Was this it? Would He welcome her after all these years of denial and disbelief?
Thunder crashed against the outer doors, shaking the glass and ripping a muffled scream from her lips. Even as the thunder rolled away into the distance, her sobbing filled the room with a heartbreaking descant, a counter to the soothing rain on the balcony and what had been an evening of simple pleasures.
She’d thought the classical music was somewhat pretentious at first, but decided that perhaps, on a night like this, it was just right. It was rather playful for the most part, and she found herself enjoying the soothing strings. But now and again, the deep tones of the horn section swept in with forbidding undertones – such sharp contrast! It left her wondering about the composer who could interweave such light-hearted notes with such melancholy strains, seemingly a perfect reflection of the storm, its thunder sporadically breaking through the gentle pitter-patter of the rain on the windows.
Toccata and Fugue, he announced. My favorite.
He crossed the room to the fireplace and clicked the second of the two remotes. The fire flicked into existence as if Prometheus himself was locked in the small silvery piece of plastic in hand. He looked back at her and winked.
She’d giggled, still standing there by the door, the bottle of wine in her hand, watching him dart around the room, setting the scene, building the ambience one block at a time. Soon the whole castle would be built, and he’d turn and smile childishly and ask if she liked it, if it was tall enough, if she was impressed that he’d used all of the blocks and how the yellows formed a pyramid. It was amusing. It was endearing, and it was more effort than anyone had put into her in a long time.
He spun around, caught her eye, and grinned. Just like a little boy. And he whirled with only the slightest of flourishes and disappeared around the corner of the fireplace toward the kitchen, paper bag in hand.
Wait here, he said. She waited, letting the door swing closed.
This was his chance to show off, to amaze her, to sweep her off her feet. But the way he had touched her in the bar, the way he had breathed in her ear – she was already floating off the ground, already traipsing through fields of dandelions and daisies. What was left but to meet her lover in the middle of the sun-stroked meadow and fall into the warmth of each others’ arms?
She closed her eyes, and let the music sweep over her, seeing him again in her mind’s eye. I have just the thing, he said as he appeared again, the boyish grin still on his face, the same one that had played across his features the first time he’d looked at her. This will fit our little picnic just perfectly, he spouted, spinning back around, and he twirled the rest of the way around, perhaps a little tipsy, but gracefully enough, one arm extended if not for balance, than perhaps a reminder of the arm that had held her closely in the walk home, just before it had started to rain.
Bach is perfect for picnics, he offered – he was a fountain of information – as the linen tablecloth fluttered in the warm air of the room and floated down to the carpet in front of the fireplace, one corner tucked underneath defiantly.
Thunder shook the room again!
Or was it the door slamming open again? She was afraid to open her eyes. She didn’t want to know. She cringed,waited, prayed again. She didn’t deserve this. She shouldn’t have even been here. It was a simple thing, a perfect storm of events, that had led her here, and this was not fair, not fair, not fair.
And not over. Not yet. Definitely not yet.
Biting down, she tried to crush the cloth in her mouth, if only to give her throbbing jaws some relief, if only to lick her dried lips. Thinking about it, she began to whimper again, feeling more tears coming.
Her hands had already ceased to ache – they were numb from the tightness of the belt around her wrists. Her feet were still tingling, some sensation left, but it would be gone soon. She wiggled her toes, fought back the urge to pull and twist and fight the constriction of the other belt around her ankles. Every time she pulled, it grew tighter. What little sensation there was left gave her some kind of comfort, some hope. It was perhaps all there was – all she had left.
Eyes closed in the darkness, there was only the steady drumming of rain on the balcony and the pounding of her heart, threatening to explode within her chest. If only it would, this whole episode would be over.
It was, in fact, a bit of a walk to his place, he’d admitted, but it was a nice night out, and the forecasted rain was holding off. They’d have plenty of time, and if caught in the rain, it might just be fun.
She nodded, feeling her head spinning a bit from the Caipirinhas. Or was it his smile and his touch? Maybe it was the way he had just grabbed her hand, leaned in and told her that it was too crowded there and they needed go somewhere else. He was hungry, and wouldn’t it be nice to have a little picnic? She giggled again, thinking about his suggestion to go have a picnic at10:30 at night. But she followed, fingers entwined. This was an adventure, and it was looking good so far.
Buildings passed by on the right, as they headed up the street. Neon light glowed orange and yellow and green. Doormen stood at the entrances, checking IDs and calling out the specials: first drink is free; live music tonight! Two hole-in-the-wall pizza joints were open side-by-side, and the owners stood in their respective doorways, shops empty, chatting. The smell of the pizza was enticing, mouth-watering. And they looked at each other as they walked by, but he assured her his suggestion was much better, and it was right up the street on the corner, about a block away.
