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Written by, Jordan.


Impersonal shards of moonlight glinted in feral streaks upon the abysmal windowpane which twinkled enigmatically with iridescent rays. The cold silhouette of the night watchman, his somewhat pompous features presented in harsh contrast against the dim tedium of the sedated bionetwork which he now prowled with seldom-suppressed boredom, succumbed to the gaping yawn which invaded his mouth.
A flash of damp and deepening crimson – a circlet of flushed scarlet daring to display itself amid the darkness – marked the tell-tale evidence of aforesaid expression, and his monotonous tread clicking sharply down the dormitory corridor receded into the fading tide of the dull thudding steps.

The faintest trace of a smile graced my lips: and my inquisitive fingers, like shadows making their sluggish trek through the air in hazy wisps, and with deft execution of the sinews and joints, unearthed from the depths of the woolly blanket fabric a leather-bound tome.


This is what I would read, while I waited to begin. I glanced back at the door through which I had come. Nearly an hour she had lain there already in that white room. From behind the door I could hear her quiet screams. For me it was exactly fifty-one minutes, to her it must have been days. Thoughtfully I thumbed the final pages of the tome. It was quiet, which meant that the next act was about to begin. Through the thick ceiling I could hear some violins start to play slowly. The music was clearly audible. The majestic work of the great Vivaldi was being played, the four seasons. More and more instruments were heard and I could even discern a soft piano in the background. I put the tome back down and opened the door to the room.
There she lay, lonely on the table in the barren room. A goddess lost in the desert. She was weakened and chained, but she still glowed with the power of her beauty as a shining star in an endless darkness. Around her wrists and ankles she was bound by leather straps and a gag had been put in her mouth. Not so that she couldn’t scream for help, more so to prevent her to disrupt the glorious beauty of Vivaldi. She begged me with her eyes, I couldn’t understand her but I think she was mumbling for help. I didn’t answer her, I couldn’t. It would be blasphemy. With my eyes I answered her begging, through beautiful eyes. Everything will be alright girl, don’t worry. She was quiet.


I walked past her, to one of the corners of the room. The walls and ceiling were white.
This must have been a storage room of this theatre before, but now it was nearly empty. Empty but safe for one object. I bend down and grabbed the dusty cotton cloth. While I unrolled the cloth her desperate mumbling started again. It was clear that she could see from the corners of her eyes what was stored in it. I couldn’t blame her. No other object possessed the modest elegance of a chain saw. It made the object more than just a collection of metal. It had something divine.


With the chainsaw in my hand I walked toward her. God, she was beautiful. She neared the definition of perfection. The plea disappeared out of her green eyes and gave room to a primal and pure fear expression. A fear I chose to ignore, because I knew that any attempt to console her would be a lost case. I put the chain saw on the ground, so that he lends her a respectful kiss on her forehead. It didn’t calm her.
I bend and grabbed the chain saw, pulling at the string to start the engine, but nothing happened. Only at the third attempt did the teeth slowly started to move and did the wild erotic growling of the blade resonate loud, until he surpassed even Vivaldi. I looked at the gleaming blade to my reflection. This was not an intimate moment between her and me, this was a trio. The chain saw may not possess a beating heart or breathing lungs, but it was created from the same dust as she and I. What kind of mortal am I to doubt her emotions?


In a straight line I put the blade just a bit of her bared belly button. Her ankles and wrists were red, because she tried to no avail to free herself. Her voice couldn’t be heard above the steamy roaring of the chainsaw. Her eyes were big and prettier than usual. She was crying. Slowly I let the blade go down. The chain saw was not a machine any more, but an extension of myself. It wouldn’t be long before she as well would be a part of the holy trinity.


Time and objectivity faded. The gravity disappeared underneath me. Left, right, above and down we grew toward each other. For one moment I felt as if I could touch the soul of the multi universe. It felt as if I walked through the spirit of God himself. I was the maestro, my saw was my stick and she was the music. Coincidence, luck and bad luck disappeared and everything, even the most illogical things slowly became one whole. Everything clicked in place. Every matter returned to the ancient dust from which we had been born. Colours, objects and memories all faded to a shrinking bubble. This bubble floated in a black darkness where space and time didn’t exist. The growls of the chain saw disappeared and only the climax of The Four Season could still be heard. It was a bubble from which she and I were part of. We were everything and everything was us.


This whole experience lasted about a minute, tops, but to me it felt like eternity. Heaving, I dropped the chain saw. I was exhausted. I looked around me and saw the pieces, cluttering the room.
I felt an intense feeling of luck, all problems and misery in the world seemed so small compared to the beautiful thing that had happened here. With a smile I turned around and walked back to the door. But before I laid my hand on the door knob, I heard a voice say: “Thank you.” It was her voice. I turned around. “No problem,” I answered and wiped the blood and sweat from my face with a handkerchief. The instruments above me had stopped playing and they soon followed by an ear shattering applause. The musicians thought the applause was meant for them, but I knew better.


The End.

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