White Ribbon

Back in 2007 I was a member of a blogging site called Journalspace, and a friend I’d made there posted a vignette in her blog called White Ribbon. I found it captivating, and asked her what the story behind it was, but she said it was simply an image that had sprung into her head. She knew neither what had happened before its beginning nor what was to happen after its ending. She pressed me several times to expand it into a short story myself, but sadly, despite repeated attempts, I failed to satisfy her demands.

However, in 2020, almost 13 years later, I decided to have a go at illustrating it. Here are both her vignette (reproduced with her permission) and my painting. It is highly stylised, and does not entirely match the text, but it was the best I could manage. I felt I had made at least some step towards compensating for my earlier inadequacy, though the idea of writing a complete story still haunts me.

White ribbons hang carelessly from the ceiling. Three are strung tightly.

Suspended cruelly at the end of the ribbons, a young woman; her face hangs with shame, eyes closed, dark. Her hands lie limp above her head, slender fingers bleeding slightly. Her ankles are crossed, tied in a painful twist.

She hangs there, helpless amongst the pure silky fabric, lips pouting at gravity, breasts and charms exposed, curves exploited. Her blue-black hair is tied away from her face with ribbons, made of rich, soft ringlets that bounce gently with her soft, even breathing.

She is lowered gently down, down onto a downy soft bed of black. Ivory skin covers slack, unused muscles and she is nearly translucent as she lies there, limp and vulnerable to the robed figure walking slowly towards her, removing his robes, exposing a handsome face made of strong features and cruelty.

The midnight robes slip from his fingers and his body towers above hers; her eyes open slightly, move to see him. Her beautiful mouth twitches, yet she continues to lie still.

His hands caress her skin, just the softest of touches, but he’s violating her, his Virgin Whore.

Pressing his dark lips to her ear, he whispers, soft as clouds, “Perhaps a ribbon is what I need, to wrap tightly around your pretty throat.”

Her chest jerks as she skips a breath, and his lips grow slowly into a smile.

—Emily McDurman