Mad Ramblings
I wander into the darkness where your memory can be found
I wait and I listen for the deafening, silent sound
Lost and lonely, I search my deserted mind
I seek, but I cannot find
A heart that can't beat because it’s dead
A voice that only echoes in my head
Eyes that cannot see from this depth
Still trying to envision what is left
Will you weep for me, my dear?
Will you come and share my fear?
Will you look upon my face?
Will you join me in this place?
I stand alone at the sharpened edge,
Part of me is already over the ledge.
The storm is brewing deep inside.
I have no secrets left to hide.
Do not cry, save the tears you would shed.
Do not hold to what I have done and said.
Just kiss my lips that lie without breath,
Find me beautiful in this death.
Torment My Soul
To Whom It May Concern,
I’ve gone. I’m sorry. I can’t take this life anymore. I have done so much to hurt so many, and now it is time I pay the price.
Please Forgive Me,
Laura Marie
Her hands shook as she signed her name, as if the letters sang out to her, “There’s no going back now.”
The note written, Laura turned to observe the empty hotel room through eyes dulled by copious amounts of pain killers. Pastel colors and bland art stared back at her, uncaring of her tears. She was simply another person passing through the four walls, one of thousands. The only thing special about the place was what lay on the bed.
A bottle of Jack Daniels, a box of salt, a sharp kitchen knife, a butane barbecue lighter, a pair of cheap pliers, and a pile of twisted metal she had painstakingly molded to spell out the names of those she had harmed. Those things would be her end, her final plea for forgiveness.
Laura approached the bed, a heart-wrenching sob escaping her pink painted lips. Her hands, bubble gum pink and ivory white manicured nails, fluttered over the things she had prepared. Unsure of where she should even begin, she touched each item, reverently turning it over as she said a silent prayer.
With a deep breath, she took up the pliers and the first of the bended wire names. “Angelica, I am sorry,” she spoke to the memory as if the woman was there to hear the confession. “I tormented you, hurt you, and made you unhappy for the sheer pleasure of my own self-serving ways.”
Carefully, she pinched the small handle she had formed at the end of Angelica’s name between the grooved ridges in the mouth of the pliers. Holding it as steady as her shaking hands would allow, she picked up the lighter. The resounding click as her finger pressed down on the trigger, and the small flame it produced made her jump, already terrified of what was to come.
The silver wire turned gray under the flame, but she held it longer, waiting for the red hot temperature that would not fail to leave its mark. At last, the wire came alive with heat—it was time. Tears flowed down her face in rivers, and her chin quivered like a child’s, but she breathed a deep breath and placed the lighter on the ugly floral coverlet. Fighting the urge to back down, to pack up everything, throw it away, and return to her home unharmed and okay, Laura did what she had come to do.
Turning the pliers in on herself, she pressed the glowing hot wire into the soft flesh of her forearm. The smell of melting skin and human hair filled her nostrils as the pain screamed in a rampage of sensory overload up her arm and into her brain. Blood filled her mouth as she bit down on her cry of suffering. Laura yanked the implement of her torture away, watching strips of gooey flesh trail from the braided wire.
With desperate gasps, she struggled hard not to scream out. She grabbed the pillow from the bed and bit down—smothering the sounds of her torment in microfiber, so she did not alert anyone to her pain. Mouth clamped onto the cushion, she moaned and sucked large gulps of air in through her nose, forcing herself to acknowledge the pain as she remembered Angelica’s face.
Laura remained as she was for a long time, hurting so badly she could ignore the dry stickiness of her mouth and the strange odor from within the fabric she pressed hard onto her face. When at last she could function again, she grabbed for the whiskey, taking a deep pull from the bottle. She nearly vomited as the harsh liquid coursed down her dry throat, but the burn was nothing compared to the anguish in her arm. Her body felt lighter within minutes, and she took another large drink, hoping to dull the effects of her final sacrifice.
