The art of strangulation
Posted: Tue Jun 24, 2008 8:46 pm
The art of strangulation.
The view from the hotel balcony was fabulous. We turned to each other, I was relieved to be off the ship. 9 days together had exhausted us. Your face was beautiful, your body was strong, your hands big. I was grateful to you for hiding me, I didn't have energy left. You held me, you were tender and I clinged to that part of you.
Death by strangulation had turned out to be a rather more lengthy process than you’d imagined...luckily. Exactly how long it would take I cannot say as I hadn’t been a party to its successful conclusion.
You'd guessed the element of surprise is to be gained if at all possible, and the most practical and obvious method of getting surprise into the act was to simply lunge at your victim from across a large country living kitchen. Then put your full weight behind the attack and come to a halt only when her back hits a 16th century rough plastered wall - so thats what you did. The paralysing effect of shock then allows for a more precise positioning of hands around the neck, then it would seem that all that's left to do is squeeze. Indeed put simply that is all that is required to produce a corpse, but it takes a while longer than you thought.
For the first few seconds nothing happens. The victim breathes easy, wondering why she is not dying, the attackers face becomes confused wondering why she hasn't died. Several seconds of stalemate pass and still the woman lives, her eyes look straight into his, she is seemingly un-killable. You have no plan for her not dying, what to say to her at breakfast tomorrow, when your parents come for lunch on Sunday. This will not do at all so you tighten your grip, squeeze harder and shake her a little. Her eyes fixed in yours do not blink and still she breathes.
About now she is reaching a pivotal point in the process when the shock at not dying begins to be replaced by the shock of realising this time she is going to die, of not being able to move her body. You press your knee between her legs and hold yourself against her. You breathe heated breathes on her face.
Strange how everyone must die but nothing is as shocking. By now her neck is hot and it seems to her not that his hands are tighter but that it is her neck that is swelling in the still silent panic. Breath will not go in and she floats in a not unpleasant haze.
Then there is hope. His face is wracked with distaste at his own weakness, if she lives longer than his courage he will fall away. She swims frantically back towards conciousness.
Every thought is written in his face and he knows it, he is undone. She must believe she will die so that he can believe it too, if only she would close her eyes and die.
Then he moves away, his hot clothes un-pressed from her body, the strangulation creases make them hang strange from his torso. He loosens his hands from her neck, the salt from his sweat makes the scratches sting - they both stare at the blood on his nails.
He has no words to say, and damn her she will not speak. She cannot speak. She feels victory as she breathes, so he head butts her in the face, she feels the thud, feels the bone split. This is further shock and darkness lowers her body towards a cold slab. She wonders if she will wake up.
When she wakes her back is cold and damp with sweat, a flag stone pattern is on her cheek and her neck is stiff. She stands and walks to the hall mirror, examining her neck she is surprised to see blood from the nose. Head butting had been forgotten. The front door is big and heavy and made from oak, the handle is shiny. The cleaner polishes it; it wasn’t until I saw my nose that I felt pain. I go upstairs and wash, there are bits of dried blood like grit in the sink I swill them away and put Germoline on my neck, my hair sticks to the cream and it smarts, salt stings my face.
I lay in my cold damp t-shirt on the bed linen, and I shivered.
You hate me because when you hit me I stand up and let you hit me again, because I look into your eyes and because to break me you’d have to kill me. You hate me because you can’t kill me, because you think you love me. You hate me because other men look at me.
Two days later you came home and took me on a baltic cruise, you took me to St Peterburgh and kissed me on a balcony. You put steri strips on my nose and kissed my forehead.
I didn’t leave you because I had to wear polo necks and scarves for two weeks until my neck healed.
I didn’t leave you because you broke my nose or gave me a scar. You can still feel the crack, but my nose isn’t even crooked.
You could have gone on beating me...
I left you because I didn’t like the way you washed you hands. You put soap on and lathered it up past your wrists like you did at work. You scrubbed them each in turn then you rinsed them clean under the tap to your elbows...then you shook them before you dried them. It was the shaking bit I couldn’t stand.
