Ties

The smell of his blood makes me light headed. Almost effervescent. To want for so long and then hold back. I must be in control. Show restraint. Be human. Ha! I turn to the severed arm in my hand. I don’t see it but the habit is ingrained in me. Deeply rooted with the first impressions of the infant seeing its mother for the first time. I bend down and carefully place the rag-doll limb on the carpet. It squishes as I move my feet. A sucking sound. The blood loss must be considerable to form a pool like that. Bending over, my fingers locate George’s head; his neck. The pulse is faint but regular.

“I think you need to tie up his arm. Can you make a tourniquet? Liza? - Are you awake?”

I turn to the bed and pad for her. She jerks violently away from me as my hand touches her side. Her breath quickens. She is conscious but terrified. I put my hand on her upper arm to calm her.

“Be still, Liza. I will not do you any harm. Please believe that. He would have shot me.”

She tries to speak but the words drown in heaving gasps.

“Look at yourself! You’re a monster! How can you expect me to calm down with a bloody hell hound at my side?”

“I am not... look... I could not be sure he would miss me. I had to immobilize him.”

“You don’t get it, do you?! I don’t care about that disgusting accomplice of yours. I am tied to a bed next to a monster who rips off people’s limbs! That is what I care about.”

“Lie still. I will untie you.”

She mumbles something. A series of words and syllables muddled together. I don’t think she means me well. I put my right hand down where I expect her feet to be. It falls on her shin. Like before she jerks violently as I slide my hand to her ankles and locate the ties. It’s a belt or strap made of leather. It has been looped through the buckle and the draw from the panicking woman has led it to cut into her flesh. Her feet must be completely numb by now.

“Please relax your legs so I can untie this.”

At first, there is no reaction, then she slacks on the strap. It isn’t easy to release. The clasp has become twisted and is jamming itself.

“Do you have a knife in here? It is knotted.”

“Can’t you rip it?”

“No, I might tear your ankle.”

“There may be one in the second drawer in the chest. I am not certain.”

From the faint change in her voice, I can tell she is pointing with her nose. I smile. Funny how people always assume gestures to be generally understood - indeed, as is my case - even seen. I turn and step away from the bed, careful to step over George leaning against the wall where he fell. The chest is low. The drawer binds slightly as I open it. It is filled with pieces of cloth. Napkins I think, or small towels. Apprehensive not to cut myself if I come upon a blank blade, I rummage through the towels. In the back, I find a bundle with a straight razor and a leather strap tied together with a wristwatch. A small box that smells of lathering soap falls to the floor. It must be her husband’s shaving kit and watch. It strikes me as strange; saving such a personal thing from a cheating husband.

“Well, time is the school in which we learn.” I muse to myself.

“Time is the fire in which we burn... That’s a strange poem to know, for a convict.”

“I heard it recently. A striking image. I don’t know who wrote it, though. Besides, I am not a convict.”

“I don’t know the title of the book, but his name is Delmore something. It came out last year. I have written it on many funeral wreaths in the shop.”

I nod and then open the razor and slide my finger over the side of the blade. It has a slight damask pattern in the steel. An expensive knife, surely. It is perfectly smooth and well cared for. I go back to the bed and I cut the leather strap just after the buckle and fold the knife before prying the strap apart. She twitches a bit. Blood must be returning to her feet. Painfully, no doubt. I move up along the bed and feel for her restrained wrists. Her hands are tied with another type of strap. I think it is a belt. I lay down the knife and reach over her head to get the buckle free. It is not as tight as the strap at her feet. It comes free very easily. Almost immediately the woman rolls over the far side of the bed, away from me. I straighten up slowly. Face her. I can tell from her breath that she has taken on a defensive stance on the opposite side of the bed.

“Get out of my house!” She yells - screams, almost.

“Just listen...”

“Get out or I will cut you! I Will!”

“You took the razor!? - You cannot use that as a weapon.” I know I shouldn’t laugh at her but I can’t help it. “The tang is too short. There is much too little leverage. You may cut my skin but none too bad; chances are you will clasp it on your fingers instead.”

“Try me! I dare you!”

I can hear her desperation.

“Why did you keep that?”

“What?”

“Why did you keep the razor and the timepiece? Why reminisce over an adulterous, dead husband?”

“He... what? He really is dead.”

“Is he?”

“Yes. Besides, why do you even care?”

“No, you’re right. It is not my business.”

Behind me, George is moaning. Despite the pools of blood; surprisingly he is still alive. Frankly, it doesn’t really matter to me if he lives or dies. A dead body complicates things a bit and I would have to get away from the house if he dies. I’d prefer to stay. With an armed and angry woman in front of me, that seems an improbable notion. I will be vulnerable outside.

She is moving. She is sneaking around the foot end of the bed. I could very easily stop her but I remain motionless. Let her move. She is behind me now. She had the surprising composure to pick up the razor the moment she was freed. She may still have it in her to attack me from behind.

“Heyaaa... bakehead...”

