SIXTY

Is This Composing?

Once Catherine steps back out into the hallway, the noises in the oversized closet where the women are restrained immediately and considerably decrease in volume. Consequently, after a moment of near quiet, she wonders if it is necessary to tell someone about the creaking sounds, since she no longer believes that the coat rack structures might crash down. She soon decides that walking away is now acceptable, and turns her face to look up and down the wide corridor. She sees no one for a handful of seconds, before a woman passes through the doors that Catherine exited some minutes ago.

The woman is clothed, which Catherine finds quite odd. And perhaps unfair. Tristan’s female, however, does not allow confusion to increase its grip on her, and manages to get a hold of herself instead, as is her way: to figure it all out within, without allowing anyone to know that she does not have a clue as to what is going on. Silence, after all, is golden, and one appears much more intelligent when being silent, than when asking silly questions while confused. Intelligent questions are always a must, but Catherine does not feel much intelligent at all, at this moment.

She recognizes the woman as one of the two true submissives she was forced to be physically intimate with, during a combo hour, for the masters’ entertainment. The woman is not, however, the one who also collaborated with Catherine during a guessing round.

“You’re going to win it. I just know it,” Catherine hears, as the woman approaches.

“Tristan’s art is impressive,” Catherine admits, wary of finding the woman’s eyes.

“I don’t mean his art. I mean yours. It wouldn’t be fair if he got to compete. He’s a pro.”

Catherine frowns.

“How many more rounds of elimination now, before the weekend ends? Let’s see,“ the woman adds, before counting on her fingers.

“Elimination? Isn’t the judging at the end?” Catherine counters, uncertain how Tristan’s designing on her is actually her art and not his, as far as judging goes, moreover clueless as to how his being a singer by profession would stop him from competing in the come-totem contest, and, most of all, still affected by what happened in the coatroom, and, therefore, not even close to being at full capacity when it comes to thinking and considering. Why is she clothed? Catherine, however, does manage to wonder. What is this?

“No other woman here has a talent that even comes close to yours. You’re going to win.”

Catherine frowns once more. She wants to regulate, but this woman is making it impossible. What is she talking about?

“I’m getting tired of the therapy part, that one on one with my husband, with all its psychological exercises. Group’s a little better because there’s more people to role play with, so it’s funny, even if it’s supposed to be all serious and productive. I love the shows, even if I was already voted out. Did you like my dialogue bit from the monologues?”

“I . . . ”

“Okay. So I forgot a few words. Anyway, I hear that the next contest cycle will be all about trust games. I like the silly games better. Why does everything have to have a purpose? Just getting together with so many couples is fun enough. Making new friends too. I know that you and Tristan aren’t here for the therapy part, since you two are still shiny and new. No need for the big guns yet. I remember when I was here when it was about getting to know my husband better. It was actually just five years ago. Not to scare you, or anything.” Pause. “Are you okay? Is it nerves, because there’s just a few show-rounds left? You shouldn’t worry, and you should really think about going on one of those TV talent shows. Maybe ride Tristan’s coat tails. You’re that good. And he should see that. Doesn’t he? Is that one of the things you two are working through, this weekend? There’s always little things like that, at the beginning. Is he jealous of your talent? Men don’t like having to compete with their female, after all.”

“Tristan wouldn’t allow me to be on a TV show,” Catherine mutters, before frowning once more. What the hell is going on here?

“Take it up in group. I’m sure that he can be convinced. He can’t truly feel that you’re a threat to his own talent and career. It has to be something more personal, not wanting to share you. My husband . . . ”

“You’re married?” Catherine interrupts, when the woman uses the word once again. “And why are you wearing those clothes? What did I miss?”

“I spilled hot chocolate. You noticed my change of clothes? Oh, you and I are going to be great friends. So, who’s your favourite designer? What are you wearing? I’m not familiar with it.”

“I’m wearing Tristan’s art,” Catherine replies, before looking down at herself and seeing herself clothed as well. She takes a deep breath. Her heart enjoyed only a few seconds of regulating. Now it accelerates once again.

“It’s not bad. But he shouldn’t quit his day job. Come on, let’s grab a bite while those lazy bones men of ours stretch out sleep time like they always do. It’s supposed to be four hours on the nose, not five, not six. But, anything to get out of one on one and group. Leave it to men to like the silly games and voting off acts more than . . . ”

“Why are we dressed?” Catherine interrupts, silence’s image thus tarnished.

Catherine, stop talking, healer, however, reminds her.

Am I . . . composing? Which part? Oh, I really, really shouldn’t be composing. That’s really, really bad, isn’t it? I don’t know how I know that, but I do.

Yes it is. Get a grip. Go to the bathroom.

I need to sleep. This is getting ridiculous.

