Knives For Nina

                                Knives For Nina

Nina accustomed herself to the water. The steady, hard pelts spitting from the shower's head was a temporary comfort to her otherwise permanent pain. Within an hour or less, she'd be back inside its cascading veil, thinking of nothing more than to scrub away the remnants of her rape. Curled up at the base of the shower, so that her kneecaps kissed her pursed mouth, she counted the water rivulets around her feet. "Twenty-two," she whispered incoherently. That's how many times it took to wash away the ache. But it was still there, clawing wildly at her soul, and even that was not enough.1

Under the warm, endless stream, she felt safe. She was in an environment she could now control, not the other way around. It was she who initiated the bath, turning the lever toward the left, causing the faucet to issue out dense, hot water that felt hard and heavy against her extended hand. It was she, then, who converted the bath into a shower with one pull of the latch, the spray immediately bursting out against the back wall. She'd adjusted the head, lowering it to decrease its shooting expanse. All of these things happened because she had allowed it, willed it to happen. The rape caught her off-guard. Nina had no control over that.2

***3

The cutlery set glowed brilliantly with newness and perfection in the center of the marble-top island, placed there temptingly, as if somehow the inanimate object knew it was coveted by the wide-eyed, olive skinned girl with a mess of dark curls spilling over her mediterranean features. Nina wanted the set so bad. Being a cook, it was on her wish list. Pulling a random knife out from the bamboo block, she studied its sharpness and the reflective silver body. It was truly beautiful.
 
Next, she replaced that one with the largest of them all, the chef's knife. A ten-inch stunner. Quite dangerous looking, too. Twisting the cooking tool carefully between her fingers, she caught her employer's vague reflection on the sharp, flat steel surface. She spun around, holding the knife to her chest, both eyes forming perfect O's, as if she were a young child caught stealing from the kitchen. Mr. Doyle gave Nina a look he'd so often given her lately, a pleasant but lackluster smile that never seemed to reach full maturity. His eyes told the falseness of his seemingly inviting visage; they were dead and expressionless.
 
Nina reunited the utensil with the set, then smoothed her hands over her hair to collect herself, which ultimately landed on the thighs of her blue jeans. His gaze followed. She pretended not to have noticed. Thinking of something to say, "I'll have your lunch ready soon. I got a little carried away with...." , crimson blossomed on her cheeks, revealing her embarrassment.
 
"It's okay," he said, reaching for some fruit that lay ripe within the fruit basket set in the center of the breakfast table. "I'll have an apple, instead. I'm not much hungry." He bit into the apple, and the way he did it, unnerved Nina to the fullest extent. She saw something there in those cold, blue eyes, how they locked with hers as he took a bite--a big hearty bite--his gaze unfaltering.

"I see you have an affinity for, the, uh..." he nodded toward the knives she'd just been admiring.
 
"Yeah," she said coolly, not liking the confidence laced throughout his Texan drawl or sure where this conversation was going.

He nodded his head again, absently, this time looking out across his vast yard from the kitchen window. His eyes were moody before he said, "Wife got 'em for me. All the way from Milan, 'cause that's where she gets her designer clothes, ya know, and she decided to pick up yet another set...hopin' I'd do some cooking--It ain't gonna happen. Keep tellin' her that, but she never seems to listen. I just bring home the bread, and she slices the loaf," he paused a moment, chuckling to himself. "Well, you slice the loaf. She...I don't know what she does," he finished, polishing off the last of his green apple. "Have 'em for yourself, you're the family's private chef, after all."
 
Nina found herself blushing, something she'd never associate Mr. Doyle with causing. She was hardly a chef, plainly just a cook. It flattered her greatly, although she'd never admit that, especially to the married man standing in front of her who seemed so sure of himself. What were his motives, or was he just a big flirt? Of course, he'd never outright flirted with Nina, but it was all there in his mannerisms, hidden in his neutral words. It made her uncomfortable, and she almost forgot he'd said she could have the cutlery set. "Really? Oh, no. I can't. She'll be mad, won't she?" Her voice sounded like it was smiling, despite her wariness, if that's possible.
 
"Oh, don't worry about it," he said a little too animatedly, and she jumped slightly in her skin, thinking of the fashionable Mrs. Doyle having a fit over her husband gifting the young woman with something she'd originally given him. "She probably doesn't even remember giving it to me." He gave his trademark faux-smile again, and, because she felt like it was the appropriate thing to do, she returned that smile. That opened up a plethora of possibilities for Mr. Doyle, and he kept that smile of hers mentally in the forefront of his mind.4

"Gee, thanks. I, um, don't know what to say."5

"Just be careful with 'em. Be extra careful."
 
***6

Be extra careful. Those were his words to her, like a forewarning. She should've known, instead of being so naive and gullible and greedy. How could she have let him take advantage of her like that? Why couldn't he have left a bruise, been rough? Why did he have to be so gentle, not letting her up, holding her captive in his grasp? Why hadn't she screamed in protest, tried to defend herself, instead of docilely letting him have his way with her with the Chef's knife pressed harmlessly to her throat. He stole her womanhood. She'd practically let him.
 
In one hasty gesture, she brought the abrasive loofa to her body and started scrubbing ferociously, every part of her anatomy, more soap, more water, she could never get enough. She wanted the tears to come; she wanted to feel sorry for herself. But she couldn't muster the strength to cry, to scream even. Anger had consumed her, and she hated herself more and more with each passing second.7

"I let him.  Why couldn't I've defended myself? What's wrong with me!" she managed. The scrubbing continued.
 
