Аннотация: Получился не столько рассказ, сколько сценарий для фильма. Или комикса. Про оборотня. Упорно не хотел писаться по-русски, "засим - писала по-английски".
Mastering Viole
Viole's place, morning
There's nothing better than black color. It can be velvet-soft and shirtly-too-ironed, dim and glossy, and it remains the best color for Viole. Black suit, black tights - it seems they dislike the view of unclad human legs, and that is why they get angrier in summer. Black heelless shoes, ideal for stealthy walk. Black hat to keep the long hair from fluttering in the wind. Viole turns a pair of dark glasses in her hands but decides against wearing it. She has her mobile in her breast pocket - the neck-lace hurts her chafed skin. A final touch is a cigarette. It's just a catching habit, not a serious addiction. Just a remedy for having too much time and not enough confidence, and it is perfectly true for every Viole's morning.
Viole's district, morning
She leaves the house, clicks her cigarette-lighter and selects walking rhythm compatible with the race of her thoughts. She is confident and sure, she doesn't want to run, she thinks of her work and drives away the fear, the fear that should never be noticed by them. It can be imagination playing tricks with Viole, but she thinks they know a way to feel those who are scared of them and to remember them. How else could one explain so many people disappearing? Viole passes the Scrapheap Number One, noticing a maverick sleeping between two garbage bins. There will be no maverick here in the evening. Maybe he will move to sleep in some other place. Maybe - they don't tolerate intruders. Nearing the Scrapheap Number Two (yes, Viole calls them so in her mind, with the capitals glowing crimson and purple), Viole sees there two middle-aged housewives who stopped to chatter for a while. A corbie bird watches them from the tree-branch just above the bins. Corbies might be spying on people and reporting everything to them. Viole won't be surprised by not seeing the two women the next day. They will probably choose another time to throw away the sweepings and discuss the latest news - or disappear forever. Viole passes the Scrapheap Number three, seeing there a dead pigeon, cat-ripped or executed for trespassing. There is a crushed milkbag near the Scrapheap Number Four, and a pawprint in the drying white puddle. Viole approaches the Scrapheap Number Five, the largest one in the whole district. She concentrates on feeling calm and walking plain and thinking 'It's alright, it's casual, I'll be waiting for him to come in the evening'. They look at her, bored. Once the distance is safe Viole exhales happily - one more morning won - and runs down the stairs to the underground. A look of black-green eyes follows her unnoticed.
Viole's office, afternoon
As midday comes closer Viole feels uneasy, as if sensing a hostile look with her skin. She comes up to the window and sees a black-and-white furry dog lying still in the lawn near the entrance. It is warm and the dog is sure to be sleeping but to Viole it seems to be waiting for someone. Suddenly the black-and-white head rises and Viole feels like their eyes meet. It's rubbish, of course, dogs cannot look people in the eyes, and this very animal cannot see Viole, standing by the closed window on the upmost floor of the office building, but she feels the examining look of the canine on herself. Viole closes her eyes to reassemble her thoughts, and when she looks down again there is no dog. Well, her fatigue might be the cause for hallucination. And it is definitely a reason for drinking coffee. Viole walks up to the coffee machine. 'It's alright. Just haven't slept well. It's alright', she repeats, answering a colleague's concerned question. 'It's alright', a magic spell, Viole's all-time and all-mighty fear repellent. A cup of coffee, a cigarette, and it's alright. Finally the evening comes, evening and odding all fears and concerns.
Viole's district, evening
On her way home Viole buys a large ropeskein and a pack of wine. How she wants to know if he comes tonight! But he always comes unexpected; it is a part of their relationship. When Viole goes by the Scrapheap Number Three, a corbie flies over her head croaking. There's nothing unusual, Viole is on her way home, and the bird is on its way somewhere, and their ways crossed just coincidentally near the Scrapheap. But it is better to hide one's fear, just in case, and Viole thinks: 'I am so afraid... I am afraid he cannot come tonight. I want him to come so much...'
