The Rape of the Sabine Women

The morning shone. It was the plum-stained cheeks, it was the twinkling eyes of a child. Under the sky the city woke, writhing, ever changing, it swept this way and that, tides pulled by a mysterious force on the horizon. 



We went out into the markets, into the fields and the flocks, into the city. We lived with every breath we took, becoming part of the ocean. Our colors shone in shiny greens–the grass. Yellows–the sun. Blues–the Virgin Mary's own kit. We danced in the crowds, moving our bodies to the rhythm of the morning. Into our ears, the birds gave melody to our steady drumming, as we gave harmony with our voices. We did what was done. 



I remember smelling many things. I remember the smell of sweat, of the market, of the men and women. Now that I look back, it was there the whole time, clear as the shadows that chase the sun. I smelled the acidic scent of tears. I must not have thought this strange. I wish I did. 



This was before the men came. 



I remember it clearer than the other mornings: it was happier, it was full of bounce. Sometimes you remember little details like that. Like the boy’s face who chased by my swelling skirts. His tan skin, the color of fresh bread. His round ears, sticking out of his head just a bit too far. His deep brown eyes, clearer than glass, brighter than summer, darker than mahogany. His small nose, his dark hair, his angular face, his cheeky smile.



When the men came, nobody knew what was going on. 



I remember that more than anything else. I can feel my brow furrow. I can feel my hands hold the basket, the texture of woven willow, the warmth between my palms. 



I can feel myself search. A woman came running through the street. Her yellow, her green, her blue–whichever it was– torn. The rhythm of the morning changed. I could feel it. Deep in my stomach I felt it. The cobbles under my sandals sunk. 



In our spines, we felt it. All of us. I think the birds felt it too. I will not curse you with all that comes next. 



When the men came, everyone all of the sudden knew what was going on. They might have lined us up and stabbed us all dead, but they couldn't give that mercy. 



I don't really remember feeling sad once I understood. I was disappointed. It wasn't fair on a day such as this. When I prayed, it was only for the trees witnessing, for the sun.



 I remember thinking, “Not today. that’s not fair. It's too beautiful.”



I kept asking why, but I should have already known. My legs shake still. I don't think they will ever stop. 



We went out into the markets, into the fields, into the flocks, into the city. We wept, we prayed, we cursed. Spit. Fought. Cried. Some of us escaped. 



The men took everything from us. Our food, our goods, our valuables, our clothes, our dignities.



 We held our children. We wept, but it did not matter. 



“Stop!” We cried, but it did not matter. 



When the men came, the sun still shone. But it should not have. The wind still brushed up against my wet cheek, my swollen eyes, my damaged pride. But it should not have. 



We were thrown against the backs of horses–luggage. Chattel. Taken far, far away. 



The horse was warm, comforting almost. I could feel its strength under me, its muscles moving. It was sure, steady, grounding. My horse was chestnut brown. Her breath was hotter than the summer sun. Her hair was soft. My hands held onto her stomach, felt her move with clarity, with purpose. I felt her breathe, I felt myself breathe. I think I understood her. Just then. I really think I did. As for the rest, I barely remember the rest myself.



I do remember it. Of course I remember it. But only at night. Only sometimes. I wish the moon was not so cruel to me, making me remember. 



We moved as a pack. The horses traveled–pushing, panting. Working, working, working. They snaked through the roads and over the cobbles, over the dirt, over the ruins of our lives. The horses ran with us on their backs, in the wagons. None of us had the strength left to fight it anymore. 



I will not curse you with all that comes next. 



Under these holy archways, under these ornate and beautiful things, the sculptures displaying our finest. From out of our houses, from out of the streets, out of the gutters, out of the pissholes and out of the mansions, we were taken. 



The men did not have taste. All they had was lust. Lust and anger. Lust, anger, and self-righteousness. They thought that they deserved us, that we owed them something. 



Sometimes I try to escape these things, when they come back. When I go far, far away and start hearing the first shrill scream of a sister. The rough hands, calloused, pudgy, dirty. When I remember the horrible, horrible things. I have found it’'s best not to fight it. 



Sometimes it isn't that bad at all. Like when I go back to watching the sun filter through the stained glass by the streets, seeing the light move, seeing the people move, seeing us shimmer, seeing it shimmer. Green. Yellow. Blue. Smelling the bread, the roast meat in the morning. Watching the flocks move across our green, lush fields, rolling like our beautiful green skirts.  



I have heard that everything slows down right before you die. Everything gets clearer as the adrenaline kicks in. You see the world through a new light. It is sharper. Everything is slightly different. 



Well, maybe I died that day and am still living. Maybe I did die, only my heart is still beating and I am forced to go on. Sometimes I wish that I did die. 



I would give anything to feel that only once more.