The Burdens of Others

***

Three days later she was sitting on a low slung plastic chair on a beach in Tel Aviv. Her feet troubled the sand beneath them as the stubby chair legs dug further into the shore with her movement. Night had fallen and the promenade behind them buzzed with life and noise, the sound of skateboards racing through the crowd coupled with loud calls of anger in amusement that followed the grinding sound. But instead they sat, entombed in their own wall of silence created by their refusal to hear those around them.

The waitress approached.

"Bottle of tequila" Oriel ordered without asking him. Ed arched an eyebrow at her.

"Em—What kind of tequila you want?" There was something in the girl's accent and attitude that made it clear she thought her English was fantastic.

"The cheapest one," Oriel said bluntly. The girl strode away, long legs kicking up sand in her wake.

Oriel looked at Ed as he swiveled away from the girl's retreating back. "It's most cost efficient this way."

"I didn't say anything."

"And I have a second bottle in my bag, so when we finish one, we can carry on as merry as we please." There was a tiny hint at her normal tone in those last few words, a break from the dullness she'd been employing these last few days. She slid down in her chair, black hair flowing over the back as her neck came to rest on the red plastic back. Her eyes went up to the sky and Ed's followed them there. Humidity coupled with the bright lights of the city hid most of the stars from view, the misty moon hanging low over the water.

Ed took a breath and mustered his courage. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She didn't turn to look at him, her eyes fixed on the hazy sky above them. "Ask me again when we get to the second bottle."

*

Ed woke up to the sound of retching from the bathroom. His head pounded when he tried to move, the humid heat in the room making the task that much harder. The next sound got him to his feet. He leaned against the cool door frame, taking in her crouched body, her hair bunched and fisted behind her head to keep it away from her face. She spat into the bowl.

He flicked on the hot water heater and moved into the bathroom, taking up the task of holding her long black hair back. If his head hurt, hers must have been ten times worse. The room with the toilet in it was too small for both of them to sit, so he leaned against the wall, bending to rub her back as she heaved again.

Later he joined her in the shower, washing off the sand they'd been too drunk to do away with when they got home. Oriel stood under the burning spray, filling her mouth over and over again until the taste of alcohol and vomit faded.

Ed took the opportunity to work shampoo through her hair, rubbing her scalp and pulling on the ends to draw her head back. She eased into him, back flush against his front, warm water sliding around the points of contact. He ran his hands over her skin, suds following his touch. It was the only real response he'd gotten from her in days so he continued until she was rubbing against him. He touched her gently, coaxing her further.

When she grabbed his hand and tried to move it down to her core he let her. When she turned to kiss him, he let her lead the way. Anything to feel her move again. But she pushed him away, out of the spray of the rapidly cooling water.

"Don't do that," she snapped at him.

"Do what?" he asked, not willing to approach her yet.

"Don't treat me like I'll break, like I'm different than I was last week." She moved towards him, shoulders forward, accusatory finger towards his chest. "Don't you dare."

All it took was her finger meeting the dip between the muscles of his chest for him to react. Her wrist was in his fist, twisted up behind her. He pressed her front against the cold stone of the shower stall, a harsh intake from her telling him how unpleasant it was. The motion immediately calmed him. Her stillness in his grip was a different quality than the trudging daze she'd been in since he packed her up in their transport.

But then she squirmed, bringing her free hand to the wall to try and push herself off. He answered her with three hard smacks to her wet ass. She yelped, but didn't stop. He gave her five more before her hand dropped, her body loosening. The water was rapidly losing any heat so he reached over to turn it off. She took the opportunity to twist from the wall, though not from his grip, a grip he used to pull her to him, pressing her back to his chest.

She struggled when he wrapped his arms around her middle, hoisting her against him as he moved back to the bedroom. When he tossed her face down he followed almost immediately to keep her in place. Once her wrists were back in his grip, his thighs holding her legs against the bed, he leaned to whisper in her ear.

"Red to stop," he said softly

"I fucking know," she growled. "Don't stop."

He shifted off her so her could spank again. "Don't order me around."

"Don't be a pussy," came the muffled reply. He stretched her arms further, watching as her shoulder blades shifted to accommodate the strain. He parted her thighs with his knees before slipping his hand down and under, pinching her clit hard despite how slippery he found it. Her body arched in pain, her legs spreading wider.

"Name calling," he said, still holding firm, enjoying the panting sounds she made, "is uncalled for." He released her clit and she slumped. He massaged it, feeling her hips push back to increase the pressure. He smacked her ass again. "Stay still." She didn't. Each blow to her ass and thighs was a little harder. It took nearly twenty before she gave in.