Viole's place, evening
In the safety of her flat Viole puts the wine into the fridge, goes to the bedroom, takes off all her clothes and uncoils the rope. It's a common rope, used as a clothesline by others; tough and prickly, just as Viole likes it. She cuts a long piece of rope and ties it to the bedposts, making two loops on the ends. She spreads her legs sitting on the bed and tightens the loops around her ankles. Moving her knees together seems impossible at first, but she manages to tie them close. The rope cuts into her skin and scratches are sure to appear tomorrow. But Viole loves pain. She ties another piece of rope to the bedposts on the other side of the bed, makes loops on the ends, just like she did for her legs, and puts the scissors under her pillow. She inserts her hands in the rings of the rope manacles and spreads them wide, tightening the loops around her wrists. Now she is bound and helpless. It will be hard to get the scissors from under the pillow, but Viole doesn't want to cut herself free yet. Her master might come tonight. All she can do is wait. Minutes pass, but there is no clock in Viole's bedroom and she never knows how much time has passed. Just sometimes it becomes clear that master won't be coming, and Viole, slithering, pushes the scissors from under the pillow, cuts the ropes and goes to the kitchenette to drink wine and have her lonely supper. Sometimes master does come. Viole can guess it's him by his steps behind the door, by the sound his key makes turning. Master comes in but he never rushes straight to Viole. He takes off his coat and boots in the antechamber, teasingly slowly, leaving it up to her to imagine what else he is wearing. He goes to have a smoke and a sip of wine in the kitchen, or makes a telephone call. He knows that Viole hears his steps and is afraid that he can forget about her and leave, but he always remembers about his bound toy, waiting for him on the bed. He is teasing her, and Viole likes it. This excruciating anticipation is a part of their relationship. But waiting is pointless tonight. Viole pushes away the pillow and, turning her head, manages to get hold of the scissors. Holding them in her teeth, she raises her head to the rope connecting her right hand to the bedpost; a couple of minutes, and the edge works through the rope. Then it's easy to free the other hand and then cut the ropes on the legs. Viole examines the rope prints and notices a few bleeding scratches on her wrists and ankles; the rope pieces are colored maroon. She spends the rest of the evening in the kitchen, eating, drinking, smoking and wincing painfully when she has to flex her wrists. When the pack of wine is empty, Viole goes back to bedroom and falls asleep clothed on her bed, with ropes dangling from the bedposts.
Viole's place, morning
The morning finds her trembling from cold and fear. She dreamed of dogs staring at her unblinkingly. She washes the nightmare away with a warm and long shower. Loose slacks conceal the ropescars on her legs; the subtle network of scratches on her wrists is hidden beneath the cuffs. The shoes of silence, the black hat of disguise, the inevitable cigarette of fictional calmness. Viole's hands quiver while she is trying to smoke, because a black-and-white dog awaits her by the door. Well, the dog just looks like the one seen by Viole yesterday, black-and-white is a common dog color, isn't it? But just in case she muffles her memories of yesterday and the dream: 'It was a common day yesterday. Master didn't come but it's alright. Master knows what is better for me. Master will come when he finds it necessary. Master loves me. He might come today'. The dog disappears. Viole proceeds walking to the underground station. The Scrapheaps One and Two are empty, and corbie birds fly in circles over the Scrapheap Number Three. When Viole passes, they start croaking. A dog muzzle emerges from behind a bin and follows her with its unblinking eyes. Viole hastens instinctively. The birds fall silent. Her imagination must be playing games with her. Dogs controlling the whole district eliminating those they dislike? But how else could the mysterious disappearances of people be explained? Viole figured up that more than ten people disappear every week. No newspaper ever mentions it - they all write about a recent suicide wave. No allowance is made for them in police statistics. No criminal records mention them. No one cares for stray dogs - they do nothing illegal, just scavenge scrapheaps and sleep in lawns. But where are the ones who earned a stare from them? Where did they go?
