copyright baker publishing. This work is the property of Malcolm James Baker, and is copyright protected. Any copy made ust include any spelling mistakes.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=XmSdTa9kaiQ With or Without You - U2
www.youtube.com/watch?v=uelHwf8o7_U&feature=related Love the way you lie - Eminem
http://www.myspace.com/blazenamedjumuskarcima
The door was open, and the light was on in the kitchen when Sladja came home, but she was already inside her flat, and did not look directly at the man standing before her in the middle of the room. She could have turned and run, but where would she run, and she could have said, "Who are you?", or "How did you get in here?" but it was obvious that whoever he was he did get in through the locked door, and he was waiting for her. It was unlikely that he was going to tell her who he was.
"What do you want?" she asked him. "Suck my cock", he said.
"Eat shit!" Sladja didn't realize immediately that she had made a fatal mistake, and she watched as the man turned away from her and went behind the kitchen door. She even thought for a minute that he had decided to let her off the hook, and was going to leave her alone, but it wasn't more than five seconds before she realized to her horror that she had been wrong.
Behind the door, which opened into the room was his M16 rifle, which he had hidden there, stock on the ground, barrel pointing into the air. In a second he had lifted it and was holding it at his hip, working the bolt. He was too far away for her to reach out and grappel with the stranger, and the muzzle was pointing directly at her. "No, you eat shit", he told her.
How am I doing so far, I asked her?
The man moved over to the other side of the kitchen and selected a bowl. He handed it to her. "What's this for?" she asked. "To shit in," he told her. "You wanted to eat shit, you need to have something to eat."
How do you know this she asked him, we never talked about it. You didn't get the dialogue right.
He raised his M16. She undid he jeans, and pushed them down.
I was going to say "She raised her skirt and squatted over the bowl", but I forgot you were wearing a pair of blue jeans later.
Her mind was full. She wasn't thinking clearly. She didn't wonder why he didn't rape her there and then. Perhaps he had already had enough sex for now, but she didn't think of that. At least he wasn't going to ask her to eat his shit. It was a small victory, but she didn't know how she would have the strength to do it. Maybe he had already had a shit as part of this ritual he was orchistrating. Why had he chosen he house. Had he been watching her, targeting her? He probably had but she didn't think of this right now. She was just concerned about antagonizing him, making him angry, and being killed. Right now she was aware thast her life was very close to being over. Outside she could hear shooting in the streets. This was 1992. It was Belgrade Serbia, and there was a war going on.
I don't want this story told, she said. I want my dignity.
I don't believe that for a second, I replied. This is my story. Why did you keep the bowl? I don't think I would have done that.
You are not me, she said. I told you what happened.
Only you know what happened and what you told me he said. I received most of my information directly form God, and you are wondering, if there is a God, why he let this happen to you, and I am telling you why.
Do you think that somebody will enjoy reading and rereading this, she asked?
I don't care what they think, I said. They will either be in prison or dead. If somebody said "eat shit" to me, like one day when I was out fishing, whether they knew what they were saying, after reading this, or not, they would immediately be a fighting kahawai fish in the sea, and I would be catching them and eating them for dinner. It has already happened. You told me your favourite bands are U2 and Queen..
She squatted over the bowl he had given her, and tried to deficate. It wasn't easy. She was so nervious that she wanted to run, and teh whole room was spinning and her mind was a blur. She was hot and sweating but looking for a way out. That's enough he said. Now eat it. He handed her a spoon. She started to force her shit into her mouth, but she didn't gag or choke. Surprisingly it didn't taste as revolting as she thought it would, in fact it looked and tasted rather like a plate of Weet-bix. "That's enough", he said after a short while. She had eaten less than half. She put the bowl on the table. It would still be there when she got home later.
"How do you know this?", she asked me, in my imagination
I was standing right in the room, I said. Not at the time, not physically, but as a point of reference, like maybe you would in a dream, later, just conscious of what had taken plce, what the conversation had been, what people had felt and said. I was standing by the table, just to your right. He was on my right on the other side of the table, and to be honest I don't really know or care if there really was a table in the room. The light was yellow, and the door into the bathroom, or the next room behind which he had hidden his gun was behind him.
"Now get out and start running". She hesitated.
I had forgotten I hesitated, she told me. I didn't want to leave my house.
I know, I told her.
He raised his M16 again and pointed it at her, and started counting. 10, 9, 8... She turned and headed out the door into the dark night and into the street. As she turned left, and started to run down the road she hit a patch of sand on the ground. She stumbled for a moment but did not fall. Who put sand on the pavement? She just wanted to get away from the man, and the building. Now she was running fast into the night. How old was she? 14? 16? 18 I think.
Then she hit another patch of sand, and slipped again. This time she fell, and immediately there was a man right on top of her. She struggled to get to her feet, but he pushed her, and she fell again. He was a big man, a fat man, difficult to see clearly in the moonlight, but not much taller than her, a little older, maybe 30 years old, but well over 100 kilos. He had an M16 as well, but he dropped it. "Take your pants off" he grunted at her. Let me go, she shouted, and screamed, but it was useless, he had her by the arm and was a lot stronger than her. He shoved he back violently and she hit the ground hard. As she struggled to sit up, to roll away to escape, he beat on her head and chest with his closed right hand. She was helpless to resist. Take you jeans off, he ordered her. His fist rained down on her eye socket, her nose het head, her mouth, hard brutal blows, again and again and again. How many blows was it? She couldn't count or focus or resist,. She was half but not completely unconscious, but she felt that her face must be a bloody pulp. There was blood in her eyes, her teeth must be smashed, but she felt nothing. She was lieing on her back on the street, and he was undoing her jeans, and he was pulling them off, roughly, violently. They were caught on her legs, but were half off, and she was powerless to resist. Then he standing, two feet away from her, and pulling and jerking those jeans off with all his strength. Finally they were off, and he was taking down his own pants, forcing his penis into her.