Undertow

\"What would the world be, once bereft of wet and wildness? Let them be left, O let them be left, wildness and wet; Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.\"---Gerard Manley Hopkins

Watching the sun set over the river, she stands at the window. She likes rivers — they flow fast and brutal and are deep and fathomless. Anything that falls in the path of the current is swept away by the whim of the river. She would like them to name a river after her; instead she is named after a star — something cold and distant but burning and bright up close. Perhaps it is applicable after all.

The sun is setting, but it is still hot. The air is dry, and nothing moves except the river below. The fan twirls on the ceiling, lazily pushing the stifling air through a room where nothing moves. Her hair lies plastered to her face, but she makes no move to push it away.

She hears him enter, but he is silent. They hardly speak to each other because there is no need for words. She does not look away from the window as he stands behind her. He takes her arms and flattens them against the window. His body is hard behind her, and he pushes his hips against her. The move is threatening. She moves her head to one side, and he bites her neck.

She keeps her hands on the window even though he has released her. Her knees are shaking from fear or desire or both so she leans her body weight against the glass. She will not give him the satisfaction of collapsing back against him.

There is a knife in his left hand, and he draws it down the front of her body. She is wearing nothing except a blood-red corset and lace thigh-highs held up by a black garter belt. The outfit is not for him but for her. She likes decadence and appreciates her lush body in such finery. As the sun sinks below the horizon, she begins to see their reflection in the glass of the window. He is tracing the thin blade of the knife down her corset. She knows he will ruin it — it cost her several hundred Galleons, and he will cut it off her as if it is worthless. She likes that, too.

He does, flicking the blade expertly and cutting the intricate lacings of the corset. Occasionally he nicks her skin, and she moans. The sky is blood red now; the sun is being swallowed by the river. She is being swallowed by him. The corset lies on the floor between them. He puts his booted foot between her legs and she is pressed against the glass, spread-eagled. He runs the knife between her legs. The flat of the blade rubs against her, and she thinks she might see the star she’s named after. He cuts off her knickers, and the scrap of silk falls to the floor beneath them to lie with the corset.

He grabs her hair with one hand and yanks her back as the knife clatters noisily to the floor. He takes her roughly, as he always does, and she throws her head back. He pulls her back so she is bent at the waist with him behind her, driving into her, and her arms are braced against the window. The sky has turned the black, and a blood-red harvest moon rises in the sky as she cries out under his assault. He drags his nails down her back; she wishes it was the knife.

When he comes, he pulls her back against him and straightens her. She turns her head and meets his eyes. They are dark and fathomless like the river flowing outside. She does not know if he is the current or if she is, but she knows one thing as he kisses her.

They will both be swept away under a blood-red moon, and the cold stars will glitter long after they have been drowned in the current.