The Jigsaw

                                              The Jigsaw

Alone she sits in a high-backed leather recliner, gazing towards the tall sash
windows. Surrounding her are vast paintings of another age; portraits of
intimidating, tyrannical-looking men in fine hunting smock, armed with hound and
gun. She does not know these men; the residence had only been in her hands for a
decade, not long enough to leave her own mark. Not that it mattered though; this
was her second home, her place of peace from the taxing city life. This visit however,
was not one of tranquillity for she had arrived with a friend.

                                        *    *    *

She enters the master bedroom and heads for the oppressive Victorian wardrobe
~ a change of clothes necessary for the task ahead.

From the closet, she selects the purest of white dresses; made of silk
Mikado, whiter than diamond, with a sheen that highlights and enhances the fine
angles of her perfect figure.

Slowly she disrobes, leaving every part of her flawless body exposed.

She begins to redress, piece by piece, perfection building with every article.

Virginal innocence shines from her figure, blinding to the unprotected eye;
a perfect guise for such a task; red would have been desperately
cliché. Satisfied, she leaves the dressing room, descends to the lower levels and
walks, with purpose toward the open portal to the outdoors.

                                        *    *    *

With a closed mind she enters the garden; a place of elegant but livid beauty;
hiding it’s contempt with petals of amethyst purples and garnet reds. The open space is highlighted by the blinding illumination of golden yellows ~ giving clarity to the exposed surfaces, leaving deep and passive shadows waiting beneath. The sun
above casts rays, rending clouds open; knives through the blemished flesh.

Every footfall leads her one step closer to her awaiting commission; so subtly
she treads-on, ever closer to her goal.

As if compelled by another, she reaches down with intent, places her hand
firmly to her chest and holds her heart, pounding, daring her to continue. Her breast,
the mark of her womanhood, tingles beneath her touch ~ the deep, sexual
desire to destroy stimulating her, telling her climax is near. The lust inside her
continues to build, sparking a searing inferno that courses through nerves, then flesh
and bone. Her breathing is heavy now, the inhalations deeper and more pronounced
than before. A slight sweat breaks the surface and her skin shines its cold, reflected 
light, further enhancing the devil’s beauty, a creature of evil intent and dazzling
splendour, one that would turn even blind men to stone ~ for beauty such as this is a
noose for any angel of grace.

The cool breeze of summer carves its path through the forest of life around her,
casting all aside with a delicate push and coursing around her obstacle; brushing
fabric and mane aside so gently to reach a final closure. Upon this wind is carried the air of necessity, a travel from beginning to end, as if only one route was ever possible.

As she approaches her final destination she hears the first conversation of
morning birdsong from boughs way above. She does not look up but instead keeps
pacing slowly onwards, her mission, clear in her mind, no distractions. Another voice
from the treetops calls louder, as if warning the prey of her impending arrival ~ only
once however, her gaze is too strong, too full of hatred; the sound is quelled by a
fleeting stare. No, she would be alone in breaking the news to her charge, alone,
except for the rushing presence of nature.

The foundation of the garden exhibits a typical air of un-love, growth beyond
the boundaries of control, beautiful in its own way but unkempt nonetheless. She
stands there for many minutes, waiting upon the edge of the precipice, viewing the
finish-line with fearful eyes. A tall hedge separates the two players, coated with
delicate florets, soft to the touch, guarded by razor-sharp barbs preventing contact,
beast to the floral beauty. Light fades as she steps forward, bringing not darkness but a new, monochrome touch to the surroundings, the last beads of colour slip
from leaves in careless rolls.

                                        *    *    *

Her quarry is sitting upright in the centre of the precincts, unclothed but not
shivering in the cool breeze. She stares at nothing, eyes glazed, in deepest thought,
questioning what her future holds.

Slowly the assassin approaches, cautiously, as silently as she can. Years of envy
are tugging at her, urging her to make haste; she must fight it, this death must be
clean, mistakes are made when less care is taken ~ this death must be perfect.

She circles her victim, walking sideways, a crab marking its kill-zone, eyes on
the prey at all times, no opportunity for escape. In her mind the itinerary is formed,
a second-by-second plan for each motion, calculating efficiency. The utensils are
neatly arranged on a sparkling metal tray by her side, each begging to be used. Each with its own individual flavour of revenge ~ only one could taste the sweetest.
She examines each in turn, an oar for every kind of fare, flesh or otherwise; one
steps forward ~ a merchant of the finest meats. The surface ripples,
mercury reflecting the slightest glints of light. She holds her instrument high, nail
glancing tip to hear its angelic chord, never before had such a tool been called upon.

‘Today is your day’ she whispers to the blade.

                                        *    *    *

The game is motionless, her eyes wide, knowing what will become of her. She
wants to cry out; let another know of her impending destruction. As loud as she can
she screams, first for her mother, then for others, a saviour near or far, to no avail.
The motion is felt but no sound can be heard. This place, this terrible place drinks
the sound, an extortionist to her final hope. Failing all else, she turns to god, the
ultimate power, never before addressed but in desperation she reaches out. She prays, begs and even cajoles her creator for what good it will do her.

Finally, she accepts her fate; worn from hopelessness; a single tear rolls from
her cheek to her jaw and falls silently to the ground. 

                                        *    *    *

Not once does she gaze upon her charge, appearance is not important here. Her
body an icon, standing for ground, standing for misjudged actions. She made a
choice, following up with action, climbing higher using others as rungs. Soon her bloc will come undone.

                                        *    *    *

Piece by fragile piece she unravels the mysteries of the human anatomy. Working from the ground upward, she dismantles nature’s malleable construction, laying each segment carefully in a recognisable order upon the moist ground. By the
mid-section her focus degrades, no longer does her task resemble an individual; more now a kit, a jigsaw of life, a puzzle for careful assembly.

Not once does she feel remorse; for her this was never a question of morality   
~ this was her charge, her goal, her purpose from the time of deceit. Such discipline
would never have been required had she not been wronged. Revenge, for her, was the only solution.

Perfection spills forth with the final strokes, the beauty of the assailant transferred directly to her work. The ultimate rend brings with it the apogee of her lust. Unable to control herself, she releases in an orgasm of unveiled hatred. She drops to her knees, shuddering; her heart pounding. The silk Mikado clings to her body, bonded by beads of sweat, whites tainted by greys; the angelic quality lost, replaced by condemnable beauty.

                                        *    *    *

Once more she reassembles her captive, delicately placing each component into
a grid of severed segments. Inch by inch she builds upon her model, taking form with
each additional piece. Completion draws near, a tower awaiting future demolition;
greedily she eyes her tools ~ no, she must be patient, savour the demise of her
nemesis.

Just once she smiles at her friend and turns, once more leaving her alone.

She leaves, migrating slowly; thunderous footsteps echoing through the valley
of life. Birdsong peaks once more, the sky is clear; the clouds have all been chased,
bats from the blinding light of day. Clarity returns to her mind and she feels peaceful
again.