Medusa's Reflection
"They disgust me,” I said to myself while preparing their medication. “Damn freaks.” I sighed, placing their medicine cups full of psychotropic drugs on a tray.
I hated my job. I loathed taking care of them, but I needed the money too much. It was hard being a single mother, and it was up to me to put food on the table. God, six years with them. Six long, disgusting years of their distorted faces. The money was too good to leave, though. I thought of my baby girl and her dance class. She loved it so much, and I knew her daddy wouldn't pay for it.
Swallowing my pride, I locked the medicine cabinet and proceeded to their room. I thought about my situation and the reasons I agreed to take private care of them. I thought I'd be all right with it. After all, I'd seen all sorts of things in my time as a direct care worker and at the State hospital. Little did I know what I was getting into.
I never got used to the shock of seeing them. Preparing myself, I opened the door. I knew they could see through my fake smile and hollow greeting, but I had to believe they couldn't. I knew I should be more compassionate; none of this was their fault. God, if I had a dime for every time I said that as I readied to go into their room.
They sat in a special chair custom-made for the “girls.” It rested on a motorized pedestal and could turn like an insane merry-go-round missing its canopy. Worn leather seat belts kept the girls strapped in so they couldn't fall onto their gimpy legs. Who cared if they did anyway? There was one joystick controller, but it didn't work anymore. Norman had disconnected the entire motor one day because he feared for their safety. It still hadn't been fixed, and the chair had to be pushed or turned manually.
The chair was placed in front of the window overlooking the remote garden. Norman did such a fine job with the flowers and trees. He had a knack at servicing the vegetables, too. Spring had kissed the spread of Magnolias, and their blooms dotted the small grove of trees below the window.
Their rich parents—I loathed them even more for ignoring the freaks—had locked them away and rarely came to visit. Too ashamed to let the world know even the rich can have birth defects, they put them as far away as they could. Rich and exiled, I thought it was ironic. What kind of parents would put their own embarrassment over their children?
In fact, I was the only other person to set foot in the wing designated for the “girls.” Rarely did I see someone other than the housekeepers or Norman. He was always around. I'd see him placing cut flowers at the top of the stairs, or I'd say hello as he was trimming the bushes.
They had been in this room for nearly 10 of their 19 years. Horrible, heavy oil paintings hung among tapestry, rich carpeting was thread-bare and neglected, and poor lighting led to the room's oppression. It was by far the ugliest room in this magnificent, remote mansion. The only bright spots were the flowers Norman would put in the room. I never understood why this room was decorated in such a fashion. But then, Mrs. Martin wasn't one to care about the environment of her children if it didn't directly impact people's opinion of her.
Their parents had tried the private hospital route for the first nine years, but word was leaking out into their social sphere that the “girls” didn't die just after birth like was commonly believed. They were alive, and they were circus freaks. Mrs. Martin, vain to the point that she was a mannequin, couldn't handle that. That's when they hired me. I was at the hospital for two weeks, and I took care of them there. They even made me sign a secrecy pledge. What monsters. I was the only contact they had with a human being. I should feel pity and sympathy for them, but caring for them day after day made me want to give them overdoses. More than once, I'd fantasized about watching them convulse into death.
They were Siamese triplets, joined back-to-back at the shoulders. When they were born, their mother cried for five days straight, or so I was told by the housekeepers. Their twisted torsos merged just above the waist; the rest of the body was simply a lump of distorted flesh from which useless legs dangled.
And each had a face even their mother couldn't love. Maxine's angry eyebrows angled and arched with every facial expression. Her thin lips nearly disappeared like a fine knife slice in a pasty sea of skin. Doreen tried to wear makeup, and I had brought her some I was going to throw away. Smears of rouge and lipstick stained her lumpy, deformed face. Every day, she would try to apply it with her nearly non-functioning appendage—she only had three fingers and a thumb—and I'd have to clean her up. Willa was the only one I could stand to look at. Sad and tiny was her face in the shadow of her sisters.
Here sat Maxine, Doreen, and Willa—the Martin triplets—and I hated the sight of them. Mr. and Mrs. Martin were perfect Catholic socialites, so any attempt to separate the daughters was religiously out of the question. They shared too many organs, and doctors had assured them one, perhaps two, would surely die as a result. Looking back, I thought perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing if Maxine had been the one to die.
"Time for meds,” I chirped while entering.
Maxine, who had control of two of their five arms, stroked her greasy black hair. She's the one I disliked the most. She was so hateful to everyone and merciless upon her sisters.
"You're late,” Maxine accused.
"No,” I said, attempting to remain civil, “it's just now 10:30."
"It's 10:32.” Maxine, who faced the window, lurched her head around in the special chair. She always dominated them, making sure she was the one with the precious view of the garden.
"Maxine, have you been sharing the view like we discussed?"
"Shut up. You're only here for the money. If our parents weren't rich, you wouldn't be here, would you?"