We left the banana on the bar, he declared unceremoniously, his face contorted in mock disappointment. I might need that again, you know? She stared back for a moment, and then they both stared laughing. He squeezed her hand again, and turned up the street.
They crossed 7th without incident, but had to slip past two working girls on the opposite corner before they could duck into the House of Kabob, where the sign read “Buffet open til midnight”. A few minutes later, they emerged, packages in hand, and he turned to her there on the corner and smiled. Two servings of chicken tikka masala, rice, noon bread and a bottle of wine – now it was time for a picnic!
Can I get any spare change, buddy?came the call from the shadows, but he dismissed the man sitting against the side of the building. He turned back to her and whispered just above the noise of the street: let’s get out of here; I need something to eat. He winked and turned.
She smiled, squeezing his hand again in answer, and followed him up the street. The food smelled delicious, and his eyes were such a lovely shade of green!
The door opened again. She could hear the knob turn, but her heart was threatening to block out any other sounds he made. A whimper escaped her lips. There was nothing left to do now. A fresh tear sparkled at the corner of her eye, and for the first time she didn’t turn her head to wipe it away on her sleeve.
The bed sagged, creaking on one side, and she wailed, trying to stifle the moan but unable to suppress the overwhelming fear that ensnared her and was dragging her down now into the depths of this private Hell. He was back for perhaps the final round of his so-called “fun”, and it was utterly apparent that there was no escape for her.
He didn’t speak, and she couldn’t hear his breathing anymore. Her own breathing, her uncontrollable sobbing, the pounding of her heart, it’s threat to leap out of her chest before he could tear it out himself – these snuffed out every noise, except the rumblings of the powerful storm outside.
The bed shifted again, and her body tilted as he sat down next to her. She struggled with her bonds, but they held fast, tightening, tightening as she pulled on them. All she could do was turn her head away from where she knew him to be, eyes squeezed shut, mouth biting down on the gag. His fingertips played over her body, and she shuddered, sickened. Her stomach revolted, and she retched. Nothing more than stomach acid filled her mouth with its bitterness, and she swallowed it down, coughing.
He laugh was muffled, more through his nose than his mouth. He was enjoying her reaction, enjoying the game.
His fingers played across her naked belly, his hands mauled her breasts, and he pulled at her nipples. She felt the fingertips graze the lips of her vagina, and she nearly screamed, a muffled plea not to be touched there, to be left alone, to be left alive. She struggled violently in her bonds, but there was no way to prevent him from whatever he desired!
He growled, and moments later, she felt the knife again and grew still.
Rain was threatening when she’d walked into the corner bar, Samm’s, on 23rd and X. It was one of those Thursdays that had seemed to never end, an Olympic day – she’d nicknamed them after seeing her little brother’s training schedule one day while visiting from school. She was less awed by his water polo skills than his long hours of preparation.
There was the “ding ding” of the bells on the door and Samm standing in her usual place, Caipirinha in hand. I don’t have to be in until 10, she thought. Olympic days were always best when late mornings followed! The first Caipirinha went down smooth, and as the second was being shaken, he leaned in and quipped toward Samm, if I’d known this was a ‘fruity drink bar’, I’d have brought more than my banana.
Samm’s laughter was as exaggerated as her eye roll, and then it rolled on when he reached down into the crush of people and pulled a slightly green banana from his jacket pocket. He smiled when he dropped it on the bar and turned to her, winking. I carry it everywhere on the chance that I can use that joke and maybe meet a cute girl. And when he smiled, she couldn’t help but grin in return. And she turned away, feeling foolish, hand covering her mouth and stifling a giggle. But she noticed that his eyes were an amazingly bright green.
Two Caipirinhas plunked down on the bar, and Samm blew her a kiss and slid quietly away.
He dropped the knife between the two ruined bodies, and turned away, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his new coat. He could feel the watches, the money clip and other trinkets in the left-hand pocket, the contents of her purse in the right. Passing through the outer room, Toccata and Fugue was playing again, set, it seemed, on repeat. He grabbed the bottle of wine of off the floor, considered the label for a second, and then snatched up the package of bread, tucking it into a pocket. He turned back to the stereo, absorbed in the final notes of the masterpiece. As the music faded away, he crossed to the doorway and grabbed the umbrella still wrapped tightly and dryly in the corner. Nasty out tonight, he mumbled, and opened the door and slipped out into the hallway. I could have used just a little spare change to get out of the rain.