Catherine turns away from the woman without a further look nor words, and begins to walk away. She shuts down her hearing tightly to not register the sound of the woman’s steps, or hear nothing. She does not want to know. 

The moment, however, is not done with her: as she walks, images flash in and out of her mind. At first, the grand ballroom is seen with stations, but with each one tented, and so, with privacy allowed to the couple within each. Privacy of sight, anyway.

When images of the contest area flash by next, Catherine sees herself on Tristan’s back as he races towards a finish line.

When the stage is seen following those images, a man juggling bananas is entertaining the gathered crowd. He is obviously one of the men participating in weekend activities, and not a professional.

And no one is nude.

When images of a combo next enter her mind, the speed of the images flipping by slows, before they join up to become fluent, as in video. Sound then comes in, and Catherine immediately loses her perspective of observer to take her place within the self that she previously only just observed.

“In this room, for this group hour, I’ve gathered couples where each female partner was recently betrayed in a similar way, by her mate,” a man announces. He is standing among fifteen couples, which Catherine has just quickly counted.

Midnight hour minimum, a part of her points out.

“The goal of this session is for the women to listen, to hear, and for the men to express clear knowledge and acknowledgement of what their behaviour has done to their mate and to their relationship,” the man adds. “Women, you will not be allowed to speak while your mate is. No interruptions. Not a peep. Men, you will have to speak the entire ten minutes allotted to you in this exercise. So, find the words.”

Catherine frowns as confusion further digs its way into her, as its sharp claws do. “What are we doing?” She whispers to Tristan.

“After twenty minutes, we’ll join up again for group discussion,” the man adds.

“This is absurd. I want out of here,” Catherine counters, standing up.

“Please sit down,” Tristan requests, his eyes turned up towards her, from his seated position, and his tone of voice, deferential.

“Don’t. Don’t take out that fake respect and courtesy and . . . Just don’t speak to me through one of your stupid, fake love songs!”

“Catherine, please just go along with this. We agreed that we would.”

“I agreed to this madness?! You’re f---ing insane! Why would I listen to your lies, ever?!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?! Are we in an alternate dimension?!”

“Mistress Maller, please sit down.”

“Mistress?! Okay, now that makes more sense!” Catherine snaps back at the man. “I see. This is a mistress-whore and jerk-male weekend. So, I accept all his crap and he goes home to his wife and kids and . . . You’re married?” She stops, her eyes into Tristan’s.

“I’m not married. You know that,” he calmly replies.

“I want out of here,” Catherine impatiently repeats, as she begins to walk towards the door.

Tristan is quickly to his feet and behind her. “No you don’t. Come on. I know this is hard on you. I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying you’re sorry!”

“I should’ve known better.”

“Known?! Since when does a dick know a thing?!”

“Catherine, please. Hear me out. Sit down.”

“Hear you out? You think that I don’t know every single word that you’re going to say?! That all of you men are going to say?” She adds to the males in the room. “Do you really think us women that stupid?! Oh, and a man is moderating this?! Wow,” she further snaps, looking at the man in question, the one who explained the ten minute session’s layout and rules.

“We’re here because this matters.”

“We’re here, Tristan, because you hate that I hate you,” Catherine roars back at him.

“That too,” he admits.

“Well, live with it!”

“You hate that you hate me, and I can’t live with that. You’re hurt, and I can’t live with that.”

“Go back to your little groupies and whores and leave me out of it! Set me free! If you want me to stop hurting, set me free!”        

“I tried, for your sake, but you couldn’t let go.”

“Me?! Screw you! I can let go! Let me walk out the door and you’ll never see me again!”

“I can’t do it again. What happened to you because I did the first time, when I didn’t even want to . . . ”

“Why don’t you ever LISTEN to me?!” She cuts in.

“I did listen to you, and what happened to you because I did . . . ”

“Oh, so you know best, of course, the mighty MAN!”

“I did know best, Catherine. And yet, I did what you wanted anyway, but I did know best, and after what happened to you . . . ”

“What happened to me is that our paths crossed, and then you wouldn’t let go of me!”

Tristan reaches out and grabs a hold of one of her forearms. It is not an abrupt, harsh hold. Just one to pull her back to him.

“No!” She snaps at him, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that!”

“I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

“Oh, and you will never do it again!” She continues to snap at him.

“I won’t.”

“I mean that you won’t do it again because I don’t want to be anywhere near you, ever again, so you won’t get the chance!” She screams at him, louder than ever, yanking her arm away from his grasp.

“It was stupid. I was stupid. I shouldn’t have gone. I shouldn’t have betrayed my family, nor you.”

“Your family hates how females like me break the rules and remain free, how we don’t just live and then return to our roots after we have, when living is over! They hate me!”

“They don’t hate you. They recognize your worth, even if it’s not according to plan. You add so much to . . .”

“Shut up! What is this?! My God . . .”