I can hear Liza freezing to a halt behind me as George murmurs at me from the floor. He is a tough one.

“This hurts like a helluva-something... could you... put a band-aid on this for me?”

He makes a bubbling sound before drifting off into unconsciousness again. Liza is sighing behind me.

“You stay where you are while I dress his wound. You may be too quick for me, but then at least pretend to do what I ask. Okay?”

Her alternating between furious vengeance and empathy is making me waver. She stirred something in me from the beginning but this faltering behaviour only adds to that sympathy. The only way I can make her understand that I will her no harm is to be still - prove her wrong. I put my hands behind my back and lower my shoulders.

“Tie me. That way you don’t have to fear me.”

“What? You just want me to come nearer.”

“No. I promise I will stay absolutely still.”

I kneel down, still holding my hands behind my back. I can hear her breath taking on another sound. She has closed her mouth. Then her steps. She is moving apprehensively towards the bed. Then I feel the leather strap around my wrists. Not a very good restraint but I just need her to think it is. I can hear her walk out of the room. She would have all the time in the world to call the police or the hospital guards. I will just have to trust that she doesn’t. I can hear her rummage through something in another room. After several minutes she comes back and sits down behind me. From her muffled mutterings I can guess that George’s wound must be serious.

“I think perhaps you should pick up the gun from where it fell before working on him. He may not be completely gone.”

She moves about a bit and then picks up something from the floor. I can only assume it is the gun. She makes another series of disapproving grunts and gets back to working on my nescient, fellow fugitive.

“I will untie you now. Help me put your friend up on the bed.”

“He still is not my friend, but yes. I will.”

I can feel her fingers on my wrist. They are sticky with half coagulated blood.

“Really, he should have the stump sewn tight. I can’t do that. He needs a surgeon.”

“It will have to do for now. I can’t move outside without him.”

“Mmhh...”

She hadn’t tightened the strap very much so I don’t have to work up blood circulation as my hands are freed. I get up. Slowly. I can only assume she still has the gun with her. And, more importantly, I still have this unusual sympathy for her.

“You need to take his shoulders. He is too heavy for me.”

I retrace my steps back to George and locate his shoulders. He is not very heavy. Liza grabs his feet but obviously can’t lift him off of the floor. He slides across the soiled rug and we manage to drag him onto the bed.

“He will not survive if he doesn’t get to a hospital. The wound is very frayed and will surely fester.”

“No, I am sure you are right. I just don’t see how we can get him there.”

“Turn yourself in.”

“I can’t do that. I will be locked away for good and a for me that means a very long time.”

“Mmhhh, so you say. You can’t stay here, though.”

“I know. May I at least rest a while?”

“Yes. You may. I can get you a pallet.”

“You don’t have to. I can rest in a chair. As long as it is dark.”

She makes a few noises I can’t make sense of and then leaves. I can hear her footsteps as she walks out into the landing and down the stairs. Not yet fully descended she stops and bursts into a heavy sob. I would do so myself, except I can’t. I haven’t for decades. I often envy that in others. She appears to quickly get a hold of herself and with a determined stride continues her descent down the staircase. I can only wait now, to see if she will call the police or not.

A pad on my knee. I must have dozed off. I haven’t before! Not once in my long life. Curious. Another pad and the mild voice of the young woman.

“I brought you a glass of water.”

“Ah, thank you.”

I put out my hand and receive a cool glass. It tastes fresh and soothes wonderfully.

“That was wonderful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She pauses, “I need to know...”

“Know what?”

“I don’t know... what you are?”

“Just a man.”

“The hell you are. No one moves that fast. No one tears off a man’s arm. Your friend mentioned that you attacked a policeman. Your... sensitivity.”

“I... I can’t explain it.”

“Try. At least try. Tell me your life’s story.”

“Where do I begin.”

“Well, that should be bloody obvious, don’t you think. Try with the beginning.”

“Okay. I was born in Romania. In... 1905.”

“Aha. So you tell me that you are, what? Twenty-eight? By the looks of it, you are at least 30 years wrong. Try again... Look, you can go from this house this instance or tell me the truth. Surely the truth can’t be the lesser alternative.”

“No, you are right. It isn’t. I don’t know exactly when I was born. I come from Romania. That much is true. I came to the USA during the war of independence, by way of France. It hadn’t ended yet. The war.”

“So, instead of twenty-eight, you are now suddenly more than 150 years old?! What do you take me for? An idiot?”

“No. I was born much earlier than that, in fact. But I was confined. It muddles my memory. I was locked up in a French dungeon for many years. They knew what I was. Had their fun putting me in the sun and see me char. That is where I lost my sight. However painful, my skin always healed - albeit increasingly scarred. My eyes never recovered.”

I can sense her mouth moving. Trying to formulate something but not quite knowing how. No one believes the truth and no one believes the lies. I have to get better at one of them.

“You have been blind for 150 years?”

Her question is more one of disbelief than one of scepticism.