He stroked down her back, her breath moving the ribs beneath his fingertips. He enjoyed the quiet with palms full of her spanked skin, still warmer than his. His thumb brushed over her slit, finding her fluids and drawing them back to her puckered hole. She groaned as he eased the thick digit inside, and louder as he began to saw it back and forth, the vice grip of her ass no match for his slippery finger. Two fingers dove into her pussy and she bucked against his hand. He stretched her further, moving his legs over hers to keep her still while he watched her body engulf his fingers over and over again. The play of tension and stillness in her body hung tight with potential, a silent violin string. So he played her, and the sounds she made were beautiful.

He shifted her arms down so that he held her wrists in the small of her back. He used it as leverage to pull her back and impale her in the same move. She yelped at their bodies' impact. He waited for a moment, to see if she'd stop him. She didn't. It felt like a challenge; one he accepted. A small voice whispered that he should go easy, that she was hurting. But he knew she needed the pain. And his need, the one to take back all those helpless moments by exerting complete control fed the violence of his movements.

He fucked her hard, pulling her back against his thrusts. She began to twist in his hold despite the way her pussy gripped him, the sound of her oncoming orgasm clear. He reached around her body, slowing only enough to allow him to grasp her breast, the hard nipple at its peak his target. She shrieked when he crushed the nub, her pussy clamping down as she came. He gave her no quarter, holding on while he picked up his pace, dragging the tortured flesh back and forth with his movements. Her body shook as he pushed her higher, his eyes locked on back as her muscles tensed beneath her sweat damp skin.

When her body relaxed, he released her hands and nipple, hearing the answering groan as her body landed softly on the bed. He took her slowly now, one hand teasing her clit as the other traced the faint outlines left by his hand on her ass. When she began to tense again, her body dancing under his touch he delivered three direct smacks to her clit, emptying himself into her as she screamed in climax.

For a moment he stayed there, up to the hilt in her, enjoying the peace that came after, the calm he felt beneath his hands as she sank further into the bed.

Despite the humid night, he gathered her body into his, fitting her back to his chest as he stroked her skin, tending to her tormented nipple. And for a few moments she was there with him, deep breaths and pressed flesh in tandem in their quiet. It was strange how subtle the change was when it came, but how definitely he felt it when she left that calm without him.

She moved away, reaching for an abandoned towel to clean herself from their combined mess. Her hand caught the neck of a half empty bottle he hadn't seen nor helped with. He was up, grasping the wrist crooked to bring the liquor to her lips.

"Stop, Oriel." He'd seen enough sorrows drowned, and those burdened with them dragged down behind them. He faced her, cupping her cheek with the unoccupied hand.

Her dark eyes, those impossibly thick lashes, flicked up to his face. For a moment he watched her war with herself before some barrier broke and tears gathered.

"I wanted her to die." The voice was not hers, its desolation as menacing as those desert nights. "For a moment, I stood there as every last resort failed, and I hoped they would all die."

Amira, her smile and laugh, the precision of her accent and constant help she offered during his time at the hospital, all flashed through his memory as he tried to comprehend her confession. In their wake horror came, and quickly guilt, and finally understanding.

Her eyes were locked on his; she'd seen every flicker after the impact of her words. She knew, she must know, how he'd wanted to recoil from her.

"Oriel," he tried to keep his voice calm. "It was a moment, and understandable." He forced the word out. "They should have never left you there that long. It's human-"

She shoved his chest, the bottle falling with a thud on the towel at their feet. "Don't you fucking say that to me!" she screamed, pushing him even when his grip never left her had. "I loved her. I should have saved her. And when she died, when her babies wouldn't breathe, I felt relief, release! Just one moment, just one second where there was no one to take care of. But she needed me!"

He controlled the worst of her blows but he allowed most of them, her fists meeting his chest with all the rage she carried, every minute of self-loathing she suffered. When the tears came, he pulled her closer, folded her into his arms and carried her back to the bed.

"You're good, Oriel. You're good," he repeated into her ear as she sobbed. She wouldn't believe it, not yet. Some part of him didn't believe it either. His own past allowed him the capacity to comprehend and analyze, to understand her desire to be left alone, to be free from the ever present grind of her responsibility to save those she could do so little for. Her traumas would claim the piece of her soul they were due, as his had, and the fight to reclaim it was a long one. He pressed his lips against her wet hair, aware of her cool, wintery scent beneath the florals left by the shampoo. Her body folded in his lap and he felt the push and pull of tension and release as she cried.

"You're good," he said again and again, rocking them both to her sobs.

*****

"They shared the weight of memory. They took up what others could no longer bear. Often, they carried each other, the wounded or weak."

― Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried