The inventiveness of a damaged woman (final part)

 

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She entered the village shop to buy some flour and as a surprise for Boris, a bottle of vodka. She walked past the woman’s house on the way back. It fired her rage up again. Boris was still inside, the axe where it was before. When she got home, she put in some more wood in the stove and calmly sprinkled some rat poison in his chicken broth. Not too much, just a spoon full.

The idea she was taking charge made her almost happy. She felt a renewal surging through her that she hadn’t felt for many years. Enough was enough. What right did anyone have to undo her, unhinge her, and make her mad? He never walked into the forest too drunk, to be swallowed up by snow only to resurface in early spring, with a scrawny skeletal hand poking up in the thaw. Akalena was not going to stand for any more of what she got since her marriage. Boris would be taught a lesson!

Much to Boris’ chagrin, his tumbler of Vodka and his soup was waiting for him when he got back. Without a word he slurped the Vodka and soup down before he grabbed his wife at the crutch. ‘You are next, he growled’. ‘What’s up with you and the vodka, he demanded? ‘Just have some more soup dear’, she offered. The vodka and the sex for axe was now getting the better (or worse) of him and he soon snored away on the floor. When he woke up next day she wanted Boris to chop up some more wood. The winter had started in earnest. There was frost on the inside of the windows each morning before she would get up and put up fresh wood in the stove. Boris complained he felt a bit dizzy but managed to put on his coat to chop up a month supply of wood. The pine was easy to split and soon his axe blows could be heard in the neighbourhood.

This time, Akalena put in two rations of rat poison in his chicken soup, next to his bowl another tumbler of his alcohol. He came in looking somewhat pale but let go of his usual cunt calling and grabbing while being unbuttoned. She had left in large pieces of chicken this time. Again, the vodka and soup diverted his attention away from the usual attacks and violence. He was also getting unsteady on his feet, due to either the vodka or the rat poison or a combination of both. This time he collapsed in his bed at the back of the house.

Akalena had run out of rags for her mats but now started to cut up in long strips Boris’ old shirts and underwear. She fed them into her loom while singing softly to herself. The wood pile outside will be the last pile he will chop, she smiled. Boris had taken to staying in bed while Akalena continued feeding him his poisonous cocktail of chicken soup and vodka. He started to look pale and suffered dizzy spells. ‘You are killing me’, Boris would complain while in an attack of delirium. ‘Oh, my darling, don’t say that’, after all I’ve done for you’. ‘Here, have some soup’. This time, the soup was without the poison. She did want him to suffer but not have it over with too quickly. He had to be kept finely balanced between life and death, conscious enough to still experience some of what she suffered all those years.

She kept the door of his bedroom locked and unheated while cutting his best Sunday suit, his pants, his coats, all his clothing. All cut into strips and all fed into the loom. It would be one of her best mats. As she fed him she cradled his head, spoon fed him. She now started to cut his bed clothes, his pyjamas. His face contorted with terror and supreme fright. ‘No, no you are my husband, my darling’ she said while she now cut away his pants exposing his shrivelled pale manhood. Boris had lost his voice, gone was the swearing, the cunt calling. She smiled at him and left the room, shutting the door behind her. The windows where white with frost and Boris would still have a day or so left in deliriums, perhaps still hoping it would all end. Next day, the bed sheets and last blanket was taken away, cut into strips and fed into her loom. The mat was almost finished. It was her best and strongest mat, many would walk over it. Boris was now getting towards the finale. He looked up into her eyes. Was there some recognition finally? Some regret, some admittance of actions? It was too late… His hands parallel to his body lifted slightly and started to shake, a last tremor and that was that. His death as delicious now as her chicken soup had been all those years. Akalena left the room, rolled up the mat. Boris became useful, finally.

The Inventiveness of a Damaged Woman (part two)

Akalena made the best of it, bringing up her three children and making a meagre income from weaving hard wearing floor rugs. Those mats were woven together from old rags that she used to scavenge together from throw me downs by the rich in the bigger towns. She had through the years build up a reputation for her colourful mats.  Her colour combinations and natural taste set her mats apart from most other weavers.

She managed to survive despite Boris’s whoring ways. Her loom was busy, especially in those long and harsh winters with the build up of snow on the window sills and overhanging eaves. Still, she did always have enough firewood and there was always chicken soup on the wood stove.

Anyone walking past her timber house would hear the sounds of the loom when Akalena was weaving her mats. The throwing of the warp across while the shuttle would find its way through the threads, tightening the twirled rags into yet another bit of matting. She would take care into picking the right colours that would be repeated along the lengths of the mat. It gave her peace as well as an income from which she could send her kids to school as well as provide the endless chicken broths for Boris. His culinary needs never varied. Just chicken soup and the home-made sour dough black bread.

