Nietzsche’s Last Man
A woman’s voice. Panicked, the silence cutting it off like an iron sluice gate. A deep growl subdued but charged with ions of anger. Scuffled sounds. Silence. A whimper. “Bitch.” Loud this time. The smack of flesh on raw flesh. Silence. My mind was swimming in a thick borsch but the alarm bells echoed through the dank hallway of consciousness. I’d sworn to myself never to let another woman suffer the misery Claire left the world with. Something was going on. I stood up, wavered, my head barely balanced on a neck of rubber, couldn’t focus on a thing. Eyes over-oiled in their sockets, sliding. Leaden lids. The dull alcoholic haze was a welcome one in those days but I hadn’t realised how far gone I was that night. Come on. Pull yourself together, I thought to myself. Leaving my stuff behind, moving slowly into the curtain of the night. Fear now. Not a sound. Instinct taking over, closing pores, heightening perceptions. I can still picture it. Got to be silent, careful. Through the wall of trees to a clearing. Figures traced in moonlight’s hand.
Three.
Two figures? Three?
They’ve got her.
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