1.
The room was dark. A solitary candle stood solemnly in a corner, yet its light seemed to cross the room with little effect. A breeze stirred the heavy curtain into a ripple. The cloth parted and a shaft of heavy daylight fell onto the floor and along the opposite wall. The light pushed its way in and the room was, for an instant, divided in two. Its northern half wet with sun, the southern pole saturated with shadows which the candle’s flickering yellows only seemed to deepen. The walls were absolutely featureless; unpainted and lined with planks of uninspired wood. The door, midway on its furthest wall, betrayed no artisan’s passion, but the cold touch of animated metal saws. It was all trivial, boring; all save for a bath tub lying alone in the middle, half immersed in light. The contrast with the room was almost jarring. It was majestic, a true treasure stolen into the room from a different age. It stood, flat, on four paws of ceramic in the imitation of lion’s feet painted in gold. Its body was curved, almost feminine, coloured starkly white. The ceramic gleamed in the sunlight; it even seemed somehow to distil some substance from the candle’s wavering. Its rim was pouted, polished smooth, immaculate. It called to mind images of milk and of the skin of some virgin, young, white body. The bath’s flesh dipped, forming a deep, long, slender tub and a concave floor. The light poured into it. In the middle, like a navel, was set a golden drain inflamed with the sun and unplugged. A thick redness wet the inside walls of the bath tub. It coalesced into small puddles, inching their way to the tub’s drain. It slid languidly off the surface, reaching down, leaving a trail of crimson, a tell tale trickle of gore. The breeze died. The curtain fell back, motionless. The candle conquered all. A silence fell, sealing the hushed horrors with a smothering calm. A tap tapping of footsteps punctured the quiet. The door sighed as it opened. All lay motionless. The man was no intruder. With three quick and practiced steps he crossed the room in one breath. From the deep corner he emerged with a pail in hand; ready to erase the blood from all existence, ready to urge it into the plughole and push it into oblivion. He ran a wet hand down the ceramic back of the bath tub. Slowly the caress dipped into the depths of the murk and redness. He ran a sponge along the curves of the tub, and up its yearning sides. There he labored, with sweaty brow and racing heart, a silhouette of shadow against the meek background of hushed light. He leaned over the bath in a domineering stance over the supine ceramic, one hand dipping into it, with powerful strokes urging the bath to forget its aches and its worries. He was thorough and convincing. He did not neglect to trace tenderly the legs of the bath, nor its feet, clawed and powerless, paralyzed by his power. The tub lay subdued, lying in darkness, imbibing the gore and the candle light.