Viole's district, morning
Immersed in her thoughts, Viole forgets to mask her emotions and approaches the Scrapheap Number Five reeking of fear so strongly that she can feel it herself. She regains consciousness and composure only when she sees dozens pairs of eyes staring at her. Red, black and grey, fluffy and bald-spotted, large and small, all the dogs are watching her. Then they turn their heads in one accord and look at a large furry black-and-white dog, sitting on a container lid proudly as if it is a throne. Viole shivers and takes a few labored steps backward. Her legs refuse to walk, the ropemarks start to burn, and her heart throbs madly. The black-and-white dog leaps down and walks to her. Its green-shaded dark eyes meet Viole's. 'Never look dogs in the eyes', thinks Viole. 'They see it as a challenge'. But she can't keep from looking in the black-green eyes of the stray queen. For a split second it seems the dog reads her thought, as its teeth bare in a way resembling a smirk. Viole tries to repel her fear and suddenly realizes that she is not frightened but curious and expectant. She remembers a crazy idea she had long ago - sitting like that all day round, watching passers-by and tasting their thoughts and emotions. The dog comes closer, still staring Viole in the eyes. Somewhere far beyond this second of reality voices can be heard, but they dissolve in the air, unable to reach the ears of The Dog and the woman. It seems that time has stopped, setting minutes free for something supernatural. But a pair of hands grasps Viole and pushes her aside. She found herself near the Scrapheap Number Five, between a garbage truck and a guy in a bright garbageman uniform. The man is staring at her with concern. The dogs are nowhere to be seen.
Viole's district, later that morning
Is losing one's mind like this? Viole takes a few steps towards the underground station and feels terrible pain in her legs where the ropes had been. She walks to the wall, leans onto it, and rises a slacksleg to examine her wounds. Viole sees two red swollen streaks, one under the knee and one around the ankle. They are pumping, as if she has two extra hearts on each leg. While she looks closer at her leg and holds throbbing wrists with her hands, she feels a gaze on her back. She doesn't need to turn to know it is a black-and-white dog. An intelligent furry nuzzle appears in front of her nude leg and closes its jaws on her unclad calf. Viole watches the dog bite her but does nothing to break free, doesn't try to scream, doesn't even feel pain. A few seconds - or a few hours - pass. Viole looks around: there is no dog, the garbage truck is still near the Scrapheap, and a woman she had outdistanced not far from home is passing by. So it is a few seconds then. Viole leaves the security of the wall and walks to the underground. The pain has gone, and she cannot feel the bite. Could she have lost the ability to perceive pain? No, not this. Master would be angry at her. Maybe she can take a sick leave for a couple of days and have some proper rest. Approaching a stairway leading to the dungeon of underground Viole notices a black-and-white spot flashing between bushes but forgets it in a moment. She runs down the stairs and collides into a young man. He drops a pack of magazines, and when she mutters an apology and runs away she hears 'Bitch!' thrown behind her back. Well, sometimes ill manners are to be tolerated. Viole forgets about the incident and gets to her office in time.
Viole's office, afternoon
She manages not to think about dogs and hallucinations. She forgets about the pain, ascertained that no one had bitten her in the morning. On return from lunchbreak Viole finds a memo on her table. It contains a name and an address with some additional information. She has to go to another city district. Viole has some questions about the client, and she remembers that she wanted to take a sick leave, so she decides to go to the chief of the department. She combs her long lank hair, dyed violet, and makes her way to the chief's office, clutching the memo in her hand. The secretary is away, and Viole pushes the door softly after knocking. At first she can see only subpictures - a chief's coat on the floor, a white shoe of the secretary, a hand unpinning a bun of rich red hair - and only then she notices the two women merging in a passionate kiss. Viole closes the door slowly and leaves. She calls for a taxi and walks out of the building to have a smoke while waiting for the car to arrive. She feels awkward and uneasy in-doors. A few minutes later Viole is already sitting in a taxi and speeding through the evening city.
