CHAPTER THIRTY

She is weakening. I have not given her any food for more than twenty-four hours, and she spent a lot of time kicking against the padded lid of the box and screaming curse words before her struggles ceased and her voice wore thin. She begged me at first. I was disappointed. I thought she would be excited about my plans, but instead she railed and moaned and promised me things I care nothing about. I let her tire herself out, strain against the rubber tubes cuffing her wrists, ankles and knees. “You can scream as loud as you want,” I told her as I prepared to fit the lid to the box. “You can call me every name in the book.” She spat at me and I slapped her across that ripe mouth until she hid her head again.

She has spirit though, and I resist the urge to open the chest and look at her. Her nails gouged grooves into my forearm, and her sharp little teeth tried to bite through my shirt into my shoulder before I was able to knock her on the head just behind her right ear where her thick hair would hide the wound. Funnily enough, it’s the same place I hit Ari. The terror in her voice when she regained herself was the purest sound I have ever heard, a single high note played on a violin. It knifed straight into my heart.

Now she is quiet but for some muffled sobbing and snuffling. She reminds me of the piglets. I have given her a bottle of water; until I’m ready for her, she can rest on the old blanket I folded in the bottom. I don’t want to risk her bruising her skin or injuring herself; no marks that will ruin the perfection of my tableau. There are new breathing holes drilled in the sides. As long as she calms down and conserves her air, she will be all right. If I press my eye to one of the holes I can see her face, staring up. Her little chin so firm and stubborn, silent tears sliding down her cheeks like raindrops. I can smell her fear. It is intoxicating. The glossy curl I took from her head is tucked away in an envelope in my pocket. I stroked it until static electricity made the dark hairs stick to my skin, and then I moistened my fingers and smoothed it into shape and put it back with the others, subtle gradations of light gray and dark gray. It’s the texture that entrances me, various degrees of coarseness and silkiness. I can hear the paper crinkle as I turn my attention to my work.

A few hours later, I set my paintbrush down. Two of the three walls are done. Chaotic violence; a red Milky Way of runnels and burning stars. I can’t see the color, of course, but if I place my palm flat against the paint where it has dried to a crust, I can feel the heat of it. Thick gouts, textured like skin, warm as if the flesh and ruin portrayed were living and breathing just a few minutes before. I remember how the slaughtered cows and pigs gave off heat, steaming in the cold of the butcher shop, opened like red velvet–lined purses disgorging their pearly contents. Standing in the middle of the room, I feel as if I am being reborn in blood, like some triumphant warrior. My final transformation.