219daysoflondon: 5/1/12

“When she reached the house she didn’t go in but went down to the beach and sat facing the water, leaning against the red boat. Ambrose came down from the house and saw her sitting there thinking, looking at Patrick’s river.” -In the Skin of a Lion

Reprisal

Alexandra Gater

Clara sits on the beach thinking of Patrick; the way her hand had unraveled his bandages during the dynamism of their lovemaking, how it had pressed into the blood of the gauze. She remembers how the chalky redness had clung onto the lines of her skin, creating blood ovals where the vertical creases of skin separated knuckles from tips. She can recall the precise motion of her hand as it pressed against the wallpaper covered in English flowers, the release of her energy through her palm that left a hand print of love above his head.

In her mind, Clara replays the sound of the muffled voices that floated up to her bedroom accompanied by the smell of sweet grass, waiting for her lover as the darkness enveloped her body. She could hear the low grumble of Ambrose’s vocal bands as he passed by their bed to the window and see the faint glow of the match in his hand, his shadow dancing on the wall behind her. She can remember reaching out towards him, her slumberous body needing to feel the costal cartilage of his ribs moving in tune with hers, her hands needing to feel the spaces between his ribcage, his skin brimming over the edges of her fingers. Her mind flits flickers forward to the sound of the match sweeping across the flint, the flare hissing up to illuminate Ambrose’s face before retreating back into the darkness of the room as the flame died out. Clara can picture the streak of red and orange that ran through the foliage towards the soft glow of the moon that lay on the glassy surface as it moved side to side in silent curls. The smell of kerosene potent against her nose hairs.

Ambrose comes out from the house, watching as Clara gazes towards the river. The faint light of morning glazes her blond hair with a sleek shine like an opaque gloss on top of an angel cake. Her bare legs poke out from under her thigh length coat, pale and denuded against the contrast of the red boat she leans against. There is dried blood stuck to the end of her hair in clumps, the wind picking up its soft scent of coriander. Ambrose comes up behind her, sweeping his hand against her hair and Clara flinches; her hands do not long for the dents and curves of his body. Ambrose watches as her slim figure stands up, her hands stained with a faint redness. The color of charcoal is streaked against her pale face, her makeup smudged. Her hand recedes towards Ambrose’s cheek, pausing in the dewy midmorning air, gaining momentum before falling against his face in one, graceful slap. He turns his face away from hers. She watches as his hand finds the place where she has slapped him; it lies against the outline of the red handprint that she has brandished there. Clara smiles at Patrick’s blood marks that now lie across Ambrose’s face, his revenge the same color as the fire that lit his back. Ambrose watches the way Clara stands before him, her muscles tight and joints sore. It is through her pain, the dried sweat that plasters her hair to her face, Patrick’s smell clinging to every fibre in her body that he knows she is in love with him.

There is a bottle of kerosene leaning under the window frame in the bedroom, the liquid dripping down on the distressed wooden floor. Clara steps in the opaque puddle, dipping her hands in the liquid. The blood rolls off of her hands, the kerosene puddle turning a rusty red. She can sense Ambrose behind her, can feel his stalky body filling up the bedroom door frame, watching her. She is crying, her kerosene tears creating toxic tracks down her cheeks. Ambrose flinches when he sees her tears. For once he feels fear.

Clara’s movements are slow and Ambrose doesn’t stop her. She slowly lifts the bottle of kerosene, thrusting it towards his body so that the liquid splashes against his torso. Ambrose does not move for he is familiar with her theatrical ways of executing things; she is after all the famous radio host, the mysterious woman who paints spirit paintings, the woman who intimidates him with her sexual madness. He watches her beautiful blue eyes, takes in the creased dress that lies limply against her sagging breasts as she stands in front of him, watching as the kerosene drips down his face, into his eyes, mouth, ears. Clara’s delicate paper thin hands enter his pant pockets and she wraps her fingers around the small match box, her eyes locked with his. He is sure that he is going to fall into them.

-Don’t do it.

-You knew that he was weak.

-Remember that time, in the blue room. When I told you I loved you Clara.

-You knew that he was weak. You know that I love him.

-Don’t do this to me.

Clara holds the flaming match in her hand and watches Ambrose in all of his vulnerability, his white shirt soaked through with the familiar smell of his sweat that she knew so well from the heated moments of their lovemaking. She slips out of her dress and stands before him wearing nothing but underwear the color of creek. For a brief second Clara thinks of Patrick, how if he stood near the creek he would see his bedroom window the lunar moths thrashed their wings against. He would see the flames, think that the man he searched for with all of his being was turning into ashes the color of the water under the creek ice in the winter. Suddenly Patrick would remember the boy who stood at this same bedroom window, watching as the loggers lit their fires by the frozen ice of the creek in front of his house. He would hear the soft distressed hum coming from the depths of Clara’s stomach and this would remind him of the sound of the damsel fly’s breath, the one who would latch onto his screen at night so he could observe it’s rice paper wings. And he would love her even more.

But Clara dismisses this thought as quickly as she lets go of her lovers. Instead, she smashes her naked torso against Ambrose’s kerosene body, her skin absorbing the gas like the porous wings of a moth as Patrick gazes out of his Bellrock hotel with a damaged eye and a single hand print belonging to Clara above his head.

Sometimes I smell you. You'd think this would be bring me small moments of bliss, euphoric seconds where I remember you suddenly, clearly and without hesitation, as if you are beside me. But these moments are instead scrambled rather than serene as I try to hold onto the smell before it leaves me, taking with it the comfort of your presence. I feel as if I am fighting to stay above water as I frantically attempt to hold it in my nostrils, to not lose it as it fades away into the sea of smells-body odor, too-sweet perfume, dust particles.

It is always like this with you; trying to grab onto you before you breast stroke away into the great black depths of water that I've tried to swim, but never make across.