Hands Around My Throat
april contest, flash fiction, horror, political, adult
Published on:
April 28, 9:37pmWord Count:
454Work Description
This is somewhere between environmentalism and my worst nightmare. Warning for violence and symbolism.
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The elevator doors shut with a dull thud. It rings for another floor.
The air is cold. I see my breath.
It's dark in the corners where the uncovered bulbs can't reach with their feeble light.
No one is there. Just cars-- dinosaurs of the new age feeding off of the remnants of the bones of their predecessors. Our invention. Parked in neat rows, one after the other. Compact, sub-compact, not compact and squeezed in between their juniors.
Inconsiderate soccer moms. Men with inadequacy issues. Too big for the spot, crushing, too close.
I hear the scrape of rubber soles over the clamor of my heels. It's a soft, swishing echo and it fills the open air of the parking garage.
Grease stains on the floor. Antifreeze. Pools of the leavings from our metal monsters. Their exoskeltons rust, collect dust, are shiny new. They wear banners for our politics, for our pride in our children, for bands that have touched us.
My car wears nothing. It's black, clean, mid-sized, moderate. It beeps at me and the lights flash as I approach, my finger on the button to disarm it.
I smell you, gin-breathed and radiant warmth. I can't turn around for your hands around my throat. I slide down against my car, keys in my hand, banging on the glass.
Your hands are too tight; I can't get a breath. I buck and scratch. The paint is chipped. Dings and key scratches. My nails break on the handle of the door as I try desperately to drag the door open.
So close. So close to home, to safety, the haven of my dinosaur. It sits like a bewildered dog, obedient and awaiting my next command. But it's helpless.
My face flushes; your fingers dig in. You stink. My lungs feel like they're going to explode.
My skirt is up; your hand is there, cold and prodding.
Darkness is closing in on the periphery of my vision and your hand squeezes tighter on my throat. The air puffs solid from your mouth. You're tearing me apart, but I can barely feel it for how light my head is.
I drop my eyes, drop to my knees. The car is cold on my cheek, tearing it as I slide down to the cement floor. My eyes are open, I feel the force of the wind on them, but I see nothing. I smell gravel. I feel you pushing inside. I feel grit on my skin, but I don't care anymore. I hear nothing but the gust of your breath, the grunts.
It all fades away, slips off into a dream on wisps of air as light as condensation on a cold day in the parking garage.
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This slammed me against a very uncomfortable wall and didn't let me relax until well after I'd finished. It deeply affected me, which is unusual in a short piece of fiction.
This was absolutely believable. I feel like if this had been longer, it wouldn't have been as pithy, but knowing you, it might have been. There's no telling. What I do know is that the realism of this scenario gutted me.
I think some places would be a smidge confusing to those who don't intuitively grasp what's going down, and the pacing might be too quick for them. For me, the pacing was genius. The way she's having idle thoughts as she walks along, her sensory input, the sudden-not-sudden appearance of the attacker, the swiftness with which she's knocked out... It really follows the pace of an attack. The hairs on the back of your neck go up, and before you can think too hard about it, BAM.
The descriptions were vivid and absolutely real. Gritty would be a good word. I've never read anything quite like it. I was very grateful that you let her slip away from consciousness as the rape began, because if she'd been aware enough to report those details, it might have been too intense for me even to finish. As it was, I didn't flinch away from a single word. I stayed immersed. I suffered with her. And in the end, I was grateful that she passed out, even if she was going to die. I was grateful she detached and floated away. I felt so much empathy for her that I don't know if I could have borne it had she continued to suffer.
I personally loved the first person - second person narration. It felt like really being in her thoughts. She isn't addressing the reader when she says you as much as she's addressing this attacker. He's the only one there with her. He's the one she's directing her thoughts towards. And so it's the language her brain would speak. I liked it a lot.
Oh she was very unique, and real, and I really felt such empathy for her that when things went wrong I was sick at my stomach. Her thoughts were brilliant. She's obviously very intelligent, and unusual, and someone who very much deserves to live and be safe.
Painful. Beautiful. I loved the environmentalist aspect of it, and the way we're so dependent on our cars for safety even as they endanger our world. I loved how her thoughts changed from cars-as-monsters to her car as a loyal companion who stood by helpless. It parallels the rape of the environment and the rape of an individual, and it left me feeling like cars were guilty by association. I suppose how well it works varies from person to person, but for me, it worked. It really worked.
I liked this piece a lot. It started off depressing and got just downright sick in the end. Again, I liked it.
Some interesting bits. The relationship that the speaker had with the car was very intriguing. I loved the whole idea of a car being a dinosaur, a monster, and a "helpless" pet. The idea that this horrific act takes place in a den of sleeping monsters, waiting to take people home, is great.
The shift halfway through the piece took me by surprise. We get such a gender-neutral narrator, up until the rape. Even then, we only learn it's a woman because of the mention of the skirt. Of course, I believe that most readers would take the leap towards a women being raped based on the writer of the piece and purely because someone is getting raped. Still, I wonder how the whole piece would read if the speaker was completely gender neutral and the reader was allowed identify with them as much as possible. Right now the audience is a voyeur, looking in on what is happening and staying completely incapable of doing anything. Our disgust comes from the crime itself and the empathy for the speaker, as well, I believe, as our helplessness to do anything. By removing the definite diction that clearly spell out the speaker's gender, I think the reader can end up emphathizing with the speaker even more so. We would also be forced to question whether the gender even matters. I'm not saying that as of now, it does or doesn't, I'm just exploring the possibility of turning the speaker even more into an 'everywoman/man" then she already is. It's just something to think about, not really a critique, or advice or anything.
The whole piece has such a poetic flow to it. The narrative is still there though, and ultimately, that is what makes it so powerful.
