It’s the first Wednesday of the month again, time for a post for the Insecure Writer’s Support Group.
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As you all know, I’m a fan of speculative fiction. Lots of speculative fiction – fantasy and science fiction both – include fights and killing. Some books even feature assassins as protagonists. But there is a conundrum there. Many writers, who write gruesome, bloody scenes without blinking, baulk if a lay person is forced to kill – in self-defense or defending someone else. Pages of soul-searching and guilty conscience stuff the narrative afterwards. As if such a killing is somehow worse than the ones perpetrated by warriors or assassins. As if career killers have a ‘license to kill,’ while a regular man or woman does not.
I disagree with that notion. Sometimes, evil doers need to die, and there are no assassins handy and no government to send soldiers in. Sometimes, official justice fails, and there is no choice but DIY.
Below is my musing on the subject – a flash fiction fantasy story. What do you think? Are there situations where murder is the only possible answer?
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Ava’s Battlefield
Ava stared at her husband, Samson, who thrashed and groaned in fevered delirium. His eyes were closed, his lips chapped. He had tossed away one of the pillows. Clammy sweat beaded his forehead.
She wiped the sweat with a damp cloth and tried to dodge his flailing hands, but one of them caught her on the side. She swallowed a whimper. Samson hadn’t lost his strength despite his illness. His inadvertent blow hurt. His intended blows hurt even worse. And many of them had left scars on her body.
Her lips pursed in sudden anger. This horrible epidemic had already decimated the castle. They had lost three men-at-arms and a number of servants. The village had also suffered. Why couldn’t Samson die as well? Today was the fourth day of his fever. He had been unconscious since morning. Maybe he would die, and she would finally be free of him. Of his constant beatings. Of his inexplicable rages. Of her fear.
She glanced at the icon hanging in the corner. Should she pray to the Holy Twins again? But what would be the point? She had prayed before, repeatedly, and the gods had never seen fit to deliver her from her hellish marriage. The fever wouldn’t either. After all, she had survived the fever herself. Samson might too. Unless …
Her hand hovered protectively over her still flat belly. Her new pregnancy didn’t show yet. She had already lost one baby to Samson’s beating, when he kicked her in the stomach last year. He might do it again, when in his cups. Unless …
Her fists clenched. This was her castle. It should’ve been. It had belonged to her father. But following her father’s death only weeks after their wedding, Samson had assumed control, and the beatings started. As if Samson needed violence to prove his dominance over her.
Like her father, Samson was a knight. Both had killed: enemies on the battlefields and bandits on the roads. How hard could it be to kill one man weakened by an illness?
Suddenly, she felt nauseous, her stomach churning. Could she? Did she dare? Nobody would know. They would all assume the fever killed him. She was a daughter of a knight, and she was fighting for her life, hers and her unborn child’s, before Samson’s uncontrolled brutality killed them both. This sickroom was her battlefield.
She glanced out the window, at the starry night outside. All was quiet. The torches on the walls threw wavering shadows when the sentries passed them. Nobody would hear a thing. Samson whizzed and moaned in bed, his breathing labored.
She inhaled deeply and strengthened her resolve. “My battle,” she whispered and knelt beside a clothing chest. She rummaged inside for Samson’s sashes. Once upon a time, she had embroidered them herself. The red one with horses, and the blue one with boats, and the gold one with wheat. She needed one more to tie all his limbs. Perhaps her old green headscarf would do. Samson hated it.
Her fingers unsteady, Ava tied Samson’s feet to the bedposts with the red and blue sashes. The gold sash and her green headscarf served as the restraints for his hands. He groaned hoarsely and tossed his head, but he didn’t wake. And he couldn’t pull free his arms or legs. Good.
Ava removed the wet cloth from his brow and dropped it back into the bowl. Then, before she lost courage, she picked up the pillow from the floor and climbed onto the bed.
“Holy Twins, give me strength,” she whispered to the icon. “I fight for my life.” Then she put the pillow on Samson’s face and straddled it. And pushed down with her hands.
Samson’s body jerked beneath her. Strange rattling sounds escaped from under the pillow. He buckled and heaved, but his silken fetters held. She kept pushing down. Her head swam, and her arms shook from the strain. It wouldn’t do to throw up now. She swallowed her bile and held on. What if someone came to check on her? What if a servant had questions? What if someone witnessed her crime? Everyone knew Samson abused her, but nobody ever interfered. He was the master of the castle, to do as he pleased. Nobody would save her. She had to save herself. Defiant, she glared at the closed door, but nobody opened it.
Her husband’s body under her thighs shivered and lurched, until finally, he grew limp. She waited a few more minutes before sliding off the bed. Her legs folded and she sank to the floor. Had she done it? Tremors ran down her spine.
After a while, she clambered to her feet and cautiously lifted the pillow from Samson’s face. His eyes were closed. He didn’t breathe. Yes, she had done it. She tossed the pillow back on the floor. Quietly, moving as if in a dream, she untied his arms and legs, folded the sashes and her scarf, and smoothed all the wrinkles from them before putting them back into the clothes chest. She covered him with a blanket once more and wrung the water out of the cloth before spreading it on his cooling brow again. Then, exhausted, she settled into her chair by the bed and tightened her shawl around her shoulders. She had won this battle, but she didn’t feel victorious. She felt numb, as wrung out as the cloth covering Samson’s forehead. Her temples ached. One thought banged inside her skull: he was gone. Her terror, her pain, her hatred—all gone. She was free at last. Free of her cruel husband. Free of dread. In the morning, she would discover that Samson died in the night, succumbed to the fever, and play a mournful wife. But for now, she closed her eyes and dozed off. Her baby was safe.
Olga Godim writing 