The end.
The view from the hotel balcony was fabulous. We turned to each other, I was relieved to be off the ship. 9 days together had exhausted us. Your face was beautiful, your body was strong, your hands big. I was grateful to you for hiding me, I didn't have energy left. You held me, you were tender and I clinged to that part of you.
Death by strangulation had turned out to be a rather more lengthy process than you’d imagined...luckily. Exactly how long it would take I cannot say as I hadn’t been a party to its successful conclusion.
You'd guessed the element of surprise is to be gained if at all possible, and the most practical and obvious method of getting surprise into the act was to simply lunge at your victim from across a large country living kitchen. Then put your full weight behind the attack and come to a halt only when her back hits a 16th century rough plastered wall - so thats what you did. The paralysing effect of shock then allows for a more precise positioning of hands around the neck, then it would seem that all that's left to do is squeeze. Indeed put simply that is all that is required to produce a corpse, but it takes a while longer than you thought.
For the first few seconds nothing happens. The victim breathes easy, wondering why she is not dying, the attackers face becomes confused wondering why she hasn't died. Several seconds of stalemate pass and still the woman lives, her eyes look straight into his, she is seemingly un-killable. You have no plan for her not dying, what to say to her at breakfast tomorrow, when your parents come for lunch on Sunday. This will not do at all so you tighten your grip, squeeze harder and shake her a little. Her eyes fixed in yours do not blink and still she breathes.
About now she is reaching a pivotal point in the process when the shock at not dying begins to be replaced by the shock of realising this time she is going to die, of not being able to move her body. You press your knee between her legs and hold yourself against her. You breathe heated breathes on her face.
Strange how everyone must die but nothing is as shocking. By now her neck is hot and it seems to her not that his hands are tighter but that it is her neck that is swelling in the still silent panic. Breath will not go in and she floats in a not unpleasant haze.
Then there is hope. His face is wracked with distaste at his own weakness, if she lives longer than his courage he will fall away. She swims frantically back towards conciousness.
Every thought is written in his face and he knows it, he is undone. She must believe she will die so that he can believe it too, if only she would close her eyes and die.
Then he moves away, his hot clothes un-pressed from her body, the strangulation creases make them hang strange from his torso. He loosens his hands from her neck, the salt from his sweat makes the scratches sting - they both stare at the blood on his nails.
He has no words to say, and damn her she will not speak. She cannot speak. She feels victory as she breathes, so he head butts her in the face, she feels the thud, feels the bone split. This is further shock and darkness lowers her body towards a cold slab. She wonders if she will wake up.
When she wakes her back is cold and damp with sweat, a flag stone pattern is on her cheek and her neck is stiff. She stands and walks to the hall mirror, examining her neck she is surprised to see blood from the nose. Head butting had been forgotten. The front door is big and heavy and made from oak, the handle is shiny. The cleaner polishes it; it wasn’t until I saw my nose that I felt pain. I go upstairs and wash, there are bits of dried blood like grit in the sink I swill them away and put Germoline on my neck, my hair sticks to the cream and it smarts, salt stings my face.
I lay in my cold damp t-shirt on the bed linen, and I shivered.
You hate me because when you hit me I stand up and let you hit me again, because I look into your eyes and because to break me you’d have to kill me. You hate me because you can’t kill me, because you think you love me. You hate me because other men look at me.
Two days later you came home and took me on a baltic cruise, you took me to St Peterburgh and kissed me on a balcony. You put steri strips on my nose and kissed my forehead.
I didn’t leave you because I had to wear polo necks and scarves for two weeks until my neck healed.
I didn’t leave you because you broke my nose or gave me a scar. You can still feel the crack, but my nose isn’t even crooked.
You could have gone on beating me...
I left you because I didn’t like the way you washed you hands. You put soap on and lathered it up past your wrists like you did at work. You scrubbed them each in turn then you rinsed them clean under the tap to your elbows...then you shook them before you dried them. It was the shaking bit I couldn’t stand.
The end.