Her laughter filled the room as she reached down and tickled his naked foot. “Oh, Frank. You are a silly goose. Didn’t I just tell you not to be tryin’ all that?”
Frank stopped moving, concentrating all his efforts on his trembling vocal cords and mouth. “Pl-pl-plee,” he managed to slur before he lost the strength.
Her pouty lips set into a hard line, and her eyes narrowed as she accessed his body. Wielding the scalpel with the deftness of a skilled surgeon, Marla ignored the half-request. The first cut was nothing more than a bit of pressure, the first font of blood went unfelt, but Frank knew he’d lost.
****
Marla’s bubble gum pink sneer met him from the chair across the room when he opened his eyes. The spider, whimpering over its broken fangs, sat in her lap as the monster dog-like creature blindly nuzzled her leg. The phantom child no longer wailed as it rested its head against her barely concealed breasts, and the mother dotingly looked over Marla’s shoulder.
Together they chanted, “You are one of us now. You belong here in the dark.”
Frank struggled to set up on the bed, but his body seemed heavy and sluggish. Each movement took extreme effort. Something was very wrong, but he couldn’t think. He couldn’t comprehend. The maddening echo of their eerie voices drowned out his screams for mercy and left him in confusion. All he knew was he was alive and back in his room in Bunker Motel.
“Please,” Frank begged. “Let me go. I don’t understand. Please, let me go.” Even his voice was different, gravelly and rough.
The spirit of the mother smiled lovingly at him, “Forever one of us, now.”
Frank shook his head, and the motion felt off balance and strange. Something wrong. Definitely something wrong with me, he thought as he lifted his hands. In mute horror, he stared at the claws stretching out from his fingers and the scales that had replaced his flesh. Unable to form thought or sound, the realization of what Marla had done set in.
Pushing himself upward, Frank looked down on his body—a thing that had become unrecognizable. Over his chest and legs, the iridescent green scales spread like a disease, color dancing on their opalescent surfaces. The dried blood and oozing puss only increased his horror as his mouth worked in silence, unable to form speech around the lump of disgusted fear forming in his throat.
All the while, Marla laughed and laughed, her cleavage shivering in the eerie light of the room. Rising, she came closer. One long fingernail painfully biting into his chin as she lifted his face to look at hers, she purred, “It’s time, Frank.” In her hand, she held a silver back mirror, an old fashioned thing. “You will stay with us forever. One of us. You are now the creature in room number four.”
She raised her hand, the reflective surface aimed to reveal her handiwork to him, but Frank turned his head. “No-o-o,” the long and drawn out syllable sounded too far away and too strange. He couldn’t believe it was truly him speaking.
“Yes!” Marla screeched, appalled he’d be so daring as to refuse her. “Be a good pet now, Frank. Let me show you how you look.” Determined to make him look into the mirror she shook him violently, her hand shoving the mirror in front of his face again.
Unable to fight the morbid curiosity, he turned his head. In the mirror, something inhuman stared back at him with yellow eyes and cheeks that seemed too wide for the sallow jaw. Frank opened his mouth in a scream that could have shattered glass, rows of gleaming white teeth shined within—like pearly fish hooks.
Forever. Here in the dark, forever. The scream would not end. The pain and fear settled into his brain like a barrier cutting off all rational thought. I’m a monster. I’m a freak. I’m the thing that waits in the dark shadows of room number four.
Marla lowered the mirror, fingers digging harder into the scaly flesh. “Frank!” her voice poured over him. “Frank, wake up!”
****
His eyes flew open as he gasped for breath. The weak light from the bedside lamp cast a obscure glow through the room, and as he trembled and cried, his gaze fell on a woman’s face.
“Frank, honey. Are you okay? It was just a dream,” she whispered as she folded him into her supple young arms.
“Nicky,” he whispered into her hair as he hugged her close. The feeling of her swollen belly pressing against him sent shivers of relief up his spine. “Horrible. It was horrible. The things, the horrible things. The worst part is you took the boys and you left. I was never home. You couldn’t take the loneliness. No matter how terrible the things those beasts and that woman did, the worst was thinking I was going to die and you didn’t love me anymore.” He hadn’t wept that way since he’d been a child. Nothing in his adult life had ever been so brutal than the nightmare still drifting like movie reels through the back of his mind.
“Baby, I won’t ever leave you,” his young wife hugged him tighter. “It was all just a bad dream.”
Leaning out of her embrace he cupped her face in one hand, and curved the other around the place his twin sons still slumbered in the womb. Young. I’m still young. There’s still time, he thought.
“Nicky, baby, I don’t think I’m going to take that job. You understand, right? I don’t want to leave you and the boys to travel. I don’t want to miss out. I know we need money, but I’ll find another way.”
Pulling him back down onto the bed, she snuggled close, “Yes, Frank. I understand. Money doesn’t make the world go round, love does.”
Prisoner of the World
I am the down trodden, the homeless on the street.
I am the disabled, my eyes you never meet.
I am the outcast, crazy is what I am deemed.
I am the silenced; you are deaf to my scream.
I am the victim of abuse. You never looked my way.