I looked at Doreen who faced me, her lips and face coated with ill-applied make-up. Suddenly, she looked away. Doreen avoided eye contact with anyone. Willa was facing the other direction; she always seemed highly depressive and on the verge of tears. She was so sensitive to the way she looked and felt. All three had degrees of mental illness that was simply a part of their defect. The medication didn't help at all, usually making their feelings more intense and uncontrollable. There was no way to effectively treat their individual mental problems with drugs for they shared the same heart and blood. The doctors, however, insisted that each sister have her own therapy. I could see it didn't work, but I wasn't about to open my mouth.
"I refuse to let you antagonize her today,” Willa said. “I can't stand it, do you understand?"
I felt genuine sympathy, to a degree, for Willa and Doreen. Maxine was so vile, perhaps it was only her that made me feel the way I did. Willa's bouts with swinging depression was the primary reason they had to take the amount of medications they did. She only had possession of one spindly arm that could barely function, and Maxine never gave her any peace.
"Who's that speaking?” Maxine sarcastically referred to the sister attached just beyond her vision. “Is it some little pathetic mouse? Oh, it must be my sister, dear Willa."
"C'mon, you two,” I said while dispensing med cups. “Can't you be nice like Doreen? I'm not here to be your referee."
Maxine glared at me over the rim of her cup as she swallowed her medicine. Then, she handed me the small container.
"You hate us, don't you?” she asked.
"Maxine, I'm not going to play this game with you today,” I replied.
Her tone turned accusatory. “You always avoid the question."
It was true, I was avoiding her. I was disgusted by them, horrified by their mutations. All of the years of having to bathe them, wipe them, feed them, turn them, it all made me hate them. Why couldn't they be normal? Why couldn't they have died? I hated thinking that way, but I couldn't help it. I never wanted to hurt their feelings, not Willa and Doreen at least, so I let my feelings bottle-up inside. I truly hated Maxine, though; I often fantasized about hurting her both physically and mentally.
"I want to look outside now,” Doreen said with plaintive eyes.
"I'll turn the chair.” I went to mov
e it. Maxine swatted at me with one stumplike arm. “Stop it, Maxine.” I held her appendage, which twisted in an effort to free itself.
She smiled, and it seemed like the devil lived within her. “I'm not finished."
I was face-to-face with her obscene grin, her teeth resembling discolored baked beans. “You don't have a choice. You must share.” I successfully turned the special wheeled chair so Doreen could see. “In an hour, I'll turn Willa toward the window."
"That's fine,” Maxine said. “Norman will turn me back. He loves me."
"Is that who keeps turning you?"
"Yes,” Willa suddenly blurted. “He comes in here at night."
"He does?” I said, concerned. “No one is supposed to come in here except me, the doctors, and your parents. I know Norman brings flowers to brighten your room, but that's all he is supposed to do."
Desperately struggling, Maxine grabbed at Willa's head. “You shut up. I warned you to keep quiet, you basket case."
Willa burst into tears. “Please, Kathy,” she said to me, “I can't live like this anymore. Give me something to make it all go away."
I was shocked. “What are you talking about?” Willa cried and Maxine swore. “Someone better tell me what's going on.” I addressed Doreen, who appeared calm in this latest storm. “Doreen, you tell me the truth, is Norman coming up here at night? He's not supposed to even be in the house, really."
Sedately, she replied, “Yes, he comes up here nearly every night."
"What does he do up here?” I asked.
"Shut up!” Maxine screamed. “I'm warning you!"
"Please,” Willa cried, “I can't bear the shame."
"Doreen,” I demanded, “what does he do? Why haven't you told me earlier? How long has this been going on?” My questions went unanswered.
Sighing thoughtfully, Doreen composed herself and rubbed more rouge onto her cheeks. “Do you know why I like to be facing the window? It's not because of the garden view. No, there are two things I look for.” Her stare was vacant. “Every once in awhile, the children who live just beyond the woods cut through the yard. I wonder to myself, God, is that what I'm supposed to look like? Why couldn't I be running, playing, laughing in my own body that works?” She paused for what seemed like forever. “Why am I so ugly?"
"You love it just as much as me,” Maxine accused. “I've heard you, groaning like a pig."
"No, I hate it,” Doreen said. “Kathy, I also look into the reflection. I can see everything that goes on in the room without seeing myself. I'm ugly, I know. Sometimes, I scare myself when I look into the window and see myself, but then I tune it out and watch the room. I also see your face, Kathy. I know Maxine's right. You hate us."
"I don't hate you, Doreen,” I said. “Now, listen to me carefully, I have to know what Norman does when he comes up here?"
"He makes love to me,” Maxine gasped passionately.
"He rapes me,” Willa bellowed.
"He makes me feel ugly,” Doreen whispered.