"Why didn't it feel bad to me--why did I let him do that!" By now, her voice was quavering. Perhaps she could cry.8

"I said no, why couldn't he just leave me alone? What's wrong with me! Why did I let this happen?! I could've controlled it. I know I could, if I'd just tried. What's wrong with me?!"9

The shower bathed her in its comfort. Maybe she had been crying. She couldn't tell because the water was hot on her face, which was positioned upward to recieve its healing benefits.
 
***
 
The wife, the children, were all gone. Abroad again, some vacation spot called Ibiza, an island someplace near Spain. Mr. Doyle had not gone. The sun there disagreed with his fair coloring, he'd said. So the spacious Texan estate was all his now. Nina had been taken unaware. It was the same day he'd said she could have those coveted knives, and one of those same knives he'd used to force her to the floor of his massive kitchen. She'd been on her way out the door, to stock up on goodies before the children arrived and Mrs. Doyle's unapproving face as well, two days before they were to return from vacation.
 
When she'd finished unloading the car, the last bag in her arms as she trudged up the steps inside, he came to lift the heavy burden from her hold. She didn't like it, it was so unnecessary, being it the very last load. The kitchen was loitered with groceries, one would think it a special holiday. He helped her put every edible thing away in awkward silence, the only noises coming from the clanking of canned goods, the closing and shutting of cabinets, the ruffle of paper grocery bags. Soon, she was ready to leave, exhausted from the day's work.

"Here, you're forgetting the--"
 
"Oh!" she laughed, shaking her head as if to condescend herself. "Mustn't forget that." But as she reached for it, he wouldn't release the cutlery set. 10

"I bet you're sure glad to have these," he stated, grinning uncharacteristically from ear to ear. For the first time, there was life in his eyes, Nina noticed.
 
"Hmm, I'm very thankful to you, Mr. Doyle. You're too kind." 11

She made to retrieve her gift, but suddenly a hand was placed on her narrow wrist, not alarmingly so, but just firm enough to suggest what was to come. Although the smile was still plastered across his face, he seemed to be fighting back something, like trying to contain the feral beast in him that wanted to break free and be reckless. She looked up at him, down at his hand, then up again. A nervous laugh escaped her mouth.
 
Once again she reached for the set, and this time, almost playfully, he hovered it over her head, out of reaching. "Uh-ah, but what's the magic word?" He seemed to really like this game. 12

Eyes downcast, Nina muttered a "Pretty Please". To her, her voice sounded foreign, not like her own. It was weak and intimidated, filled with immense wariness. Maybe he'd mistaken the sound for coquettishness. Or maybe he was only percieving what he so wanted.
 
Could that be his cue, then? Because as soon as she'd utterred those words, his hands hugged her waist and the bulge of his crotch--now apparent to Nina--rested where her belly button was. While this happened, somehow the cutlery set had been transported to the counter adjacent him. He'd caught her off-guard, she now in his control. He tried to kiss her, pressing his body into hers, but she pushed him away, the rapid beating of her heart now in her throat.13

"What are you doing?" she said, mostly confused and looking at the ground when she said this. His movement caused her to look up again, and she was back in his arms, his face burrowed in the spot between her clavicle and chest. "Stop!" she screamed, "Get off me!"14

She wanted to push him, but was no match to his strength. His hands slid down her back toward her rear. "Please, don't," she immediately began to cry, comprehending that this was no mere flirtation, and when she said that, he overreacted, swiftly extracting the knife from the cutlery set. 15

Holding it to her throat, Nina stifled a scream, in fear he would get angry and attack her with it. "Listen," he whispered, his own voice sounding both uncertain yet heady, "relax. Just relax, okay? Everything'll be fine, I promise. I promise.
 
Those were the last words he'd uttered before bringing her to the floor and taking advantage of her. She'd braced herself for the pain, the torture, the torment. She'd closed her eyes, waiting for him to proceed with his intentions, the knife pointed at her neck. Nina didn't want to enjoy it, of course she hadn't enjoyed it. But nature is nature, and sometimes, no matter what the circumstance is, one is inclined to become stimulated. That was her biggest confusion. Obviously, he'd violated her, but did it seem pleasurable to her?
 
Who'd have guessed a person like Mr. Doyle, well off, with an attractive wife and two kids, big house and secure fortune could do something like this? It usually happened in dark alleys or on deserted metro trains...At least that's what Nina told herself as he took the most intimate part of her being, a tear gradually sliding down the side of her temple.
 
***16

Nina crouched in the corner of the tub, letting the shower do its magical cleansing. Her dark wet hair stuck to her head like a coating of black ink, her knees drawn up to her chest, arms cradled around them. She tried to block it out, but it was relentless, those thoughts of that horrible night she wanted so badly to forget. The images of the aggressor, her attacker, her employer forcing himself on her, held her frozen.
 
"He should've not been so gentle," she said, "I'd be less confused."
 
She was no longer angry, but scared. No matter what she said, how many times she'd gone over in her head of how to prevent the attack, she'd undoubtedly, brutally been raped. It wasn't her fault; how could she control an able-bodied man more than twice her size? Nina wasn't ready to tell anyone yet, if she'd tell anyone at all. Her invisible wounds were still fresh, it'd only been a day later from the incident.
 
RAPE. The word alone stood bold inside her mind.
 
Yes, it happened. And bruises needn't be there for her to be certain of that. After all, her bruises were internal, psychological, and it seemed there was no one with whom she could share that aching pain.

17