button still buttoned. Her handbag still over her arm and her shoesâ
She is holding her shoes in her hands. The toes of her stockings are torn and spotted with blood.
When she saw the blue tunic come off, she pressed her palms flat to her heart. Prayed through dry lips, Make speed to save us, Make haste to help us. Then when the white T-shirt and the flesh-coloured bra were shed, she wrapped her arms around herself to stop the swaying of freed breasts. Have mercy upon us. Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, And by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.
The man took each piece of clothing and knotted itâonce, twice. Then he swung it around above his head. Released it. It snagged in the branches of the overhanging trees.
And the whole time, he was looking at her. Seeing her. Telling her with his eyes to be not afraid .
Now she limps to a stone bench and collapses on it, gripping its edge. In time her heartbeat slows and her breathing steadies. She realizes she is shivering. It is getting dark, and the air is finally starting to cool.
Out of habit, she looks at her watch. She can barely see the hands, and in any case cannot remember what time it was the last time she looked. No way of knowing how long she has been in the park, then. How long it took. The thing that happened. The thing that was done to her.
Yes. Something was done. And it was done to her . She begins to cry. And she was terribly frightened by it. She has suffered something dreadful, she whimpers to herself. Something that ought not to have been done.
That is enough, Julia! Stop this minute.
But she canât stop. She sees herself as if from high above. A tiny figure sitting alone on a park bench on a summer night. On one side of her is a garden and a lamp-lit street. On the other, seen in glimpses through the dark trees, is a winged man-shape skimming the ground. And behind him a loping naked woman, head thrown back, mouth open in a howl.
My soul doth magnify the Lord .
Is she actually singing? Her mouth is so dry.
Â
And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour
Because he hath regarded the humility of his handmaiden.
Â
She hugs her handbag to her. Opens it and looks inside at keys and a comb and a change purse and a packet of tissues. She knows these things are hers. But she cannot yet lay claim to them.
Â
Because he that is mighty
hath done great things to me.
Â
The words of the Magnificat are coming back to her from girlhood. Sheâs not sure she remembers them correctly or is singing them in the right order.
He hath shewed might in his arm:
he hath scattered the proud in the conceit of their heart.
Â
She looks again into her handbag. Manages to take out a tissue and dry her cheeks. Blow her nose.
Â
He hath put down the mighty from their seat,
and hath exalted the humble.
Â
She is bone-weary. Shivering again. She must get up and go home. At home, she can discard her shredded stockings and soak her wounded feet in a comforting bath. But first she must get there. So she must move. Now. But she cannot move. Not untilâ
What is the next part? He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away.
Is that all? Has she sung the whole Magnificat? Was she singing at all? She sits very still, hardly breathing. Listening to crickets nearby and traffic sounds in the distance.
My soul doth magnify the Lord â¦
The words are new in her mouth. An unfamiliar taste. An unrecognizable shape.
She whispers them over and over, and each time they become stranger, further separated from any meaning they might have had.
Mysoul dothmagnify theLord
Her mouth is working independently, as if it knows it must repeat those words that the rest of her no longer understands, repeat them a specified number of times. And only then will she be free to go.
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Ecce Cor Meum
Â
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Â
Polyp.
Funny
She is holding her shoes in her hands. The toes of her stockings are torn and spotted with blood.
When she saw the blue tunic come off, she pressed her palms flat to her heart. Prayed through dry lips, Make speed to save us, Make haste to help us. Then when the white T-shirt and the flesh-coloured bra were shed, she wrapped her arms around herself to stop the swaying of freed breasts. Have mercy upon us. Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, And by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.
The man took each piece of clothing and knotted itâonce, twice. Then he swung it around above his head. Released it. It snagged in the branches of the overhanging trees.
And the whole time, he was looking at her. Seeing her. Telling her with his eyes to be not afraid .
Now she limps to a stone bench and collapses on it, gripping its edge. In time her heartbeat slows and her breathing steadies. She realizes she is shivering. It is getting dark, and the air is finally starting to cool.
Out of habit, she looks at her watch. She can barely see the hands, and in any case cannot remember what time it was the last time she looked. No way of knowing how long she has been in the park, then. How long it took. The thing that happened. The thing that was done to her.
Yes. Something was done. And it was done to her . She begins to cry. And she was terribly frightened by it. She has suffered something dreadful, she whimpers to herself. Something that ought not to have been done.
That is enough, Julia! Stop this minute.
But she canât stop. She sees herself as if from high above. A tiny figure sitting alone on a park bench on a summer night. On one side of her is a garden and a lamp-lit street. On the other, seen in glimpses through the dark trees, is a winged man-shape skimming the ground. And behind him a loping naked woman, head thrown back, mouth open in a howl.
My soul doth magnify the Lord .
Is she actually singing? Her mouth is so dry.
Â
And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour
Because he hath regarded the humility of his handmaiden.
Â
She hugs her handbag to her. Opens it and looks inside at keys and a comb and a change purse and a packet of tissues. She knows these things are hers. But she cannot yet lay claim to them.
Â
Because he that is mighty
hath done great things to me.
Â
The words of the Magnificat are coming back to her from girlhood. Sheâs not sure she remembers them correctly or is singing them in the right order.
He hath shewed might in his arm:
he hath scattered the proud in the conceit of their heart.
Â
She looks again into her handbag. Manages to take out a tissue and dry her cheeks. Blow her nose.
Â
He hath put down the mighty from their seat,
and hath exalted the humble.
Â
She is bone-weary. Shivering again. She must get up and go home. At home, she can discard her shredded stockings and soak her wounded feet in a comforting bath. But first she must get there. So she must move. Now. But she cannot move. Not untilâ
What is the next part? He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away.
Is that all? Has she sung the whole Magnificat? Was she singing at all? She sits very still, hardly breathing. Listening to crickets nearby and traffic sounds in the distance.
My soul doth magnify the Lord â¦
The words are new in her mouth. An unfamiliar taste. An unrecognizable shape.
She whispers them over and over, and each time they become stranger, further separated from any meaning they might have had.
Mysoul dothmagnify theLord
Her mouth is working independently, as if it knows it must repeat those words that the rest of her no longer understands, repeat them a specified number of times. And only then will she be free to go.
Â
Â
Â
Â
Â
Â
Â
Ecce Cor Meum
Â
Â
Â
Â
Â
Polyp.
Funny
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