The years went by and her children were often witness to Boris violence, sometimes even at the receiving end of his rage, getting belted. Once, Boris broke the youngest his arm. Police were called, but they showed their sympathy for Boris more than her children. They were mean men as well, having witnessed the same treatment when they were young.  This was the way of the Ukraine; it was the way of many men. Men always give back what was given to them when they were young.

Akalena would throw herself in between Boris and her children, hoping to prevent even more injury. What would any woman have done when her children were at risk? She needed to have something to keep her going, to survive and somehow keep sane. What was there to look forward to? There were some whose plight became so severe; they would walk out of the village, back to other relatives, distant aunts, gone forever.

One day, when she noticed Boris’s axe outside the house of a woman known for her generosity in giving sex for axe, she decided she had enough. Her fury and rage welled up. All those years of abuse she had suffered. The continuing sexual degradation when he demanded from her by force what he got elsewhere with money or axing wood for stinking whores. The beatings and rapes, the abuse of her children, the stealing of her money earned by weaving mats…the years of making his chicken soup and  early morning baking bread. What had it given her? Where and when would it end?

The Inventiveness of a damaged Woman (The end)

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She entered the village shop to buy the flour and as a surprise for Boris, a bottle of vodka. She walked past the woman’s house on the way back. It fired her rage up again. Boris was still inside, the axe where it was before. When she got home, she put in some more wood in the stove and calmly sprinkled some rat poison in his chicken broth. Not too much, just a spoon full.

The idea she was taking charge made her almost happy. She felt a renewal surging through her that she hadn’t felt for many years. Enough was enough. What right did anyone have to undo her, unhinge her, and make her mad? He never walked into the forest too drunk, to be swallowed up by snow only to resurface in early spring, with a scrawny skeletal hand poking up in the thaw. Akalena was not going to stand for any more of what she got since her marriage. Boris would be taught a lesson!

Much to Boris’ chagrin, his tumbler of Vodka and his soup was waiting for him when he got back. Without a word he slurped the Vodka and soup down before he grabbed his wife at the crutch. ‘You are next, he growled’. ‘What’s up with you and the vodka, he demanded? ‘Just have some more soup dear’, she offered. The vodka and the sex for axe was now getting the better (or worse) of him and he soon snored away on the floor. When he woke up next day she wanted Boris to chop up some more wood. The winter had started in earnest. There was frost on the inside of the windows each morning before she would get up and put up fresh wood in the stove. Boris complained he felt a bit dizzy but managed to put on his coat to chop up a month supply of wood. The pine was easy to split and soon his axe blows could be heard in the neighbourhood.

This time, Akalena put in two rations of rat poison in his chicken soup, next to his bowl another tumbler of his alcohol. He came in looking somewhat pale but let go of his usual cunt calling and grabbing while being unbuttoned. She had left in large pieces of chicken this time. Again, the vodka and soup diverted his attention away from the usual attacks and violence. He was also getting unsteady on his feet, due to either the vodka or the rat poison or a combination of both. This time he collapsed in his bed at the back of the house.

Akalena had run out of rags for her mats but now started to cut up in long strips Boris’ old shirts and underwear. She fed them into her loom while singing softly to herself. The wood pile outside will be the last pile he will chop, she smiled. Boris had taken to staying in bed while Akalena continued feeding him his poisonous cocktail of chicken soup and vodka. He started to look pale and suffered dizzy spells. ‘You are killing me’, Boris would complain while in an attack of delirium. ‘Oh, my darling, don’t say that’, after all I’ve done for you’. ‘Here, have some soup’. This time, the soup was without the poison. She did want him to suffer but not have it over with too quickly. He had to be kept finely balanced between life and death, conscious enough to still experience some of what she suffered all those years.

She kept the door of his bedroom locked and unheated while cutting his best Sunday suit, his pants, his coats, all his clothing. All cut into strips and all fed into the loom. It would be one of her best mats. As she fed him she cradled his head, spoon fed him. She now started to cut his bed clothes, his pyjamas. His face contorted with terror and supreme fright. ‘No, no you are my husband, my darling’ she said while she now cut away his pants exposing his shrivelled pale manhood. Boris had lost his voice, gone was the swearing, the cunt calling. She smiled at him and left the room, shutting the door behind her. The windows where white with frost and Boris would still have a day or so left in deliriums, perhaps still hoping it would all end. Next day, the bed sheets and last blanket was taken away, cut into strips and fed into her loom. The mat was almost finished. It was her best and strongest mat, many would walk over it. Boris was now getting towards the finale. He looked up into her eyes. Was there some recognition finally? Some regret, some admittance of actions? It was too late… His hands parallel to his body lifted slightly and started to shake, a last tremor and that was that. His death as delicious now as her chicken soup had been all those years. Akalena left the room, rolled up the mat. Boris became useful, finally.