Viole travelling, evening
The highway is almost empty and Viole is drunk with freedom and speed. Having to persuade a hard-headed client doesn't matter anymore, and master not coming yesterday doesn't matter either. Viole knows that she can handle any problem and survive any distress while there is this spirit of speed in her heart. The car window is open, long violet tresses flutter in the wind; million-scented city air caresses her skin. Viole feels like getting out of the car and racing along the road, running with the wind, feeling blackness and warmness of asphalt and pulse of the planet under her paws... Damn it! Paws?! The driver looks back at his ladylike passenger who has just sworn loudly. Viole smiles at him meaning 'It's alright'. Though it isn't, and she is now afraid of her own thoughts. It takes her some exertion to tune back to work, not thinking about paws, dogs, bites and hallucinations. The driver opens a door for her and offers a hand. But the soil under her feet smells so invitingly of fuel and rotten leaves and tobacco and candy and something else, and Viole can't overcome herself. She falls on her hands and knees scenting the land. It lasts but a second, and then she regains composure and pretends to have tripped, accepting the driver's hand. She shakes off the dirt from her palms and slacks, dismisses the taxi and proceeds to the client's office.
A client's office, evening
Viole is once again capable of controlling her thoughts. But her sense of smell seems to have sharpened; she can distinguish thousands of tinges she never imagined existed. Coffee in a cup and freshly-spilt coffee on the floor, deskjet ink and clean sheets of paper, phone wires, metallic undertone of scissors and heavy notes of human sweat, combined in a typical and unique office scent. It seems that Viole can even identify emotions by smell: a guard smells of boredom with a shade of alcohol, a secretary smells of severity and the client himself, strangely, of anxiety. What concerns him so much? That's not what Viole needs to know. She just lets the new sense guide her, prompt her, and her tone becomes soothing. It's alright. It's going to be alright, sends she a message to him. Viole wonders inwardly at how these words have started to mean something entirely different for her in the last two days, how this simple spell ceased to work for her. It's alright. She shares her tranquility with the anxious man, and he gradually becomes calm and relaxed himself. Viole scents the change in him - he smells now of hope and anticipation - and the meeting slowly descends to the end. She leaves the office with a folder of signed papers, thinking it over and over.
Viole travelling home, evening
Can emotions really smell? Smell like cigarettes, like soil and human body? Viole sips the evening air like an unfamiliar mixed drink, trying to disintegrate it and savor each ingredient. Suddenly something cold touches her hand. Viole shivers surprised and sees a large sheepdog in a spiked collar. The dog smells her palm and... smiles? Can dogs smile? Viole smiles back to it, like an old maid would to a pretty child, and pats it on the head. But master calls to the dog and it rushes to him. Viole remembers of her master and bustles to the underground. A turnstile refuses to devour her ticket and glares at her with a lonely red eye. Viole almost gets angry but then notices a sign - a crossed out dog picture - and commences to laugh. Another turnstile recognizes her as a human being and lets her in, and Viole continues her way. Everything pleases her now, even the swelter of the underground and hot, almost sexual tightness of the crowd.
Viole's district, later that evening
Getting back to surface and breathing a clean fresh air is even more pleasing, and she feels that master should come tonight. Viole walks home, for the first time not trying to conceal her fear beneath layers of clothing and thoughts, because there is no fear today. There are no dogs in sight, only a large corbie is taking a stroll near the Scrapheap Number Five. Four, Three, Two, One - unusually empty. Finally Viole is home; she finds the door unlocked. The meaning of this is clear to her when she sees a familiar scarf thrown on the floor.
Viole's place, late evening
'You are late', says master, appearing from the bedroom. Viole bows her head, takes off her clothes right there in the antechamber, leaving only a loose-fitted white shirt, and kneels before the scarf. 'Yes, master'. The game commences. Viole submits because she likes to submit, and master likes to dominate her. They know their roles and their scenario, and following it strictly is a rule of the game. But master decided on something new today. 'You deserve to be punished'. 'Yes, master', Viole bows her head and blindfolds her eyes with the scarf. For a few tormenting seconds she anticipates a whiplash falling on her back, but instead something heavy and soft surrounds her neck. Master lifts her hair, tightening the collar painfully, and clicks the shackle. Viole wants to rise from her knees, but master tugs on a chain attached to the collar, and it rattles cold and metallic like his voice. Viole has to obey his unsaid command and crawl in order not to be suffocated by the collar. A long-awaited whiplash arrives to her back, but she can't feel the familiar pleasant shivers running through her body. The collar awakens fury in her, and scarf-induced blindness maddens her instead of arousing. Master touches her head again, and the blindfold disappears. Having accustomed to light again, she looks around and sees a mirror in front of herself. The silverish surface reflects half-dressed, tangled-haired Viole wearing a tight collar. She watches her reflection, watches her master's reflection lean down to hers, kneeling beside hers, trying to meet her eyes.
