Reciprocate
by N.J. Nofsinger
Brown, worn, curled and misshapen leaves that rested upon the earth peacefully were shoved past and crushed, first a pair of heavy withered leather boots pounding across, and then two pale heels that were dragged along the dirt after. The momentum and rush the movement brought in the air was enough to alert all the other leaves ahead to clear a path, dancing around as the two made their way past.
At this time of the year, many of the shrubs and bushes had shed their pretty feathers, appearing thin and sickly, crooked in their posture, and threatening in elongation, protruding from the earth randomly wherever they pleased. Unlike the leaves, they did not care for who came by unless they were forced from their spots by accident or on purpose, crying out when one of their limbs snapped in half or broke off. Some got what was coming to them, but others got the last laugh, even if it was as minor as snagging a piece of a cotton white nightgown or the skin on a cold ankle.
For all the tall crusty trees that watched on in utter judgment of the careless act, each offered a different variation of apathy. They were all bystanders, entirely aware of what was being carried out, likely itching to take over and perform it in their own way, yet they did not care to help or even interfere, choosing to remain only as obstacles for the passersby. Oftentimes, they made eye contact with the one in front, dressed in rags and a white clay face mask with inky painted swirls on its skin, when they glanced around them cautiously. They held a woman under the arms, their limbs locked together like opposing flowers, dragging her and her nightgown through the forest. A red mask of her own plated half of her face, obscuring the upper portion and leaving the rest up to the imagination beside the thick long black hair that hung from her head like a cape.
Anyone who witnessed this might want to step in or alert someone with actual authority. Cry out to all the trees, shrubs, bushes, and leaves, beating at the ground in the hope that at least a grain of dirt might do something for the woman. Except she herself did not seek out any kind of attention. In fact, she was stiffer than a plank of wood, or comparatively as stiff as the surrounding trees. Her limbs hung from her frozen pale body, swaying aimlessly along the ground and herself. One would assume she was taken in her sleep judging by the nightgown, drugged or even knocked unconscious. Drugged she may have been, but not by traditional means, her eyes peering out at all the trees that looked down upon her from above, shaky as she was carried through the unconcerned crowd.
Her captor, whoever they were, huffed and puffed, their dark hands shaking under the woman’s arms. They rushed to bring her to their destination, occasionally stumbling on the ground or sloppily harming the woman. She never seemed to mind, unbothered by the bumps in the road, scrapes, and bruises. Looking to have completely given themselves up to this individual, it only clouded things the rougher they were with her, lacking all kinds of concern or even reaction to what was taking place.
The blue of the night was accented by the glow of a full moon, fitted with a small garden of clouds that creeped around it, not daring to move in front and obscure its nightly shine. Shining down upon a small clearing in the woods, it was here where she was dropped on the ground. The one place where light shone through the fog of the skies.
They inched to a tree, abruptly spinning back around to face her as she shifted positions. She had extended one leg ahead of her, the other curled close at her right side. The two of them were silent, her captor shivering at the cold breeze that shimmied past them and along her hair and nightgown. Her gaze was positioned upwards at them, who looked down upon her from where they stood.
Judging by the history attached to the masks, the captor was Volto, a kind of larva, ghost-like and common enough for any who sought its anonymity. The woman was Colombina, supposedly brought upon by the sheer imagining that the original wearer was simply too beautiful to be seen without it upon a stage, seemingly always sought after by those that desired her.
She laid her palms on the ground at her sides and leaned back a little, looking to be waiting for something. Volto was completely aware, visibly trembling from the air outside and smaller in stature from how they were hunching and holding themselves. Her captor lifted a hand as they tried to suppress a cough, lingering for a few seconds longer just before they reached into their pockets, sifting through it for a dagger. Holding it above them, when angled correctly, light glimmered off its blade, ceasing as it was lowered.
Colombina looked above her, her neck falling back. They approached, bending down in front of her and holding the blade ahead of themselves. The woman looked to have readied herself, submissive in acceptance of a violent fate. Her flesh anticipated the stab of the dagger, warm and inviting in its welcoming arms. When a minute passed and nothing followed though, she returned her gaze ahead of her, cold with confusion and surprise.
The dagger shook in Volto’s hands, who had not driven it into her. They had remained where they were, a hoarse and uneasy breathing seeping out from behind the mask. She sat upright at this, her shoulders rising in alarm as their hands weakly let the knife lay at their knees. Her captor made contact with the ground, sitting upon it, one hand around the dagger, and the next grasping their mask.
In the dimness of the clearing, the features of a dark-skinned man were released from the confines of the mask. He was around the same age as her, both of them just a few years into early adulthood. Upon this face was nothing but fright, his lips quivering in utter terror. His curled hair was messy, thrown off by the mask that had held most of him together up to this point. Without it now, he had lost all certainty and confidence in himself, anticipating the rage of Colombina as she moved closer to him.
Volto flinched at the action, nearly crying out before he himself froze up, feeling her hands upon the one he had dutied with holding the dagger. They found their way around his fingers, melding together in their warmth. She was right up against him, within inches of his face, lifting a finger to her lips as she shushed him. Reaching to her own mask, she removed it from the upper half of her face, displaying her expression of understanding and an unscathed patience. At this, he calmed, his posture loosening as she rubbed the back of his hand with a thumb. Dropping her mask to the dirt, he did the same, both falling right beside each other, mirrored images of each other in the directions they faced.
Her lips curled into a small reassuring smile, slowing his pulse more and more until he was perfectly at peace. With this came a weakening grip on the dagger, allowing Colombina to take it from him and lean back from him. Just before he could protest or return to a point of self-doubt, she swiftly drove the blade into her abdomen, a pained grunt spewing out with the blood that quickly enveloped the newly formed wound under the nightgown on the surface of her flesh. Stunned at the abruptness of it, Volto stared helplessly, at first cringing at every moan of hers. Her breathing had climbed to a rapid pace, now rivaling his just minutes ago, but quickly steadied when she adjusted to the sensation. She pulled the dagger out and slumped over, letting the bloodied blade rest between them.
His eyes had followed it out of her and now to the place where it rested, settling on the oncoming decision he had to make. He eyed her desperate and dazed expression, hunger protruding before her from her breath that floated past within the freezing air. And that was enough, earnestness overcoming his uncertainty and guiding his hands to the bloodied dagger and directing it right into his own abdomen. Having committed to the act, blood pooled around his own twin wound, Volto holding in an anguished scream from the pain. Except like her, the burning agony soon passed, leaving when he retrieved the dagger and dropped it in the dirt between them.
Panting tiredly, he watched blood seep through his clothing, then looked upwards at Colombina, being met with a relieved and otherwise dizzying stare. She inched closer and took him in her arms, falling on him and pressing her lips to his. As they swapped liquids, tossed, and turned in the dirt, rolling and jostling upon each other, a small puddle of blood made itself known below. Together, their wounds filled it, being neither more or less of his or her or her blood, but both of theirs, mixed equally.
Beside the discarded masks, this spot was a pact of undying commitment. A pact of love.
At this time of the year, many of the shrubs and bushes had shed their pretty feathers, appearing thin and sickly, crooked in their posture, and threatening in elongation, protruding from the earth randomly wherever they pleased. Unlike the leaves, they did not care for who came by unless they were forced from their spots by accident or on purpose, crying out when one of their limbs snapped in half or broke off. Some got what was coming to them, but others got the last laugh, even if it was as minor as snagging a piece of a cotton white nightgown or the skin on a cold ankle.
For all the tall crusty trees that watched on in utter judgment of the careless act, each offered a different variation of apathy. They were all bystanders, entirely aware of what was being carried out, likely itching to take over and perform it in their own way, yet they did not care to help or even interfere, choosing to remain only as obstacles for the passersby. Oftentimes, they made eye contact with the one in front, dressed in rags and a white clay face mask with inky painted swirls on its skin, when they glanced around them cautiously. They held a woman under the arms, their limbs locked together like opposing flowers, dragging her and her nightgown through the forest. A red mask of her own plated half of her face, obscuring the upper portion and leaving the rest up to the imagination beside the thick long black hair that hung from her head like a cape.
Anyone who witnessed this might want to step in or alert someone with actual authority. Cry out to all the trees, shrubs, bushes, and leaves, beating at the ground in the hope that at least a grain of dirt might do something for the woman. Except she herself did not seek out any kind of attention. In fact, she was stiffer than a plank of wood, or comparatively as stiff as the surrounding trees. Her limbs hung from her frozen pale body, swaying aimlessly along the ground and herself. One would assume she was taken in her sleep judging by the nightgown, drugged or even knocked unconscious. Drugged she may have been, but not by traditional means, her eyes peering out at all the trees that looked down upon her from above, shaky as she was carried through the unconcerned crowd.
Her captor, whoever they were, huffed and puffed, their dark hands shaking under the woman’s arms. They rushed to bring her to their destination, occasionally stumbling on the ground or sloppily harming the woman. She never seemed to mind, unbothered by the bumps in the road, scrapes, and bruises. Looking to have completely given themselves up to this individual, it only clouded things the rougher they were with her, lacking all kinds of concern or even reaction to what was taking place.
The blue of the night was accented by the glow of a full moon, fitted with a small garden of clouds that creeped around it, not daring to move in front and obscure its nightly shine. Shining down upon a small clearing in the woods, it was here where she was dropped on the ground. The one place where light shone through the fog of the skies.
