Guinevere
Their wedding night was passionate. She was able to relax because she had plucked out every offending hair the day before. She had always kept her face smooth, but they also grew in secret places that shamed her.
Now she kept her body smooth for him. Night after night they made love, and tried to make their son. That son never came, and of course he blamed her, even when he stopped making love to her. She cried most days, until one day she found herself crying onto another man's shoulder.
'I can't tell you,' she said. 'I'm too ashamed.'
'You don't have to tell me,' he said. 'And you don't have to be ashamed.'
One morning she was in their bedroom, sitting at her mirror and hating her reflection. She would be plucking out hairs all her life, and always they would grow back. Her husband did not normally see her until the evenings, but on that day he arrived almost in time to see what she was doing. She plucked out the last hair and dropped the tweezers just as he burst through the door.
'I've realised,' he said, 'I can hardly blame you when I haven't touched you in weeks. Come, my love. Let us make our son.'
He advanced towards her, and she recoiled, thinking in horror of the hairs on her body. He had not wanted her, and she had not wanted him, and so she had neglected them.
'Not now,' she said, stepping away from his embrace. 'Tonight, my love.'
His face darkened. 'Now.'
'I am not ready.'
'I am your husband!'
The more she pleaded with him, the angrier he became, and in the end he had her anyway. She was facedown on the bed, crying, telling herself that at least he couldn't see the hairs. Then he did see them. He rolled her over like a baker turns his finished dough, and stared in disgust at the line below her navel... pulled away her arms as she tried to cover her breasts.
'Witch,' he said. 'Any child of yours will be from the Devil!'
He threw down her arms, plucked the hairbrush from her dressing table and threw it at the mirror. She screamed and covered her head, afraid that she too would be broken into shards.
When the noise ceased and she dared to look up, she was alone. She cried until the other man heard her through the door. He knocked, more and more frantically as the seconds passed, shouting out her name.
'One moment!' she said, dressed hurriedly, and let him in.
He reached for the tear stains on her face. 'What is it?'
She did not tell him then, but eventually she told him about everything except the hairs. Still, she chose her words carefully.
'I wanted a few minutes to prepare myself. Of course, he is my husband...'
'That doesn't make any difference,' he said.
'I know you would never treat your wife in such a way.'
'My wife...'
He stopped. She looked at him. He sighed, loosened his shirt and showed her his shoulder. It was purple, yellowing at the edges, clear to be seen beneath the small dark hairs. She reached out to touch it. When her fingers made contact, he flinched and covered himself.
'You might say she forced our son from me,' he said. 'But... that wasn't like...'
'I am sure it was very much like that.'
There was a pause.
'Of course,' he said, 'I am stronger than she is.'
'That doesn't make any difference.'
She was surprised when she found herself ready for his body, so soon after her husband's cruel touch. His hands were at the fabric on her breasts before she remembered the horrors hidden there.
'I need time,' she said.
'I understand.' He took at least five steps back.
'I mean just an hour or so.'
'An hour or so?'
She nodded.
He smiled. 'I could do with an hour or so myself.'
When they made love, he let her touch the bruise, and she realised with a smile why he had flinched before. His back, neck and shoulders were now hairless.
© A.R. Collins, 2015
Now she kept her body smooth for him. Night after night they made love, and tried to make their son. That son never came, and of course he blamed her, even when he stopped making love to her. She cried most days, until one day she found herself crying onto another man's shoulder.
'I can't tell you,' she said. 'I'm too ashamed.'
'You don't have to tell me,' he said. 'And you don't have to be ashamed.'
One morning she was in their bedroom, sitting at her mirror and hating her reflection. She would be plucking out hairs all her life, and always they would grow back. Her husband did not normally see her until the evenings, but on that day he arrived almost in time to see what she was doing. She plucked out the last hair and dropped the tweezers just as he burst through the door.
'I've realised,' he said, 'I can hardly blame you when I haven't touched you in weeks. Come, my love. Let us make our son.'
He advanced towards her, and she recoiled, thinking in horror of the hairs on her body. He had not wanted her, and she had not wanted him, and so she had neglected them.
'Not now,' she said, stepping away from his embrace. 'Tonight, my love.'
His face darkened. 'Now.'
'I am not ready.'
'I am your husband!'
The more she pleaded with him, the angrier he became, and in the end he had her anyway. She was facedown on the bed, crying, telling herself that at least he couldn't see the hairs. Then he did see them. He rolled her over like a baker turns his finished dough, and stared in disgust at the line below her navel... pulled away her arms as she tried to cover her breasts.
'Witch,' he said. 'Any child of yours will be from the Devil!'
He threw down her arms, plucked the hairbrush from her dressing table and threw it at the mirror. She screamed and covered her head, afraid that she too would be broken into shards.
When the noise ceased and she dared to look up, she was alone. She cried until the other man heard her through the door. He knocked, more and more frantically as the seconds passed, shouting out her name.
'One moment!' she said, dressed hurriedly, and let him in.
He reached for the tear stains on her face. 'What is it?'
She did not tell him then, but eventually she told him about everything except the hairs. Still, she chose her words carefully.
'I wanted a few minutes to prepare myself. Of course, he is my husband...'
'That doesn't make any difference,' he said.
'I know you would never treat your wife in such a way.'
'My wife...'
He stopped. She looked at him. He sighed, loosened his shirt and showed her his shoulder. It was purple, yellowing at the edges, clear to be seen beneath the small dark hairs. She reached out to touch it. When her fingers made contact, he flinched and covered himself.
'You might say she forced our son from me,' he said. 'But... that wasn't like...'
'I am sure it was very much like that.'
There was a pause.
'Of course,' he said, 'I am stronger than she is.'
'That doesn't make any difference.'
She was surprised when she found herself ready for his body, so soon after her husband's cruel touch. His hands were at the fabric on her breasts before she remembered the horrors hidden there.
'I need time,' she said.
'I understand.' He took at least five steps back.
'I mean just an hour or so.'
'An hour or so?'
She nodded.
He smiled. 'I could do with an hour or so myself.'
When they made love, he let her touch the bruise, and she realised with a smile why he had flinched before. His back, neck and shoulders were now hairless.
© A.R. Collins, 2015