Viole's place, night
She doesn't want to look at him. Her gaze is magnetized to a vein on master's neck. Viole smells his arousal, heavy and hot, throbbing around her and inside that vein. She looks at it and it drives her closer and closer, she can feel centuries flash before her in the pumping of blood, her whole life - in every heartbeat, pain and passion - in every breath, and she wants it, she needs to taste it all. Her teeth close on master's neck, but she doesn't remember he is her master; nothing exists in the world except the tiny vein. Viole feels it throb under her tongue, faster and faster, hears rapid breathing and moans, and bites forcefully. The rhythm of blood beats in her head, salty essence of skin fills her, she feels like her mouth and his vein start a new world in a quake of a universal orgasm, and finally a tang of blood violates her smell and her taste in time with her own orgasm. Maddeningly slowly she sucks on the vein, drinking it, draining it, feeling crimson and heat and metal penetrating her and shivers of orgasm run through her. The taste of blood drives her mad, and she wants to absorb it with her skin, to feel it with every cell of her body, to dissolve in it. Viole opens her eyes and looks at her reflection in the mirror: the collar, tangled hair and a trickle of blood flowing down her face. The drop moves slowly and relentlessly, leaving a transparent red path on her skin, gets down to her chin, stops for a moment and falls. At last Viole sees her master's dead body, lying in her arms. Now it's difficult to call him master, with empty eyes and a purplish flower of wound on his neck. He's not Viole's master but someone absolutely different from him. She eases the body on the floor and gets up. At her feet it looks like some irregular furniture, but she makes her last effort, bends over him and whispers in his ear 'Thank you, master'.
Viole's district, night
She has nothing more to do in this house, and Viole, leaving the door ajar, walks out in the street wearing nothing except her white shirt. The district is sleeping already. She raises her head to look at the sky, and a tug of pain reminds her of an unfinished business. Looking at the golden moon, suggestive of a buttered toast, Viole unclasps and throws away the collar. She has no master and no home anymore, and she doesn't know what to do with her unexpected freedom. So she just walks and watches the buttered moon, sensing faint smells in the air. She doesn't muse about where her way leads her. Viole is now the mistress of the district, and maybe of the whole city. This realization of power dawns on her at once. Viole walks up to the Scrapheap Number Five. A black-and-white dog suddenly appears before her and rushes to the heart of the Scrapheap. The woman follows it. An old sofa has been thrown away today, and it stands on top of a container like a throne. Never mind that it will be gone tomorrow with tons of other scrap in a garbage truck. This time it is a throne shrouded by darkness of the big city night. Viole slowly walks to the sofa, on which a black-and-white dog lies gracefully. All the other animals backtrack, clearing the way for Viole. She approaches the throne and looks the queen in black-green eyes instead bowing respectfully. And the black-and-white dog leaps from the sofa vacating the place. At the same moment hundreds of dogs in the streets howl, bidding their farewell to an old queen and saluting a new one. Viole sits down on the throne and joins the chorus. Let the city fear its masters!
Viole's district, day (after day)
No one has seen Viole since that. She was forgotten quickly, like many before and many after her were. Humans are good at forgetting. They are so self-dipped that they won't always notice things happening under their nose. Well, if they pay so little attention to ones of their own kind, what can be said about animals? There are some rumors that a horde of stray dogs in our district has found a new leader, a young and aggressive bitch with long tangled fur of an unnatural violet color. Those who have seen her say she likes to sit on an old sofa in a scrapheap, watching people pass by and corbies fly over her head. No garbageman tries to throw away the sofa - she and her faithful army are ready to protect it. She is the kind of dog which prefers running and fighting to barking and howling, but those who heard her say that her bark resembles happy human laugh.