by Kaye George
"Damn." The word echoed in the room. She reached down and gingerly touched the white bandage close to her ankle. The same heat smoldering in her cold sores could be felt coming from beneath the neat white square. Awkwardly, she lifted her leg up so that she was sitting almost cross-legged and removed the cloth.
The monkey in all its horrid glory stared up at her.
As it had at the tattoo shop, the little creature removed its hands from its mouth, and she was struck by jagged lines sewing its lips together. She shuddered, wondering how it was supposed to eat.
"Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil," she said, covering the monkey back up. She was shaken now, and unsure of what to do. That damn monkey had moved. She must be getting sick and hallucinating. Moving tattoos weren’t possible. Were they?
Karen got up from the toilet and heaved up her panties. She looked at herself in the mirror, the hideous dots marring her normal features. But something in the reflection had changed. With a trembling finger, she touched her mouth. What the hell was that? Beneath the fingertip, she could feel the beginning of a coarse line starting to form vertically between the upper and lower cold sore on that side.
"They’re not cold sores."
The words came with an effort because her mouth wouldn’t open all the way.
"What’s happening to me?" She lisped, shocked at how hard it was to open her lips. That’s when it hit her. The holes were just the right size for a needle and thread to go through.
"Are you alright in there?"
Carla McIntire’s voice floated through the wood door, carrying with it the sound of concern. But the feeling and its source irritated Karen further. That it should be Carla, of all people, checking on her welfare made her fume. "Stupid bitch."
"What was that?"
"Obnoxious whore," Karen said, speaking the words with great effort. To her horror, a heavy black stitching began to appear, linking the top and bottom cold sores together.
"I’m sorry, Karen. I can’t quite hear you. Do you need assistance?"
"Go away, you miserable, lesbian slut!" Karen tried to shout, but only half of her mouth would open. The other half was clamped shut, sewn together with jagged stitches.
"I’ll go get the nurse," Carla said.
"You do that." Karen snarled, though the words were barely decipherable. She scratched her lips, trying to remove the stitches and succeeding only in drawing blood and puffing up the tender skin. Hard and hot, the pain coursed through her face, swirling in her head. Words drifted back to her, words she’d heard recently from that foreign person, the one who’d branded her with the awful tattoo.
Someone should sew your lips shut.
"Why is this happening to me?" The sound came out in a long wail that carried beyond the door and into the teacher’s lounge. But she knew. Deep down she knew. Her filthy lies were catching up with her.
"Karen?" She could hear voices outside the door, strangled with curiosity more than concern. "Are you okay? Let us in."
Let them in? Have them see her like this? She’d rather die first. The doorknob to the small bathroom twisted urgently, and Karen wondered if there was a key somewhere to unlock it. She hoped not. Turning back to the mirror, she scratched at her lips, oblivious to the sounds of misery she made. Blood, like fat tear drops, dripped down her wobbly chin before splattering in the sink.
***
None of Karen Robison’s coworkers could ever figure out why she had done it. Yet, there were some who felt it was poetic justice that the gossip queen who never had anything nice to say had sewn her own lips shut. How she’d done it or why was always cause for speculation , but there could be little doubt that her own hand had accomplished the deed. Those that remained on staff at the school recalled the incident well, how the custodian had to be brought in to unlock the bathroom door, the blood splattered on the sink and mirror, and most tragically, the sight of Karen Robison mutilating herself with wide eyes as if even she was shocked by her actions. No one ever forgot that it had been Carla McIntire who helped Karen by getting the paramedics and assisting them with placing Karen’s heavy and hysterical form onto the gurney. She’d even ridden with Karen to the hospital just to make sure she was not alone in her time of need. And it was Carla who visited Karen from time to time in the state hospital where none of her other coworkers dared to tread. Yes, Carla went above and beyond when it came to being a friend and the campus, as well as the school district, recognized this at the end of the year by presenting Carla with the coveted Librarian of the Year Award.
There were tears in Karen’s eyes when her son Brennon told her about Carla’s success. But they were not tears of joy. Regret was etched into her teardrops and they coated the scars across her mouth, a stinging salve that brought no comfort. The I.V. dripped into her, and her body had begun to waste away since she’d been unable to eat solid foods. The doctors were considering breaking her jaw, but they worried over that, thinking that her psychological state might interfere with the healing process. After all, she’d sewn her own lips shut. A broken jaw might be a setback in her recovery.
But Karen knew there would be no recovery. Alone with her thoughts, unable to speak, she’d had time to reflect on them. They were as ugly as the monkey tattoo, which still throbbed from time to time, though months had gone by. She knew after careful examination of her past words and deeds that she’d spoken enough for one lifetime.
RETRANSFORMATION
Kaye George
Originally printed in Mysterical-E Summer 2008, winner of the Muse Contest
Isabel Musik, former werewolf, knew she had to be on the right scent. Her nose was still keen even though she could not transform anymore.
There was no mistaking the odor that hung around that woman three stools away. Isabel eyed her, giving nothing away with her quick glance; a good-looking woman, with a mane of dark curly hair worn loose and to her shoulders. But the musk clung to her like dog hair on wool slacks.
Her name was Alice Jolie and she was the most famous author at the conference, since her last three children's books had hit number one on the New York Times list. Soon, Isabel knew, she wouldn't be doing these conferences. She would be charging whatever she wanted, wherever she wanted to go. Cruises, seminars in Hawaii, whatever.
The author leaned toward the handsome young man next to her and gave a tinkling little laugh. How cute, thought Isabel. I wonder what he would do if he could see her fangs.
She thought she'd better stay and see if anything bad happened to the young man. When a seat opened up she moved one stool closer.
Alice spoke softly, but not so low Isabel couldn't hear. "It's getting awfully late. Why don't we go up to my room? I could show you some things."
The young man said he'd like that. Isabel saw them as far as the elevator, but she couldn't very well follow them into the hotel room. She hoped the guy made it through the night.
***
Nothing could touch Alice Jolie this afternoon. She was satisfied, sated. Her panel had gone well and people were lined up in the signing room fifteen deep for her signature. Alice signed with her usual flourish, put on her Famous Author Smile, and handed a copy of Wally Visits the Zoo to the shy girl. A mother pushed her pudgy little son forward and he thrust a copy of Wally Goes to the Dentist, her newest, at her.
"Say please," urged the mother.
The boy murmured something that may have been "Please."
"That's all right." Alice Jolie gave the little doughball her Understanding Author Smile and opened the book.
"We just love your books," the mother gushed. "They're not like other werewolf stories. They seem so real. Everyone says so."
Alice put on her Grateful for Praise from the Little People Smile.
"The part in your last book where Wally is in front of the wolf cage in the zoo and they go crazy?"
The little boy chuckled. "Yeah. I like that."
"You'll like the scene where the dentist sees Wally's fangs in this one, then," said A
lice.
But before she could sign, another woman shoved the little boy and his mother aside and planted herself in front of Alice, who lost all her smiles and gave her a genuine look of alarm.
"What did you do to my husband?" the woman demanded.
Alice couldn't help but notice the woman hadn't taken much trouble with her toilette. Although, she thought, if you're going to dress off the rack like that, why bother? But, really, when was the last time this pathetic bitch had brushed her hair? It bunched in clumps. And those red-rimmed eyes. Surely she could have used drops.
But Alice was confused. "Um, who is your husband?"
"Don't pretend with me." Her voice rose with each word. Alice looked around. Half the people in the room were staring in her direction. "I saw you with him in the bar last night."
Alice had met a lot of people at this conference, and several in the bar last night. She did remember one quite clearly, but he hadn't told her he was married.
"His name is Brady Fox. You got drunk together."