After a moment of his eyes into hers, Catherine, however, allows Tristan to guide her back to her seat. Once seated, she wipes away tears while the man speaks again.

“Each of you has been betrayed in a similar way,” he repeats to the women.

Catherine shakes her head no, disagreeing. “Not even close,” she then whispers.

“Men are . . . ” He begins.

“Oh God,” she snaps, her head still shaking from side to side.

When the ten minute session begins, Catherine refuses to look into Tristan’s eyes.

“I was wrong. What I did was wrong. I was angry with my family, and that just took over, and my behaviour was against them, not you. But I hurt you. I believed in something and in someone that I shouldn’t have believed in.”

“Yeah, the male collective,” Catherine whispers, despite the rule that women are not to speak.

“I couldn’t see. I . . . I believed that I could change things. I believed that it was unfair to judge, that my family was unfair to . . . “

Catherine tunes him out and listens to other men’s confessions instead. She hears from them what she expects to hear: those wealthy and powerful men indeed lied to and cheated on their mate, either with a mistress or with many women. With pros, or not.

“Catherine,” Tristan calls out to her, attempting to regain her attention.

“What the hell are you talking about?” She harshly replies, her eyes not back to his. Her chest tightens with the words, and the room spins.

“I can make you an individual immortal. I want to . . .”

“Have you lost your mind?!” She immediately retorts, on her feet again, just as quickly, and rushing away from him.

CATHERINE! Healer powerfully calls out to her.

“I shouldn’t have listened to my uncle. Catherine . . . ” Tristan adds.

“Leave me alone!”

“What happens in this world means nothing to me. The women, the . . .” He continues.

“Leave me alone!”

“But you matter more than anything, in any world, forever,” Tristan finishes.

“There is only this world! You’ve fed me pills because you want me to lose my mind! And you want my mind so you can scramble it, and so you never have to . . . I threatened to . . . I threatened to . . . What do I have on you that can’t be cancelled out by my death?!”

“Catherine . . .”

“You want me committed in a nut house! You . . . ”

“You have my heart. That’s what you have on me.”

“Your heart?! You have no idea what love is and how to love, if I indeed have your heart and still you . . . you do all that you do! You . . . ”

“I love like my father loves. Would you ever doubt his love for my mother?” Tristan interrupts.

“She’s one of a kind! Pure and yet female!”

CATHERINE, STOP. NOW! Healer possesses her with.

Catherine sends both hands to her temples, since the room spins more than she has ever felt it before. Nausea possesses her next.

“It’s just how I am, Catherine,” Tristan adds.

“And that’s a huge problem . . . ” She manages to reply, weaker now.

The scene changes and she finds herself alone with Tristan, in their station tent.

“This isn’t my favourite hour,” she insists, confused. The only art in the “room” is pinned to the material walls. “Why do those caricatures have such long noses?” She inquires, about real noses depicted upon playful images of some of the men in attendance this weekend. Tristan amused himself, killed time by sketching them.

“They’re just caricatures.”

“I think that they mean more.”

“They’re just noses,” Tristan adds. “Would you prefer I sketch the women?” He jests.

Catherine rubs the middle of her forehead with one fisted hand as the babbling in her mind almost overpowers her. “Why are we here?” She then manages to ask.

“I want you to be happy. I know that I can make you happy.”

“I know that I’ve lost my mind and that you’re responsible.”

“I can make it better. I want to.”

“No, you can’t. Things are really messed up. I shouldn’t be here. I won’t be forgiven. And there’s nothing you can do.”

“You’re here because of me. And I can make it all better,” he insists.

“How Dominant of you. But you can’t.”

“You followed me there, and then here, and I can make it okay.”

“When I die . . .”

CATHERINE, I WILL KNOCK YOU OUT AND IT WILL HURT FOR DAYS! AND NO FEVER THIS TIME, AS BUFFER! Healer most powerfully attacks her with.

Tristan pulls her close to him. She feels her heart reminding her how alive she is, how human, before her laboured breathing seconds the motion.

“Forgive me, please,” Tristan whispers into one of her ears, sending chills up and down her spine.

She is lulled by the power of his presence, by his strong arms wrapped around her, and when his lips tenderly find hers, she responds. But forgiveness, however, for this and that, for files that do not open, does not enter her mind.

Despite the return to calm, healer breaks up the moment -- succeeds this time -- and Catherine therefore once more sees the corridor that she was conscious of, before she was overwhelmed.

Guess taking two stay-up pills was a bad idea, uh? Now you’re composing too, he immediately sends to her. In the true sense, like any true artist, and not . . .

Silence.

Catherine?

I want to be in his arms. I want him to hold me. He’s so, so very powerful . . .

And he does things, and he makes you do things, and you’re his prisoner, ring a bell?

Yeah. Think I just had mine rung.