I am the orphaned, with no place to stay.
I am the teenage wasteland, who is to blame.
I am the drug addicted, with the needle in my vein.
I am the soldier home from war, suffering nightmares of hell.
I am the one who keeps the secret, because I have no one to tell.
I am the mother of a hungry child. I sell my body for his sake.
I am the one who loves a baby conceived by rape.
I am every man and every boy. I am every woman and every girl.
I am everything and everyone. I am a prisoner of the world.
Forever’s Kiss
Daya Mahal dried the tears from her eyes and pried her delicate fingers from her mother-n-law’s withered hand. Dead. Raji is dead. Her mind told her it was true, but heart couldn’t accept her husband of only a year had gone. With his passing, her heart broke, and with a broken heart, she could not go on.
Other women, who did not like the husbands their parents had chosen, would not have felt the grief that completely filled her. They would not have ached in body and mind so fiercely that it hurt to breathe. They would have not said the words.
“I will perform the Ritual,” her voice was cold iron and her decision resolute.
Some members of the family, who had gathered at the news the young man had perished, gasped. Other relatives looked on with pleased expressions, pride glowing from their teary eyes. Raji’s mother simply nodded and led Daya from the room, so she could begin her prayers.
Kneeling on the floor, her forehead against the cool wood, she refused a rug or mat. “The sacrifice begins as of now. Bring my wedding adornments, and no more. I wish only for silence until it is time.”
Her prayers were for her family, her friends, and her husband’s spirit. She did not utter a syllable for herself, not even requesting the strength to withstand what was to come with honor. The Ritual was ancient and highly regarded amongst her people, her family would be greatly rewarded and their sins would be erased for her sacrifice. Some might call her a martyr, others might deify her, but Daya did not care about these things.
The hollow emptiness of shock ate away emotions and thought. Without her husband, she couldn’t live. What is life without lov
e? What would I do? She tried to imagine being clothed and kept by others as if she was still a child, but the picture could not form in her mind. In the year since she had wed Raji, she had willingly committed every waking moment to him, and no other life could suit her.
For hours she prayed and wept, but still she felt resolute. The Ritual was the only thing she could focus on, the only thing that still felt right in the world. Not even hunger bothered her as the day and night passed. She would commit herself with love and fidelity, as she had done all things for Raji. Their marriage had been the beginning of an inseparable bond, and death would not deny her that.
He had been a wonderful and kind husband. He had never mistreated her, and his dark eyes had shined with love whenever he looked upon her. Always patient and tolerant, he had held her when she cried and kissed her when she was happy. Though most husbands took more than one wife, Raji had even told her he never would.
She could almost hear his voice saying, “No other could be as beautiful as you, dear one. No other could keep me quite as warm or happy. I have no need for another, and with your temper, my heart could not bear the strain.”
Finally, Daya rose up from the floor and took stock of the many things the others had brought for her inspection. Her bright red sari had been pressed and laid out, its gold embroidery shining in the light that came in from the nearby window. Jewels, necklaces, and bangles lay next to it, waiting for her choosing.
In remembering when she had last worn the dress, Raji’s smiling face came to mind. Her young husband had been handsome and proud, and she had been jubilant with her upcoming nuptials. She held the memory dearly, wrapping the moment up in her heart. It would be things of such tenderness that would give her the strength she would need.
“Alka?” she called out for her mother-n-law as she stared out at the dusky morning. The sun had yet to grace the horizon, but soon it would rise and she would see her Raji one last time.
The woman appeared, fresh tears still sparkling in her black eyes, “Are you prepared?”
“Yes, Mummyji,” Daya bit down on her tongue to hold back the trembling in her voice. The time for grief had passed.
****
First, she bathed in water that had been peppered with flower petals and spices, and then she donned her gown. Alka came with a jeweled wreath of blossoms to rest upon her hair and the weight of her jewelry pulled at her neck, wrists, and fingers as she bent to accept the gift. All the women who served her in her moment of triumph over death were strong, their tears held back and their sorrows swallowed in her presence.
When at last she had said her final prayers, Daya stepped out into the chill of an early morning. Along the side of the walk, others waited. At her appearance, they began to play instruments and the sound of the sacred bhajan hymns to honor the dead swirled around her.
The procession grew as she strolled through the village and the people of their tribe fell in behind her. The drums mimicked the crazy beat of her heart as she fought to remain in control of the emotions building inside her as the burial site came closer. Step by step, her bare feet sank into the soft ground and carried her closer to where Raji lay. Breathing deep, she braced herself with a smile and her faith.
“Now, I pray for strength,” she whispered, so no one could hear her above the music entwining around the large group. “Do not let me falter. I will not dishonor my husband or our families.”
Upon entering the place where the tribe buried their dead, Daya felt a shiver climb up her spine. Within a hole in the ground, her true love lay, frozen by the cruel hand of death. His soul would be born again, but without hers to join him, she would never know his heart again.