I couldn't believe what I'd heard. The thought of the act sickened me even more than the sight of the sisters. “I have to call your parents, I have to call the police.” I went for the door, but Maxine stopped me.
"I can't let you,” she said, pulling out a small gun. “Don't move, or I'll kill you."
I closed the door and turned. “Maxine, what he's doing isn't right."
"What he's doing?” she laughed. “There's no secret disgust of me in Norman. There are no lies. He loves me. Not like you.” She motioned with the nose of the gun. “Move over there. He warned me you would do this. That's why he gave me the gun, so I could stop you."
"Stop all of this!” Willa pleaded tearfully.
"I'm sick of you, you whiny little bitch.” Maxine turned the gun on her sister and fired.
The bullet struck Willa in the back of the head. I stared with disbelief as blood and bone exploded onto the wall and curtain. I was frozen in place, scared, unable to move. I wanted to vomit, but the shock completely overwhelmed me.
"Did you like that?” Maxine laughed and pointed the gun at me. “I've waited a long time to do it."
"What have you done?” I cried. “You've killed her!"
"No big loss.” She cocked the gun.
"Let me look at her, she may still be alive."
"Shut up!"
"But you're killing yourself!"
"I'll be just fine,” Maxine said. “I'm not going to let you take Norman from me."
"Please, let me call an ambulance,” I said nervously while watching her. I didn't want to say the wrong thing, make the wrong move that would cause her to fire. “C'mon, don't do this.” I thought of my own little girl, my perfect little girl.
Then, Doreen spoke up. “Don't worry. I'm sure someone heard the shot. Someone will be here to help you soon."
"Doreen,” I said as I noticed how much blood was oozing from Willa's head, “please get her to put down the gun."
It was obvious the loss of blood was starting to make them weak. “I can't.” Doreen sighed. “I want you to answer her questions. If it weren't for the money, would you be here?"
Maxine threatened with the gun. “Tell the truth because either way, I'm going to kill you."
I'd never been more frightened in my life. Silently, I prayed for mercy. “I won't lie. I need the money very badly.” Actually, I found the truth empowering in my moment of helplessness. “If I could make more somewhere else, I would. I don't have the time to go searching for another job, and I couldn't make the kind of money your parents pay me."
"You hate us, don't you?” Maxine asked.
I noticed her head nod slightly. “We've got to call an ambulance. You're bleeding to death."
"Answer the question!” Angrily, Maxine erratically aimed at me and fired.
Pain roared through my thigh as the bullet struck me. I fell, screaming, to the floor. The agony was excruciating. Swiftly, my jeans became soaked with my dark, hot blood.
"Time is running out,” Maxine said.
Pain tore at my mind. I couldn't control my hatred in the face of such lurid misery. My loathing erupted like a volcano.
"Yes, I hate you. You disgust me—turn my stomach inside out. I can't stand the sight of your ugly twisted body. I'm repulsed by you. I hate you so much I wish you were dead."
For years I had wanted to say those things. It's true, I hated the very fact they were alive. I hated myself even more for selling my own integrity and pride by caring for them. The worst part of all was I knew how wrong my feelings were. They never asked to be this way; it wasn't their fault. I should have been able to find the compassion in my heart. But I couldn't. It wasn't there. I hated the sight of them. I didn't have the strength to forgive myself or to find empathy in my heart.
Maxine was visibly in distress from blood loss. She fumbled to cock and aim the gun.
"Doreen, I'm sorry,” I said, tears streaking down my cheeks.
Doreen was also affected; she was slumping forward and barely conscious. “I forgive you, Kathy. You-you can't help the way you feel. We are ugly. P-perhaps this was best. W-willa wanted to d-die, anyway,” she stammered weakly, “and I can't say I blame her. I'm ugly, Kathy, we're ugly..."
She coughed twice before lapsing into unconsciousness.
"Now, it's just you and me,” Maxine slurred.
Closing my eyes, I prepared for the worst. I couldn't move, the pain was too intense. I readied myself as best I could for the next bullet. I prayed that it would be quick so I wouldn't suffer.
Ringing through the room, the shot echoed endlessly. I gasped, hoping the bullet would take me instantaneously. I often feared I would suffer a horrible slow death, and now reality was upon me. As I waited, though, no fresh sensations of pain came to me. I was afraid to look up because Maxine could have missed or was fooling me. Maybe she wanted to shoot me in the face so she could witness the expression at the precise point of my execution.
As I dared to look, I couldn't bel
ieve my eyes. Before me, the three sisters slouched lifelessly from their common torso like wilted flowers. Their flannel nightgown was soaked with blood. The side of Maxine's head was blown off, her black hair matted with blood and skin; the gun was still in her hand.
Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by the grisly scene. Bursting into tears, I screamed for help. I begged for anyone to hear me. Then, between my own shrieks, I heard a feeble voice. It was Doreen.
SLClimer - Rumours of the Grotesque Page 21