When Carmelina was last awake, the torture had stopped. So she tried to escape by using her fingernails to tear her arm until blood dripped onto the cell floor. And walls faded away. Replaced by a world in which truth is a state of mind and imagination no longer exists.
She tore too far. The blood loss was too much. She was close to death when Benny found her unconscious. And decided that for his life, his story, to go on, he must find a way to save her life, her story.
*****
He puts her onto a straw pile, elevates her arm with a nearby slab of concrete, and uses his shirt and a few durable pieces of straw to to apply a tourniquet just below her shoulder. When the bleeding slows, he runs to the Miscellaneous Torture Supplies room and finds a needle and thread.
Typically used by other torturers to sew captive’s eyes shut, Benny uses the needle and thread to sew Carmelina’s life back together. Eventually, she awakens. And stares at the same monotonous cell wall that had driven her to escape. But she no longer feels a desire. To escape.
She knows, even in her weakened state, that someone is working to save her life. And for once, her own self-preservation doesn’t require her own self. It doesn’t require a unique ability to transcend one reality and occupy another. It only requires that she trust whoever is touching her.
*****
Without yet recognizing Benny’s touch, Carmelina decides that he must stop. She can’t trust anyone but herself. ”When we give up control over our stories,” she once wrote, “creativity stops, progress is impeded, and freedom is relinquished.”
“Please stop,” she tells the man with the delicate touch, as she pushes away. ”I’m fine. Let me be. Let me be!”
“If I don’t sew, you will die,” Benny tells her. He is as steady with his words as he is with his hands. Carmelina recognizes the voice. And weakly turns her head. And smiles. Benny! In this story, her torturer. In other stories, her lover or ideologue. But never her savior.
*****
She knows that he’s not a savior because she’s created his roles. His talents. His histories. He tortures captives in Algeria, fights tigers in Peru, and kisses little Greek girls in Greece. But he doesn’t apply tourniquets or sew arms. Confused, she asks him how he exists without the foresight of her pen.
“When I saw you lying unconscious on the floor,” he tells her, “I understood that just as you must write for me to live, I must sew for you to live.”
She tells him that it’s impossible. Characters don’t have free will. They exist at the will of authors. ”And I’m the author. It’s my will!” She again tries to pry away her damaged arm. But she’s too weak. He remains firm with needle and thread. So she closes her eyes. And tries in vain to escape.
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