They inched to a tree, abruptly spinning back around to face her as she shifted positions. She had extended one leg ahead of her, the other curled close at her right side. The two of them were silent, her captor shivering at the cold breeze that shimmied past them and along her hair and nightgown. Her gaze was positioned upwards at them, who looked down upon her from where they stood.
Judging by the history attached to the masks, the captor was Volto, a kind of larva, ghost-like and common enough for any who sought its anonymity. The woman was Colombina, supposedly brought upon by the sheer imagining that the original wearer was simply too beautiful to be seen without it upon a stage, seemingly always sought after by those that desired her.
She laid her palms on the ground at her sides and leaned back a little, looking to be waiting for something. Volto was completely aware, visibly trembling from the air outside and smaller in stature from how they were hunching and holding themselves. Her captor lifted a hand as they tried to suppress a cough, lingering for a few seconds longer just before they reached into their pockets, sifting through it for a dagger. Holding it above them, when angled correctly, light glimmered off its blade, ceasing as it was lowered.
Colombina looked above her, her neck falling back. They approached, bending down in front of her and holding the blade ahead of themselves. The woman looked to have readied herself, submissive in acceptance of a violent fate. Her flesh anticipated the stab of the dagger, warm and inviting in its welcoming arms. When a minute passed and nothing followed though, she returned her gaze ahead of her, cold with confusion and surprise.
The dagger shook in Volto’s hands, who had not driven it into her. They had remained where they were, a hoarse and uneasy breathing seeping out from behind the mask. She sat upright at this, her shoulders rising in alarm as their hands weakly let the knife lay at their knees. Her captor made contact with the ground, sitting upon it, one hand around the dagger, and the next grasping their mask.
In the dimness of the clearing, the features of a dark-skinned man were released from the confines of the mask. He was around the same age as her, both of them just a few years into early adulthood. Upon this face was nothing but fright, his lips quivering in utter terror. His curled hair was messy, thrown off by the mask that had held most of him together up to this point. Without it now, he had lost all certainty and confidence in himself, anticipating the rage of Colombina as she moved closer to him.
Volto flinched at the action, nearly crying out before he himself froze up, feeling her hands upon the one he had dutied with holding the dagger. They found their way around his fingers, melding together in their warmth. She was right up against him, within inches of his face, lifting a finger to her lips as she shushed him. Reaching to her own mask, she removed it from the upper half of her face, displaying her expression of understanding and an unscathed patience. At this, he calmed, his posture loosening as she rubbed the back of his hand with a thumb. Dropping her mask to the dirt, he did the same, both falling right beside each other, mirrored images of each other in the directions they faced.
Her lips curled into a small reassuring smile, slowing his pulse more and more until he was perfectly at peace. With this came a weakening grip on the dagger, allowing Colombina to take it from him and lean back from him. Just before he could protest or return to a point of self-doubt, she swiftly drove the blade into her abdomen, a pained grunt spewing out with the blood that quickly enveloped the newly formed wound under the nightgown on the surface of her flesh. Stunned at the abruptness of it, Volto stared helplessly, at first cringing at every moan of hers. Her breathing had climbed to a rapid pace, now rivaling his just minutes ago, but quickly steadied when she adjusted to the sensation. She pulled the dagger out and slumped over, letting the bloodied blade rest between them.
His eyes had followed it out of her and now to the place where it rested, settling on the oncoming decision he had to make. He eyed her desperate and dazed expression, hunger protruding before her from her breath that floated past within the freezing air. And that was enough, earnestness overcoming his uncertainty and guiding his hands to the bloodied dagger and directing it right into his own abdomen. Having committed to the act, blood pooled around his own twin wound, Volto holding in an anguished scream from the pain. Except like her, the burning agony soon passed, leaving when he retrieved the dagger and dropped it in the dirt between them.
Panting tiredly, he watched blood seep through his clothing, then looked upwards at Colombina, being met with a relieved and otherwise dizzying stare. She inched closer and took him in her arms, falling on him and pressing her lips to his. As they swapped liquids, tossed, and turned in the dirt, rolling and jostling upon each other, a small puddle of blood made itself known below. Together, their wounds filled it, being neither more or less of his or her or her blood, but both of theirs, mixed equally.
Beside the discarded masks, this spot was a pact of undying commitment. A pact of love.
N.J. Nofsinger is a student at Bennington College, VT, where he’s studying Creative Writing. He enjoys the serenity that comes with the outdoors and adores cats. With a deep love for all mediums of storytelling, he too wishes to contribute with some ideas of his own, most of them inspired by individual songs or whole styles of music.