Finger on closed lips
Sarah Jones was laying on the bed with eyes wide open, waiting. She couldn’t sleep, nor she wanted to. Once in a while she glanced at the clock on her bedside table. Moments crawled on.
Well past midnight she got dressed in the dark, tied her long hair back with a muslin kerchief, took a torch and started to go. She stopped in the hallway and listened to sounds of snoring coming from another room. Her mother-in-law was deep in sleep.
A few moments later she was on the streets, pussyfooting along. Dark was the night, and tranquil the village like the cemetery on the hillside. Sarah routinely made the sign of the cross, a rite deeply ingrained during her childhood. She had to nothing to fear from the dead, but from someone from the village noticing her.
The wineyard was a few hundred yards away from her village. Her family’s eighteen vine rows were there, reaching up till hill top. A derelict hut at its beginning, old nut tree and cherry tree on its end. She had arranged a rendezvous for that night with John, the young truck driver, who lived in the neighbouring village. Their relationship was just starting to bloom. One day Sarah missed the bus and John stopped by her and offered her a ride. He offered something else as well, and Sarah accepted without a qualm, whenever she could.
The hut door’s padlock was knocked off long ago, now only a stick wedged in the hasp. Those who knocked it off were most certainly disappointed. Besides a tumbledown table and an old cupboard, only a few empty bottles, some twine and raffia, and a ramshackle chair were inside. People used it as a shelter from the rain and not much else.
They hadn’t have even closed the door behind themselves, they immediately started to make out. Having a lacklustre husband, Sarah was always hungry, ever ready for love. Men sensed this want with unerring instinct – so did the young truck driver. He unfolded the young woman from her light dress and lifted her to the table with his strong hands.
- I want to see you – Sarah whispered in a hot voice.
The man turned his headlight on, spotting the wheezy young woman with burning look, as she reclined against the table, enticingly and provokingly putting her body on display. As a burning desire overwhelmed him, he penetrated the woman’s body laying on the table top with one firm movement.
Their love-making’s rhythm’s could be scored. As the table was beating against the dilapidated cupboard, its thumping sound formed a melody in the silence of the night. The melody became faster and wilder. The rhytmic movement made the shabby cupboard door shake a bit, joining the table’s knocking sound as a separate voice, when the door opened creakingly. The young man involuntarily looked there, and then he couldn’t look anywhere else.
- What’s iiiiiit? – asked Sarah Jones in a long-draw-out, prudish voice, following the man’s glance.
On the waist-height cupboard’s only shelf a little girl was sitting with legs spread apart. Stark-naked below, a light blue T-shirt covered her bust. A red rose in her vulva. Her left hand nailed to the cupboard side; her right index finger stuck on her lips, as if she was asking everyone sighting her to keep quiet.
With silent horror Sarah Jones obeyed the dead child for a seemingly ever-lasting moment, after which an ear-splitting scream broke out of her. She turned and started to run like a maniac. The truck driver hurriedly pulled up his pants and rushed after the woman, hardly able to catch her up.
Neither of them looked back. Neither of them saw as a figure hiding beside the hut entered it through the open door, raised the blue muslin kerchief slipped from Sarah's hair to gently cover the dead child’s vulva, careful not to touch. The figure mumbled something to himself, shut the cupboard door; then carefully placing the stick back into the hasp, he closed the hut door.
(to be continued)