Before the interior of her husband’s resting place could come into view, Daya stopped and removed her beautiful jewels, bracelets, and rings. In the true spirit of what she was prepared to do, she wished to give up the worldly possessions and free her spirit from the anchor they created. Sisters, friends, aunts, and even her mother-n-law stepped forward to accept the gifts. Each one hugged her and gave her blessings as they kissed Daya’s cheek and wished her well. She returned each kiss, embrace, and kind word. Feeling her inner self lighten for a moment, she smiled brightly, but that fleeting joy did not last.
After she had rid her body of all but her sari, she stepped forward and stood at the edge of the grave, looking down. Though her expression was serene with her resolution, the tears still traced down her cheeks and her limbs trembled. Her mind coaxed her body, It is time. The Ritual must take place now. The sun has almost risen. This is right, this is good. This is what Raji would want, and what I want as well.
Never, not even for a moment, did she think of the future. Not the slightest inclination of what the moment might mean to any other person later tugged at her tormented mind. She and Raji were all that mattered.
Daya approached the pujari, who led her into the Ritual and said the prayers as he had for many others in the past. She looked out over the land, seeing the stones marking bravery and faithfulness. So many stones; all of them covered with flowers and beautiful things. She too, would have such honors bestowed upon her, but it didn’t matter. Raji was all she wanted, and he was gone from life, his spirit preparing to be reborn.
The bhajan hymns grew louder, more frantic, and the crowd cheered as they pressed closer. The frenzied atmosphere around her was thick with sweat and the sweet scent of incense. The cool morning air began to steam as the sun peaked over the horizon, showing its glowing face at last. All who had gathered there were prepared to watch on as the Ritual made Daya a saint in the eyes of her tribe.
****
Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and uttered her last prayers. When she opened them again, she gazed into the blind eyes of the pujari. The ancient old man, bald and wrinkled, smiled a toothless grin as he lifted the bag of rice to her lips.
“To feed your spirit in this transition,” his voice sounded like crumbling parchment as he placed the bag inside her mouth. Grasping her hand, he turned it palm upward and placed four gold coins in the center before curling her fingers around them. “To ensure you begin again with riches and security.”
Daya could taste the rice, grainy and dry through the mesh bag. The bitter flavor that accompanied it, she knew, was a bit of opium to help her stay strong and to numb what her body would experience. Thankful for the pujari’s thoughtful gift that instantly began to melt away the fear, she smiled.
The sun had turned the sky a brilliant smattering of gold and pink, and as Daya lay back in the arms of the men who suddenly lifted her from the ground, she thanked her deity for that final gift of beauty. Even as they carried her down into the grave and the smell of the freshly turned soil filled her senses, she kept her eyes turned to the sky.
Only when she was gently released, did she turn her face to the side. Raji lay next to her, his eyes closed and face serene in its eternal peace. In that moment, Daya knew she had made the right choice. She could not allow him to go into the next world without her, she could not have lived with the guilt and grief their separation would have caused.
This is my husband, she thought. My life, my love, my heart, and my soul. It was not the way of the tradition, but she couldn’t bear not feeling his arm around her as they had always lain at night. Gently lifting his left hand, Daya slid so her head rested on his shoulder and her hand rested on his cheek. As the first smattering of dirt cascaded down onto her legs, she placed a kiss on his lips as she had often done in life.
The villagers moved forward then, willing to make her suffering brief, they sang as they shoveled heaps of dirt into the hole. Calling out sweet goodbye’s as she disappeared into the darkness of her and Raji’s grave.
****
Six thousand years later.
The wind whipped at the flaps of the tent and the oppressive heat bore down on the young woman who sat with her head in her hands and tears falling on the papers that lay in her lap. Divorce. He’s really done it, he’s signed the pa
pers. I can’t believe after ten years of marriage, thousands of miles, and hundreds of discoveries, he’s finally given up.
The part of her that loved him, the woman in her who couldn’t resist his cocky grin and dark eyes, wept. She couldn’t quite accept it was over. She’d somehow believed he would beg her not to go through with it, and they’d work through it all and find a way. She’d lied to herself and believed in fairy tales, despite it being against her very nature to do so.
However, the analytical and always critical part, nodded its head with approval. It told her it was time to let go. The relationship had gone sour more than a year before while Amy and David had been on an archeological dig in the Amazon. The wear of their jobs and the professional jealousy had taken a heavy toll on the young lovers. They had separated when they had come home, barely speaking in six months unless it was about work or research.
Then the foreign man had called. He wanted them both to come on an expedition. He needed more funding, he needed more media, and having a husband and wife team excavate the remains of The Garden of Widows was the perfect angle. He had explained the old rituals, telling of how wives had willingly sacrificed themselves to be buried alive when their husbands died and of a grave site larger than any other in the world.
Putting their differences aside, the two had excitedly agreed to work together in order to take advantage of the opportunity. However, the going had been rough. They’d been at the site for less than a week, and the fighting was almost constant. The hotter the temperatures seemed to rise, the more inflamed their tempers had become.
The first two spots they had dug had turned over very little in way of artifacts and no bones. After a huge argument that morning over where to begin to dig, she’d been so angry that she’d given him the papers. In return, David had signed his name and shoved them at her before he stormed off to watch the team work.
As Mad as a Hatter: A Short Story Collection Page 8