Suggested by a true incident in Ohio in the 1980s, where a young woman evidently remained passive, in a Yoga posture, while being stabbed to death by a still-unknown assailant.
Even when she heard noises near the window, Melanie didn't look up. She kept staring at the far wall, at the Tantric mandala she'd pinned up there; it seemed like such a long time ago to her now. She'd just been getting into exploring the world of spirituality then, and it had all seemed so new, so fresh, so fascinating. But now the poster was tattered around the edges, just like her hopes and dreams. She felt like sighing, but she suppressed it, she kept up the Hatha breathing. It would keep her relaxed.
She heard the sound of breaking glass, followed by footsteps; a couple of seconds later she turned her eyes slightly and looked at the man who was standing there.
"It's funny," she said, her voice sounding very loud in her own ears. "I didn't think you'd be wearing a suit and tie."
He smiled. "So you were expecting me. I thought as much. How did you believe that I would look?"
"I didn't know. Just not like an insurance salesman!"
"Ah, well. It draws no attention on the streets, you see."
"Of course."
He took a step closer to her; she didn't move. "So you knew I was coming. You also, then, knew why."
"Yes."
"Ah. And further--?"
"Yes. I saw that I cannot fight you, and I cannot escape from you. You see me here before you, without hope."
"Ah, excellent! That makes it easier, then!"
"For both of us, perhaps," she told him. "But let me ask you--is there, really, no hope? Nothing I can do? I know it's all your choice, but--"
Still smiling broadly, he shook his head. "Nothing. It has to be. You've probably seen that."
"Yes--but I had to ask, didn't I?"
"It could not hurt." He walked to the couch where she was sitting, and, gently moving her long brown hair aside, touched her neck. "Now, Melanie," he told her, his voice as gentle as his touch. "I have other--calls I have to make tonight."
She turned her face up to him, her blue eyes looking into his dark ones. He put a slight pressure on her neck, and she got up from the couch. Taking two steps to the center of the room, she sank down in a lotus posture, lowered her head and started to extend her arms.
"It doesn't have to be," he told her, "but it will be better if you are not clothed."
She glanced at him, shrugged, and stood up. Quickly she pulled off her work shirt, her shoes, and her blue jeans; her panties were all that was left, and they dropped to her feet. All the garments were cast onto the couch, and she again adopted her lotus. Slowly, her hands came out and rested on her bare knees, her thumbs and middle fingers forming a pair of "O"s, her eyes closed.
He crouched in front of her. "I could do this swiftly," he told her. "But it would be better too if I did not."
She opened her eyes slowly. "For me or for you?" she asked.
He shook his head. "To me it does not matter."
She gazed at his eyes for a few moments and found that she could not doubt him; he had no reason whatever to lie to her. "What's best for me," she answered. "Do what's best for me."
"There will be more pain that way. You should know."
She bit her lip. "It's all right." Her voice wavered. "Help me... help me do it well..."
She saw him nod, and she closed her eyes again. A second later, she heard a sharp click; she found she was unable to keep them closed, and when they opened she saw a switchblade knife in his hand, the light glinting coldly on the blade.
"A switchblade?" she asked. "You use a switchblade?"
He glanced at it. "Why not?"
"It just doesn't seem--appropriate, somehow."
"I assure you, it is. And again, it does not draw undue attention." He smiled. "It is an excellent little weapon, really--as you will see--" As he spoke, he reached forward with it, touching her bare belly with it, on the level of but a little to the right of her navel. She felt the cool touch of the point, felt a slight pricking.
"Are you ready to begin, Melanie?" he asked.
She sighed. "I don't suppose there's any reason to wait..."
"No," he replied. "There isn't." Laying a hand on her shoulder and watching her eyes, he started pressing on her belly with the knife's point, increasing the pressure gradually. After a moment her skin gave way and the blade began sliding into her; he pushed on, rocking it gently from side to side as it slipped in.
The pain flared, a thing alive, swirling around her lower body. Trying to keep control, she ground her teeth; she couldn't help giving voice to a few grunts, but otherwise she was silent as he slipped it on in, as far as it would go. Still watching her strained face, he held it deep inside her for a moment, then slowly extracted it. She could feel the hot wetness streaming down her side, over her hip, and onto the carpet.
He touched her cheek. "There is pain, I know," he said, his lips close to her ear and his voice soft. "Hold it to yourself, let your blood flow for a little while. Your heart will be exalted by it, exalted..."
She looked at his face, at his eyes; he moved his hand down, along the side of her neck, over her shoulder, down her chest. When he reached her breast he stopped, cupping it in his hand, caressing its soft roundness very gently, very sensually. He lifted the knife again, brought it up to her breast. Again she felt the pricking, just below her nipple. "I think you will understand, in just a moment," he said, pushing the knife hard against her breast.
Again, it broke through the skin and started sinking softly in. This time she watched; she could not help squirming as she saw it going deeper and deeper, as she saw the blood began to flow out around it. It took an effort, but again, she did not move her hands and she did not make a sound.
Once more, he pulled it free; blood gurgled out with increased vigor. "Now!" he whispered intensely. "Now, now do you see?"
Focusing her attention on the rushing blood, she thought maybe she did. The sensation was very strange, like her body had been turned into some sort of weird funnel and whatever was her Self was flowing out through its narrow end before expanding into some awesome vastness. The spurting of the blood actually started feeling good to her. Slowly, she nodded.
He smiled. "Ah," he murmured. "Good, good!" He touched her body again, sliding his fingertips down the side of her pierced breast, stopping when he'd moved below her lowest rib. Here he gently worked the knife back into her, and by now she found herself positively welcoming it. As more of her blood flowed out she closed her eyes, parted her lips, and smiled. He smiled too, and he pulled the knife back and out slowly, methodically.
"Now," he told her, lifting her left breast and massaging it with his fingers. He touched the nipple, and she saw the knife's tip diasppear under her breast. "Now you are ready. Now I will send you to your death, Melanie."
He paused for just an instant; then he plunged the knife back in, driving it as deep as it would go.
She felt a crushing pain in her chest and the dark heart's blood started to spurt out, spraying onto the carpet a good five feet in front of her. Sliding the knife back out, he held her shoulders while her body stiffened, then relaxed slowly; the spray of blood calmed to a pumping, then to a slow drain. Her legs unfolded as he let her lie back on the floor, but even as he left, her thumbs and fingers stilled formed the "O"s.