The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

Emma knocked twice and waited. A short time later, a soldier wearing a mask opened the door. As it swung open, his eyes widened.

“Kurt,” Emma said, keeping her voice low. “I’d like to come in.”

At first, he stood motionless under the hazy hall light.

Emma considered that he might slam the door in her face. On the other hand, the soldier had presented an offer at Saint-Étienne-du-Mont; perhaps he’d expected her to accept his proposal.

He propped his hands against the door, steadied himself, and then stared at her.

The sour smell of sweat and liquor rose from Kurt’s body. The sculpted mouth from which his breath escaped had transformed into a leer. Even in the dim light, Emma could see the mask was damaged—the paint had flecked off, dents pocked the chin, the copper was torn across the right cheek.

“I’ve considered your offer,” Emma said. “May I come in?”

He stepped away, steadying himself against the wall.

She entered the hall and he closed the door. The musty odor of a two-hundred-year-old building filled her nostrils with a dry itchiness. The wooden floors creaked underneath her shoes as she brushed past the faded rococo wallpaper of men and women cavorting on swings, which was peeling away in thin strips.

Kurt’s apartment, only a room, was open. Emma stepped inside.

He stumbled after her and closed the door.

It contained a single bed, a rickety bureau holding a white ceramic washbasin, a chair, and a wooden stand upon which a single candle burned. The flickering light triggered a memory, and, for an instant, she was transported back to the bedroom in Vermont with its fiery dappled blaze. Emma settled into the chair, her nerves taut with anticipation.

Kurt nestled a pillow against the wall and dropped carelessly onto the bed. The mask nearly slipped from his face, but he managed to secure the earpieces with his hands.

“You must listen,” Emma said. “Don’t bother to write—I won’t read it. I know who you are. I’ve known since I drew your face, but I didn’t want to believe the truth.” She unbuttoned her coat, revealing her legs. “You lied to me. You lied to me from the beginning.”

Kurt shifted uneasily on the bed.

“We conceived a child and then I killed the one precious gift you ever gave me. I threw away a life because you and I were too selfish, too absorbed, to see past our own self-centeredness. We’ve both paid the price in our ways.”

Kurt shook his head and reached for the notepad on his bed.

Emma slapped it from his hands. “No! Pay attention to me! I’m through listening to you. Since I saw you at the cathedral, I’ve hardly thought of anything else. I wondered whether I should go through with your offer. You have no idea how I’ve suffered because of my action—one you pushed me to take. I should have stood up to you and my mother, but I wasn’t strong enough to face her. I knew she would never forgive my pregnancy. For all I knew, she would have thrown me to the street, branded as a whore.

“You were silenced by the war, but I’ve been silent even longer. I’ve longed for this day—when I could take back what I did. We created a life and I extinguished it. Today, I’ve been liberated along with the world, and I’m free to do with you as I wish, free from my husband, free from a nightmare that haunts me.” Emma drew in a sharp breath. “Death has followed us, but life has given us another chance—one that will complete my emancipation.” Her voice brimmed with anger. “I’ve never been able to rid myself of that black stain on my soul. It holds my guilt and I’ve carried it for too many years. I’m going to exorcise it with the man who conceived it.”

She took off her coat, rose from the chair, and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Kurt, who shrank from her like a wounded dog.

He groaned under the mask and reached again for the pad, but Emma seized it and threw it to the floor.

She grabbed his wrists and, with all her strength, forced them flat on the bed.

His head lolled against the pillow, his body wriggling like a snake in the talons of a hawk, but his struggle subsided after a few moments, the resistance draining from his body until his eyes appeared as lifeless as pale moons.

Emma released her grip, hooked her fingers through the thin metal earpieces, and lifted the mask, exposing the face with its mouth and jaw ripped away.

He instinctively reached to cover his injuries.

Emma tugged at his hands. At first he fought against her, but when she guided them to her breasts, he shook violently on the bed and his grip slackened.

“I want our child back,” Emma said, positioning her body over his, kissing his forehead, her anger lessening as her passion for absolution rose. She caressed the scarred tissue around the cavity that was his mouth, felt the jagged bone beneath the skin. Even as she touched him, she remembered Kurt as he was in Vermont, consummating this sexual act, an act of atonement for herself and the child she had lost. She had to remind herself it was so; otherwise, her actions were too intolerable to bear.

He weakened under her touch and soon he was lifting his body to meet hers.

She met his thrusts with her own, covering the wounded face with kisses, tugging at the buttons of his shirt.

He pulled her to his chest, pressing his pelvis against hers, his hardness jabbing against her thighs.

She quivered at the touch of his erection, and lifted herself gently from him, slid off the bed, and watched as he unzipped his trousers and pushed them down to his knees. He was exposed to her once again and she recalled the contours of his body, the smooth skin, the downy hair surrounding the clefts and mound of his pubic area, the