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Lying on your back, the lines on your face are almost smooth. Your parched lips are parted, a tiny hole in the middle. Very slowly, I undo the remaining buttons of your shirt. If you are so hot and clammy, you need more air. You might get another infection if I don’t wash you properly. And I want to see all of you again, all this skin that’s been hidden from me for years.
I pull the shirt open. Your body once had contours, ridges and hills of its own, but now it is milk-pale and full of scars. You’re Nick’s colour now, sallow in comparison to everything here, no longer infused with sun or dirt or life.
‘I’m going to wash you,’ I say.
Your head moves slightly as you murmur again. An acceptance? You don’t resist as I fold the shirt back. You even seem to help, moving a little to free it. I place my fingertips on your belly and touch a trail of hairs that lead down to the suit pants. I empty the old water from the bowl into one of the plastic bottles in case we get desperate, and pour in more salt and water to clean your body. When I return, you’re snoring softly, head lolling, chest exposed. Again, I think: I could do anything I want to you.
So I do. I take my small knife and hover above your head. I grab your ponytail of hair with my left hand and, holding it steady, I saw straight through. Now you have shorter hair, like before. I drop the chopped hair to the sand and pocket the hair tie, and you sleep on.
Avoiding my guilty thoughts, I dip the other side of the pillowcase into the water and bathe your chest, rinse it and do it again. I am healing you. I am changing you back to what I want, cleansing away all that I hate about you. It feels a little like a sacred ceremony. You moan when the water touches your stomach. I unbutton your suit pants, slide them down your sweaty legs. It’s easier than getting your shirt off, and again you help me, moving your feet as I pull.
You are naked now. It feels wrong to be staring, but I need to do this, to see you properly.You.So vulnerable. So mine. And besides, you did this to me once. It’s only fair.
Isn’t it?
I start to sponge, then rinse, and sponge again. I examine all of you as if you’re a piece of art. I wash your legs, your chest. Carefully, I wash the hairs around your penis. It stays still, unthreatening. I imagine chopping that off too, the scream you’d give. Then I imagine carving into your body, making patterns in you, the way you made art in the sand.
I wring your sweat into the bowl, then drown it with saltwater. When I wipe away the dried saliva at the edges of your parted lips, I hold my hand above your mouth and feel your breath. I want to breathe into you, put the Ty in my head inside you. I lean closer, so close that your face blurs beneath me. Your eyes remain closed.
The old you wanted to kiss me. Do you remember? Wouldit be wrong, then, for me to do it now? Does it make me as bad as you were? Does it make me worse? I watch for a sign, but you sleep on.
I don’t touch you with my lips, but I do with my hands. I press my right index finger to your hipbone, and trace below and around, to all the places I never touched before. You are new territory, something to be conquered. I am placing my hands on it all. It is my right.
After I have inspected your whole body, I take one of the crisp new Egyptian cotton sheets out of its packet and lay it over you, then cover your head wound with the other pillowcase to protect it from flies. Now that you are wrapped in a shroud, I can wait for your resurrection. I tie your legs to the camp bed, just in case.
I soak the shirt in the left-over water and hang it across the roof of the car to dry. You’ll be better tomorrow; your skin is already cooler. Everything will be better tomorrow.
I bathe the fox too. Like you, she doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t make much sound. You’re right: I should have left her at the side of the road. I shouldn’t have extended her agony.
I return to watch you sleep.