"I do not," answered Alice, "get drunk." Could this woman look any more like a hick? She was even chewing gum.
"Well he sure did. Where did he go? What did you do with him? He was drunk when he came to the room last night. But then he went out again and never came back. And now he's dead. His body was found this morning in the alley behind the hotel."
Yes, Brady was his name. But she sure wasn't going to tell Wifey what she did with him. Her smirk and arched eyebrow drove the woman into high gear. The woman reached across the table and tried to grab her, but Alice jerked back and sprang to her feet, knocking her chair over.
Alice felt a tap on her shoulder. She whirled to see her agent, Kayley.
"Your time's up," said Kayley.
The unkempt woman backed up slightly.
"Thank God," said Alice. But the autograph seekers were still there, and the pudgy little boy's book lay on her table. She scribbled her name in the front without asking the boy his name, handed it back, and fled the signing room.
Wifey broke into sobs.
"Well," said the pudgy little boy's mother.
***
Danforth gritted his teeth as his ex-wife swept past him. She probably didn't even notice he was there. And that was different that being married to her how? He stepped forward to comfort the poor woman whose husband had died. He knew dear Alice probably had something to do with it. He thought, not for the first time, that the world would be a better place without Alice Jolie in it.
***
Isabel had been watching from just outside the signing room. She'd noticed three werewolves in the line to get copies of Wally the Werewolf books autographed. Then the hysterical woman had confronted Alice Jolie, after which Alice had left the signing room and headed for the bar.
She knew Alice would probably be in the bar at least an hour. Isabel needed to get to work. She reached into the pocket of her hotel maid's dress for the passkey, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and entered Jolie's room. The other maids had reported an unusual number of shampoo bottles missing on the fourth floor.
Since Isabel herself used to be a werewolf, she knew Alice would require lots more shampoo than the normal female. Isabel stepped into the bathroom. She didn't see a wastebasket full of tiny empty shampoo and conditioner bottles, though. Isabel shoved back the shower curtain and saw Alice's razor. She had expected it to be clogged with coarse, dark hair. Nope. Could Isabel be wrong? Was Alice not a werewolf?
Her organization had been tracking Alice Jolie on her last three book signing tours and young, single men had turned up dead in her vicinity about once a week. The widely-held myth that werewolves transformed once a month was simply not true. Some changed every week, some once a month, some only a few times a year. They weren't little wolf robots, all the same. Each had their own unique quirks and foibles.
The job Isabel had held, ever since her undoing, was an important one in the werewolf community. She was a Retransformer, switching troublesome werewolves back into humans. Sometimes a werewolf would get out of control and need curtailing. And in extreme cases, they would have to be retransformed.
Isabel herself had been out of control at one point a few years ago, but had been rescued by another former werewolf. She would forever be grateful to him and, to show her appreciation, became an active member of his team.
Isabel returned to the hotel room and shook her head. She could have sworn Alice was a werewolf and had been overdoing it with the missing men, biting them so hard they died instead of merely being converted. Alice had been seen with several of the missing men, all of whom the Organization detected as werewolves at the time, but their deaths could never be pinned on her. There is, in real life, no way to tell whether a dead person was a werewolf when alive, unless the person dies while in wolf form.
Now what? There were still those missing shampoos and conditioners. And the odor. That werewolf smell was unmistakable. Isabel was puzzled.
She got her coat from the maid's closet and threw it on over her uniform, then made her way to the bar to observe Alice. She sat at the counter. For once, Alice was not sitting with a handsome young guy. Two women sat on each side of her and the two on her left did not look happy.
Alice's ex-husband, Danforth, sat in a shadowy corner booth observing.
The young woman beside Alice gave a short shriek.
***
Kayley, Alice Jolie's agent, almost fell off the barstool. "You what? What are you telling me?"
"I'm speaking plain English," snipped Alice. "I said my new agent has negotiated a contract."