Taking a moment to examine the bubbled and charcoaled flesh, Laura nearly passed out. The wire had gone deep, down to the very bottom layers of her skin. The sickening yellow mark perfectly spelled out Angelica’s name. The flesh around the fresh brand swelled in red, throbbing anger, protesting against the foreign punishment.
Shaking her head, she began again. Over and over, Laura heated the names, made her apologies, and burned her reminder into the flesh of arms, legs, stomach and chest. The process took hours, and by the time she was done, the hotel trash can was filled with whiskey scented vomit. Laura wept with the brutality of what she had done as she lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Her entire body screamed all over. Even as she breathed in shallow little gasps, the slight motion of her chest stretched the skin and hurt like hell.
With the branding done, she knew she could not back out. She had set her end in motion, and there were no close calls or escapes. Still vain, despite her self-loathing, she knew she’d never let anyone see her scarred as she was. That had been the beauty of the plan, she couldn’t turn back.
Easing her naked and blistered body up into a sitting position, Laura reached for the next element of torture. Each movement tore at the edges of the oozing burns until she finally grasped the box of salt, and freed the small spout from its paper cover.
Looking down at the palm of her left hand, she read the name there—Josh. His dark brown eyes filled her mind as she poured salt into the wound. As if the scorching hot metal had been applied all over again, the pain resurfaced with a vengeance. Her hand clenching into a tight fist, she pushed the granules deeper, loving and hating the sensation of the crystals as they melted into the open burns.
Name after name, the salt dug into the blistered, weeping flesh. She vigorously rubbed each one until the skin peeled away, the seared words surrounded with raw, red swelling. The whiskey was gone, but the pain kept her sober enough to go on while the alcohol dulled her brain, keeping the tears and sorrow away as she meticulously worked to destroy.
She rested again, after the salt, sitting as still and stiffly as she could. The knife in her hand, Laura leaned against the headboard. She had no one to say goodbye to, at least no one that cared anymore. Time and time again, she had pushed the world away with her ways. She had never thought she would end up alone and hating herself more than anyone could ever imagine.
She had lied, cheated, stolen, and destroyed. She’d lost her child, her husband, her friends, her mother, and her mind. All in one failed campaign to conquer the world, she’d lost all she’d ever known for the sake of herself.
A final silent prayer crossed her lips as fresh tears came to her eyes. Better off dead, she thought as she made the first cut. She laid the blade at the base of her left palm, pressing until the first crimson drops appeared on each side. Dragging the knife upward, she watched as the blood oozed, and then flowed out of the gaping, jagged line up to the bend of her arm.
Her voice sounded like gravel as she spoke for the first time since entering the room, nearly six hours earlier. “They can’t fix it. They won’t be able to put humpty dumpty back together again.”
Her laugher was high pitched and wild, true insanity feeding through in the final moments of her life. Addled with prescription pills and the remnants of whisky, her dying world sparkled with hilarity as she used her left hand to open a long ga
sh up her right arm.
The final element complete, Laura Marie lay back on the ugly coverlet and watched the light fade from the world. Even her last thoughts brought the soulless woman no solace. Have I wronged the woman who must clean this room? Have I wronged the proprietor who will now have a death investigation in his business? More names that I cannot burn, more apologies I cannot give. Will my spirit linger here—
Room Number Four
Feeling his head begin to nod and his eyes droop, Frank Malone blinked rapidly, took a swig of Coke, and rolled down his window. The green glow of the digital clock on his CD player made him realize he had been driving non-stop for nearly five hours. He loved the great gas mileage in the little company car, but without the need to refuel, he tended to drive further and longer, putting himself at risk of falling asleep at the wheel.
As if it were a mirage in the desert, or a gift from the gods in charge of traveling businessmen, the neon flashing lights of the Bunker Motel peeked over the next hill. The eerie glow of the blue and yellow lights tinted the dark sky and beckoned to Frank as if welcoming him home. In fact, after his wife had taken their two boys and left him, seedy roadside lodgings had become more comforting than the emptiness of his little apartment.
As he pulled into the drive, Frank noted the tattered and worn Halloween decorations hanging around the office door. Nothing elaborate, the faded and drooping ghost looked as if it had seen better years, much like the under new management sign hanging lopsided from a broken nylon cord. The holiday reminder struck Frank as odd. Such minor occasions went mostly unnoticed in his lonely grown-up world. He only remembered Christmas because, once his boys had gotten older, it was one of the few times they came to see him.
Just as he prepared to exit the car, a light drizzle began. The misting rain held the promised chill of winter, forcing Frank to use his briefcase to cover his head as he ran for the door. He couldn’t help but silently curse the weather, thinking how it was just his luck that he’d probably spend the night using his phone for light because the rooms rarely had working flashlights and never had candles.
The small office was typical of the type of run-down places where he stayed while on the road. As he burst through the screeching screen door, Frank almost laughed at the barely audible sound of the tinkling bell above him. The sad little chime clinging precariously by a clamp—the type fishermen used on their fishing poles—was drowned out by the screaming hinges and the Jerry Springer Show. The smell of mildew, stale smoke, cheap perfume, and fried bologna choked him as he rang the bell on the counter and waited.
A woman’s voice echoed from behind a closed door, “Yeah, yeah. Hold your damn horses. I’m commin’.”
Frank rolled his eyes and shifted his weight, his body aching to stretch out on a somewhat clean bed after being cramped into the car nearly all day. He hated the southern half of his route the most. When he had been younger, he had loved the Crepe Myrtles, creeping vines, and sultry hot nights in the city clubs. After thirty, that had all lost its charm, and he was sure he would find none of that in the little roadside dump anyway.
Losing patience, he tapped the bell once more, and yelled toward the peeling paint on the back of the closed door, “Listen, I ain’t got all day. I’m tired, so if you don’t want to rent me a room, I’ll just be on my way.”
Truthfully, he wouldn’t have left; he couldn’t afford anything better. He’d been doctoring his expense accounts to supplement his income. The child support wouldn’t quit wrecking havoc on his bank account until both boys were out of school, and he knew his ex-wife would never let up on her alimony demands. The cheaper the place he stayed, the more he had left to keep a roof over his head. His life was a constant strain, and as he stood in the decrepit office, it all seemed to accumulate into a giant ball of despair within his chest.
“Yea, you look like you are going somewhere, alright. What can I do for you?”
Lost in his own troubles, he hadn’t noticed the woman appear. Her smoky voice made him jump and turn in shock as he stammered out, “I n-ne-need a room.”
“Well, we got plenty, that’s fer sure.” She sent up a puff of smoke to punctuate her disdain, lips pursed as if she were blowing him a kiss.
As the attendant searched for the paperwork needed, Frank studied her appearance. Her bleached-blond hair was tightly rolled in large curlers and a cigarette hung off the smeared coral lipstick smile she wore. Her bright green eyes seemed more vivid because of the dark rings beneath them, somehow making her apparent exhaustion seem attractive. Her tight fitting, ratty, pink, terry cloth robe barely stretched across the expanse of her ample bosom, but tied perfectly at her thin waist. Frank was sure he was about to get an eyeful of her lovely breast as he noticed something odd.
A crimson liquid clung to the edge of the left side of the robe just below her collar bone. It had dripped down into her cleavage and onto the thin and dingy undershirt she wore beneath it. Frank rationalized with himself that it couldn’t be fresh blood, except that was what the substance looked to be. The woman didn’t have a mark on her, it wouldn’t make sense, but he kept staring in disgust anyway.
Catching him in the act, the woman leaned over further, giving him a better view of the plump, round flesh, and asked, “Find something interesting in there?”
Frank flushed as he stammered, “Um…you seem to have something, eh…just there.” He motioned to his own jacket lapel, hoping the woman wouldn’t see through the obvious cover up and toss him out.
Looking down, she laughed in a husky, womanly way that made him wonder what she had been like in the days of her youth, before life had ridden her hard and put her away wet.
“Well, these things seem to catch just about everything.” Grabbing a tissue, she dabbed at the redness, and added, “Must have dripped some strawberry sauce on there when I was makin’ me some ice cream.”
Frank stared at the woman’s face, trying to pry his eyes off the way her swiping motions revealed more and more flesh. When she looked up, her eyes turned into cold, hard, jade pools, but the smile never left her face. Something strange and frightening hung in the air for just a moment, before Frank broke the silence.
Fingers lightly tugging on his tie, he offered, “Yeah, same thing happens with my ties. Always getting something on them.”
The laugh they shared was less than lighthearted, but at least she managed to shove the paperwork at him afterward. Taking a photocopy of his ID and accepting his cash took up only a minute, but by the time the woman handed him the key, Frank was desperate to escape the small and odoriferous confines of the room.
“I’m here twenty-four hours a day, so you need something, jus’ lemme know. Names Marla, by the way.” She gave him a wink and turned her back, providing an excellent view of bare tan legs and a round ass that barely remained hidden by the short hem of her robe.
Hustling out of the office, Frank let the screeching door bang shut behind him. The motel had a single story floor design that created an L shape. The old, clapboard siding was wrenched and broken in places, and it was clear, even in the dark, the peeling paint motif wasn’t just limited to the office. However, the bright red doors looked recently touched up, and the gold lettering was a nice addition. It didn’t take long for him to locate room four.
Inside, Frank looked around without curiosity. All hotels looked the same after he had stayed in his first one hundred or so. The standard setup, the room had a full sized bed, a dresser that also served as a TV stand, and a nightstand that housed a single lamp and an old rotary phone. Turning to the left, he went to relieve himself and to scope out the degree of filth he would encounter in the bathroom. With an audible sigh, he shook his head when he noticed the short passage ended in a doorway. In the older hotels, all the rooms were connected. The doors had a lock on each side, to keep the tenants in their respective places, but the sound barrier became non-existent.
Frank didn’t mind it much, but the presence of a dividing door usually made him sl
ightly uncomfortable. It wouldn’t take much to come through it. He never knew what type of people lurked on the other side. In reality, it was normally kids partying, a couple with vociferous passions, or a yipping dog that ended up ruining his sleep.
Accustomed to the life, it took Frank a minimal amount of time to settle in. Within an hour of his arrival, he had typed up his audit report for the day, laid out his suit for the morning, showered in the tiny bathroom, and laid sprawled on the bed watching late night talk shows as he sipped from a bottle of cheap bourbon. For him, it was just another night in another town. With his arms folded beneath his balding head, he stared up at the Bisquick box used to patch the yellow and drooping ceiling tile.
He lay there, drifting in an out of awareness, as old nuances came to play. One by one, his demons consumed him. Chasing each bad recollection of the horrors in his life with another drought from the bottle, his vision blurred from the blend of exhaustion and whiskey. In a sweat of despair, he drifted into sleep.
****
Why is that baby crying? Someone should really do something about that noise. Why isn’t anyone trying to shut that baby up?
The fragmented thoughts of his still sleeping mind danced between the foggy mists of dreams and the first drowsy moments of waking. The wailing sound of the infant penetrated into the darkness of his nighttime illusions. He rolled, covering his head with the pillow, trying to block out the noise, but it only grew louder. The increased volume triggered a conscious shock that sent Frank bolting upright as he searched for the bedside lamp.
His brain finally remembered where he was, and he glanced at the clock, realizing he had only been asleep for an hour. The baby had stopped crying, and the only sound was the creaking roof as a storm raged outside. Frank mumbled and cursed as he pulled the coarse blanket back over his body and lay back down. Disgruntled and incoherent words fell silent on his lips. The nerve of people, they must have left that baby squalling for half an hour. Probably too drugged up to even care.
As Mad as a Hatter: A Short Story Collection Page 5