Wow, this story made my teeth grind, the way you use your words. Its a fashion i haven't seen before. Brilliant.
Wow! What a powerful piece! You evoked such a strong, gripping image. There was no where to hide from it and while reading, part of me really did want to hide. No one wants to imagine rape and murder happening to them. Reading your piece makes you feel it, imagine it happening to yourself.
My comments are few, there is no real need. Your work can stand on its own as is. However, I felt that there was too much description of the cars.
No one is there. Just cars-- dinosaurs of the new age feeding off of the remnants of the bones of their predecessors. Our invention. Parked in neat rows, one after the other. Compact, sub-compact, not compact and squeezed in between their juniors.
Inconsiderate soccer moms. Men with inadequacy issues. Too big for the spot, crushing, too close.
Don't get me wrong, I like the descriptions, just that you could have used some more balance. I also felt there could have been more emphasis on the person who was the attacker. All you have is
I smell you, gin-breathed and radiant warmth.
It is too anonymous, too spectral. I wanted at least the tiniest hope of identifying this guy.
I also like the way her mind worked, the free-floating thoughts as she walked to the car
Grease stains on the floor. Antifreeze. Pools of the leavings from our metal monsters. Their exoskeltons rust, collect dust, are shiny new. They wear banners for our politics, for our pride in our children, for bands that have touched us.
The thoughts are definitely androgenous. Up until the rape, it could have been a man or woman talking, and in fact, I was thinking it was a man.
There is little to show it is a rape and not a just a murder, no rending of clothes, no issuing of commands,
My skirt is up; your hand is there, cold and prodding.
and then this
I feel you pushing inside. I feel grit on my skin, but I don't care anymore. I hear nothing but the gust of your breath, the grunts.
maybe it doesn't need to be shown more. Its clear we get the message, but I might have added another line or two here.
I really like your ending
It all fades away, slips off into a dream on wisps of air as light as condensation on a cold day in the parking garage.
It is so elusive, so just that she doesn't have to experience more.
You have written a powerful work. I am impressed.
hi, char--
a disturbing trek into the terrifying; i think anyone will identify with your mc, here. you employ all the senses to bring us into this dank, dark parking garage and escort us through the story as we cringe from the attack. let's delve!
a good setup here. we immediately know this moment, after the elevator doors shut and we're standing alone in the parking garage. creeeepy. hate it. like the description. i did read the second sentence a couple of times to understand the elevator ringing was the car signalling as it shuttled off to a different floor. i assumed at first i was inside the elevator, and didn't understand why it was ringing for a different floor. i'm not sure if you should maybe clarify this moment, or if maybe i need more sleep.
you're terribly effective at description. 'feeding off the remnants...' i liked the almost cannibalistic relationship cars have with the fuel they use in this metaphor. as i read further, i almost felt like this was two stories smooshed into one, with the taught, direct attack aspect juxtaposed against the tangential musings of the mc as she walked to her car. with the story being brief, those moments felt at odds with the immediate story. i think if the story was part of a longer piece, the pacing fluctuations would feel more natural. or, again, perhaps i could use more sleep.
whoa, there's someone else in the garage?! this would be my 'cue-the'suspenseful-music' moment, my moment of sweaty wishful thinking. i think the immediate switch to further observations about the environmental effects of petrol-based cars in the next paragraph steals your momentum from you. i was reading this, and my pulse sped up a bit at the first sentence. i wanted the mc to surreptitiously find out who was there with her in that creepy garage, gauge the potantial threat, and get the bejeesus outta there. maybe she doesn't take the other footfalls very seriously, not immediately assuming a defensive stance, and continues with her thinking--another normal day walking to the car. maybe most people would do this and i'm a paranoid freak, but i'm vigilant in a situation like this. eyes scanning all directions, focus on the dark corners, hyper-aware of anyone else's whereabouts and their path...*ulp*
this creates some serious claustrophobia and panic--i'm not versed well-enough to question the mix of first and second person in the piece, but i sure felt unsavory as your attacker. i underlined my favorite line above--the detail is cringe-worthy (and skeevy--blecch), and imagining this moment is chilling. the first sentence here feels a bit weird, the different terms describing 'you' being and adjective and then a noun. i'm not sure 'radiant warmth' can be effective as an adjective. i liked the fragmented style of writing here, mirroring the panic and snapshot processing of the memory.
oh, i'm sickened with sympathy for this woman. you hit the vulnerable truth of wishful thinking here, that plaintive longing for a few minutes before, when you could maybe do something differently. great work, here. 'but it's helpless'. shiver.
you achieve such breathtaking (pun unintended) detail in this segment, in every aspect--it feels hyperrealistic, our perceptions slowed and taking in every sensation. oddly, the worst aspect of the attack is somewhat glossed over. you state the rapist's actions, but somehow restrain yourself from going for the same excruciating detail as the rest of the scene and piece. it leaves those moments deadened a bit. perhaps this was your intention, the mc half-conscious, overloaded on adrenaline, not really aware of what's happening. which makes perfect sense in this situation. except she's so painfully aware of every other sensation. i love her slow narrowing of focus as her sight fails her, the asphyxiation taking its toll, until the end, when she can only hear her attacker. even the physical sensations feel far away. i also think her emotional dulling is well-done and realistic, as the shock sets in. great writing, here.
i'm not sure if the mc is dying here, or passing out from lack of oxygen, but either way we feel her otherworldly floating away--we're left wondering if she survives, what exactly happens after that last conscious moment. i like that. i think what happens next here is almost beside the point of the story. the metaphor feels a bit awkward, not easy for me to picture, but again, i've got the sleep deprivation thing going on. sorry.
i loved this short, brutal story--thanks for kicking my ass, char. i'll be back for more.