Last Rites

What is the difference between murder and self-defense? Necessity.

The man isn’t proud of what he plans to do. In some part of his soul, he wishes he could be as irresponsible, as moody and distractible as his wife. Yet he knows that in this life, he has to live out his destiny.

He bears the name of generations of proud men, those who ruled their households with strength, with resolve, with integrity, with love. Yet the honour of proud men rests in the hands, the eyes and the fickle loins of women.

He doesn’t believe she has betrayed him yet. She is only tempted, and looking for chances to escape from her luxurious home like a wild animal that prefers the desert to human civilization.

What did he expect when he married her? Loyalty, happiness. She was so beautiful then, and she said her vows in a voice that trembled slightly, as though she knew what a serious thing it was to join with him for a lifetime.

In only three years, she has changed. Perhaps childbearing gave her a change of focus. The new baby, like a new lover, seemed to steal her attention from his father as a casual wind could carry a ring into the air and drop it in a place where it could never be retrieved. Other people, both male and female, now receive her smile, her curiosity and her interest as often as he does.

She made a promise to him, not to the world at large. There has been talk. Even worse, there have been smirks and muffled laughter. Sir, do you know where your wife is when she’s not with you? Do you know what your little son has seen? He’s too young to tell you, or maybe he keeps his mother’s secrets.

She told him she wants to go to the university to broaden her knowledge. Household management can’t hold her attention.

The man has been unable to take a second, a third and a fourth wife because his first is unsuitable as the Head Wife of his household. Instead, she would sow seeds of rebellion.

What is the difference between civilization and anarchy? Custom, tradition, ritual. When he wraps his belt around her neck and squeezes, he will bless her while offering her release. He will assure her that her child will be well-raised while she will be free of burdens she could not bear. He will tell her he loves her, despite her failures.

The man knows what this ritual would be called in more “modern” cultures, where people worship the latest technological toy instead of a timeless God. Those cultures have waged war on his people because they want the land, the oil, the minerals. Honour is a concept they don’t understand.

A man must defend his honour. He feels as trapped by this knowledge as a wayward woman feels trapped by her marriage. He enters the bedroom where she is supposed to be waiting for him in their bed.

She is not there. She and the baby are nowhere to be found, and they have left behind a silence as dense as smoke.
There is a note on the bed. Even from a distance, he recognizes her handwriting, and even that looks too arrogant to be the expression of a gentle wife. He reads:

“I belong to God, not to you. I have learned your moods and even your thoughts in the time we have spent together, and I know your plans for me. Husband, there is no honour in this. Yes, we are destined to part. Someday we will be parted by death, but I am not ready to die while I still have a new life to nurture.

Do not look for me or our child. We will live somewhere else, and be known by different names.

Slaves and prisoners have always looked for escape, and have taken comfort in the holes in dungeon walls that let in light. The most determined servants – as you would call them, the most treacherous – have spent years widening those holes until there is room for a human body to slip through.

You will say I have lost my way, that I have thrown away centuries of tradition that have served our people well enough. You might even say I am possessed by the demons that bring madness.

I loved you once. I love our son, knowing that half his blood comes from you. Perhaps he will invent new ways of showing love.”
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The man can hardly breathe, and yet he feels as though he has been reborn.

Battle Hymn of the Femme Fatale

They call me Lilith, mother of demons. They call me Eve, thief of forbidden knowledge. They call me Salome, destroyer of Saint John, the baptiser of Christ. They call me Jezebel, worshipper of false gods. They call me Medea, child-killer.

I have been marked as the Scarlet Whore of Babylon, a symbol of evil personally applied to living women.

Many of us have been damned for our sexuality, but only the powerful have become legendary sluts: Messalina of Rome, Catherine of Russia, Marie-Antoinette of France.

Millions of us were named witches. Only a few are remembered by name: Alice Kyteler of Ireland, Rebecca Nurse of Massachusetts colony.

Some of us killed our husbands, the ultimate crime. Some of us killed our parents, our lovers, acquaintances, passing strangers.

In the nineteenth century of the Christian calendar, we were identified as Fatal Women, temptresses with cold eyes who were said to have lured many susceptible men to their death simply to exercise our power.

Most of us have been innocent of any crime. Untold numbers of women have become martyrs: tragic victims of the irrational fears of those with power in the real world. The youngest of us have been aborted while still in the womb or shortly after birth, incapable of causing harm. Incapable of self-defense.

Our innocent dead outnumber the victims of every other massacre recorded in the history books. Does this make us all collectively blameless? No.

Regardless of the theories promoted by male scholars that we have a collective soul (or none), we share a basic human condition: we are individuals. We are no more alike on the inside than we are on the outside. We choose our own actions based on our personal perception of the choices available.

If we are not all guilty, we cannot all be innocent.

As the imaginary alter ego of one erotic writer among many, I survive by eliminating those who pose a threat to me. Forget “promiscuity” as the sign of a corrupt woman. I follow the example of male warriors from the beginning of time: I silence those I have used.

Why do I do it? Look around you. How many conscientious women live happily on their own terms? As someone once said: “Women feel guilty if they assert themselves and resentful if they don’t.”

The moral codes of an unjust world are as tangled as a huge skein of barbed wire. I don’t waste time trying to untangle it. I do what I must to live as I choose.

I am not a team player. I co-operate with those who show their willingness to add pleasure to my life. I'm rational, not spineless.

Don’t tell me that I give women in general a bad name. We had a bad name in this world long before I came into it.

Call me whatever you want. You would probably slander me even if I had spent my life in the cell of a convict or a nun.

Just don’t cross me. You would be lucky if you lived to regret it.