The paper Kayley had just slid over to Alice lay lifeless on the bar. It was the renewal of her contract with Alice, who was just about to hit the biggest of the big time. And Kayley had lost her. "But we agreed. Last month you said to bring my renewal here and you would sign it."
"I changed my mind." Alice turned away from her toward her new agent, who had the good grace to give Kayley a sheepish look.
Kayley turned to Barb, the editor of Haunted House, publisher of the Wally Werewolf books. "Did you know about this?"
"Are you kidding? I would have killed her if I'd known," whispered Barb.
Kayley was confused. "You would be that mad about her changing agents?"
"She's changing publishers too, sweetie. Why do you think he's sitting there?" Barb pointed to the man who was chief editor of Waywith Words, a big rival of Haunted House. "She gave me the news just before you sat down." Barb knocked back her martini and raised her glass toward to bartender for another.
Kayley hadn't started her glass of wine yet, but raised hers for another, too. This looked like a good night to get smashed. There went her dreams of living life one notch or two up from where she'd always been, which was scraping by. In fact, in her most extreme fantasies she had pictured a life of ease, brought about by her star client, the most celebrated children's author in the world, Alice Jolie.
She'd seen that line in the signing room. A little over half were children and their parents, but many were grownups, who seemed to enjoy Alice's books as much as the kids did.
"There goes our ship," slurred Barb. "Sailing away on a Waywith Words contract. Lesh drink to that." She tossed back another martini.
Kayley started in on her wine in earnest.
***
Isabel, once again in her maid's dress, straightened when Alice Jolie got off the elevator and headed for her room, 413. Her steps faltered a couple of times and she concentrated on her feet, making her way down the hall.
"What are you doing here?" asked Alice when she finally looked up and saw Isabel leaning on her door.
"I'm waiting for you. I have some questions."
"I don't need to answer the questions of a hotel maid." Alice laughed at the thought and slipped her card into the slot.
"Yes you do. I'm not a hotel maid. Appearances can be deceiving."
Alice looked truly puzzled. She pushed her door open and Isabel followed her into the
room.
"Who are you then?" asked Alice, plopping onto the bed and pulling her shoes off.
"I work for the Organization, which has been checking you out for some time now," began Isabel.
"Oh please. What organization?" Her tone sneered at the last word and she began to rub her feet.
"WWF. The Worldwide Wolf Federation."
Alice grew still. She set both feet on the floor, her skin pale. Even though the only light turned on was the one by the door, Isabel hadn't lost the night vision when she retransformed.
"You've heard of us?" asked Isabel.
"Uh, no. I haven't. And what would you want with me?"
"We're concerned about the deaths accompanying your travels. Our leaders are afraid you're responsible. Several men, new werewolves, have been found dead after being seen in your company. The one found early this morning, not far from here? I'm sure he's the young man you were in the bar with last night. And I smell werewolf in this room."
Alice jumped up. "I'm not! Test me or something. I'm not a werewolf."
"Why have you been seen in the company of them?"
"Research. I do research for my books. I use them for research."
"You use them for research? How do you infect them?"
"I don't do it myself."
Isabel perked up. If she'd been in wolf form her ears would have pricked.
"I mean, I mean," stuttered Alice, "I mean I don't know what you're talking about."
"You don't," said Isabel very slowly, "do it yourself?"
"No, no, that's not what I meant."
Isabel marched out of the room, rode the elevator down, and left the hotel. On the street she made a cell phone call. "Have her house checked," she said, barely above a whisper. "Her home in Lycopolis. See if there's one there."
***
Kayley, the former agent of Alice Jolie, sat very still. She and Barb, the former editor of same, had moved to a booth when they could no longer balance well enough to stay on the barstools. Alice, her new agent, and her new editor had left. Kayley didn't think she'd be able to get to her room tonight. She'd never been quite this drunk. She shushed Barb with a wave of her hand and pointed behind her. She wanted to hear the conversation in the next booth. She'd caught her name.