Superior Mother pushed her face against Lisa’s, almost willing herself to take a bite, or willing herself not to. Lisa couldn’t tell; she only knew not to move. The ice flakes were falling off onto Lisa’s skin, making everything itch. The eyes that had neither lids nor lashes were just about to touch hers. The gelatinous appearance of the eyes, started a revulsion in Lisa’s stomach that—if Superior Mother moved just a smidge closer—a revolution would begin with Lisa. It was strange to be face to face with someone and not know what kind of harm they wanted to inflict on you, but Lisa had this feeling—this sinking, disgusting feeling—that those tiny teeth were there for shredding, and it was her that Superior Mother might shred.
With a grunt, and a face to face shove, Superior Mother got off Lisa and removed the ring from her forehead. Lisa’s vision was blurry, her head was doing laps, and she couldn’t focus. It seemed like it took weeks for the ice vapor surrounding them to clear; when it did, Lisa’s focus and vision were regained. With the clarity, Superior Mother looked human again—not a trace of what she was. What she is, Lisa told herself, What I am…
“Now, behave yourself, Lisa love. You are a lot more trouble than you’re worth.”
Abigail
“Wow, that snake’s head came off quickly…good to know,” Abigail said to the shovel in her hand. The hot dot had become a thumbprint, and lately, the thumbprint was steaming mad. The only way Abigail could really calm her down was to kill something. The killing didn’t sit well in Abigail’s chest. It was a burden Abigail had never had to carry before. Despite being a Woman of The Grey, despite knowing that she was taught about survival in the human world, despite having it hammered into her head that there was no good in the world—so there was no point in having feelings towards the humans—they were the lesser beings after all.
“Don’t be hasty with ideas little lady. Humans mean nothing to our kind.” Abigail could hear Superior Mother now tossing venom into her ears. Abigail felt that she shouldn’t be sneaking around killing little creatures like some thief in the night. But, killing was the only way to calm the thumbprint down. There were days when the thought of that little potato bug popping in between Abigail’s fingertips was enough to calm her mind; and then, there were days when Abigail needed just a little more. There were days when the thumbprint demanded more.
The poor garden snake didn’t even see it coming; then again, neither did Abigail, who was sitting on the porch thinking about the little thumbprint in her belly. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Mr. Snake having his way across the grass. Before Abigail could think of the word shovel, or snake or anything, she was up and the snake’s head was off. Abigail couldn’t push back against her bully of a thumbprint; it was done. Abigail looked at the dead snake and shrugged it off. Did it have to be this way? Was it going to get worse?
Abigail sat running her fingers over the snake’s scales. How interesting it was that these tiny creatures were so easy to kill. If there were any of these creatures in The Grey, Abigail was sure that she wouldn’t be allowed to kill them; or maybe she would. It was useless to try and guess what Superior Mother would allow. Abigail pushed her toes into the dirt, allowing the dead leaves to stick to her skin, while the sticks poked at her; it was impossible to guess what the thumbprint would do next. Sighing and looking at the shovel, Abigail was going to have to live between ‘useless to try’ and ‘impossible to guess’.
For now, Abigail put the snake’s head in her pocket and bowed to a feral cat who snuck in to steal the body. Abigail was glad that the cat got a meal, but she was relieved that—for now, with the snake’s head bouncing around in her dress pocket—the thumbprint seemed placated, even somewhat calm.
Occasionally sticking her hand in the pocket to finger the snakes head, Abigail wandered the woods a bit, looking at branches and trees, shoving her toes into the dirt—almost wanting to throw herself on the ground and cover herself in it. She was the opposite of The Grey in all ways. Abigail could indulge in it even more by being filthy. Walking back to the little house, Abigail saw that the guy was home, and he was walking toward her. She loved to watch him walk. He had such a strut to him that sometimes she caught herself thinking of him as a wild man from the woods coming to rescue a pretty young lady.
“You spend more time out in the woods than I ever expected any woman to bother with…” he smiled. He scooped Abigail up and kissed the top of her head, then took her into the little house. “It’s time for a bubble bath little lady, and maybe if you’re lucky, some kisses to go with it.”
Abigail loved him; she loved him for so many reasons: the thickness of his neck, his country boy nature, the feel of his arms around her, his big hands and tough knuckles against her skin. Abigail could get lost in him, open up his chest, and sink right in. She couldn’t go back to The Grey and live amongst them as a Mother. She just couldn’t go back. She loved this. She loved him.
The Quiet Man
Getting home to his girl was always… interesting. That was the only way to describe it, interesting. He thought, he should feel relieved after a long day to come home to a warm house and a loving woman, but Abigail was never in the house and her skin was always ice cold. All of those TV shows where the man comes home from a hard days’ work to find his woman with a smile and an apron on were liars. There were no shows where a man comes home from a hard days’ work to find his woman covered in muck and gazing at the trees.
The ‘drive home from work’ narrative in his head always started the minute his truck tires, hit the dirt road. So, here I am again. What will it be tonight? Will she be on the back porch with her nose buried in a newspaper? Or maybe tonight she’ll be in the kitchen burning something on the stove. It could be anything, was all he thought as he stepped outside onto the porch and watched Abigail against the sun set. She was just standing in the yard with a satisfied look on her face—dirty hair, no shoes, and a crumpled dress she’d been wearing for two days. He felt a lump in his chest; it wasn’t the lump of love—at least he didn’t think it was. It was a lump of, ‘what have I gotten myself into’, mixed with ‘I’m trying my best to be a God-fearing man of honor, but what am I stuck with’. Happily stuck? Not really. He had visions of coming home and finding her and their child in the yard, full of dirt with worms in their pockets and feathers in their hair.
Abigail was feral, and he’d accepted that. He had taken in the feral stray cat and given it a home. He could tell Abigail wanted a home; she just couldn’t seem to shake off her wild instincts. Feeling perplexed, he almost wished that she was some sort of wild cat; then he’d know what to do with her. He wished he would have grabbed a beer before walking through the house, and wished he didn’t want to kiss her, but he did. He did want to kiss that mess of a gal. Rubbing his hands though his hair, feeling the dust of his work day crawl down his back, he knew that wishing wasn’t getting anything done. All the wishing wouldn’t change what he had gotten himself into with this pig-pen that was his woman. In one big swoop, he picked Abigail up from her spot in the yard. He should have questioned why she was holding a shovel, but didn’t bother. Instead, he made romantic excuses to give her a bath. He’d take her into the house and bribe her with affection to get her ass out of those dirty clothes.
He leaned Abigail’s head back to scrub her hair while planting kisses along her forehead. He got a mouth full of bubble bath suds, but he had learned little tricks—like kisses—could make Abigail comply. She was like a beaten dog that just needed its head pat. Planting another kiss and trying to spit away the soap suds on his lips, the determination to get Abigail looking decent was stronger than this whole silly picture. This wasn’t heartwarming to him. This wasn’t TV movie sexy. It was nothing more than strategy. This was him getting this girl cleaned up tonight. He had planned to take her out on the town; he just couldn’t stomach another one of her meals, not tonight. Tonight, he needed a burger. Tonight, he needed something that wasn’t burned. Plus, Abigail was starting to feel li
ke a secret while he was out. He needed it to feel more real, not like he had a pretend girlfriend that lived in the town over, or a girl locked up in his house making the towns people think crazy thoughts of him. Especially now that she was pregnant. He had to bring her out and about as his pregnant girlfriend… he guessed. He had never swum in these waters before. How was he supposed to know what she was to him?
“I’m taking you out to dinner tonight…” he kissed her hand gently while passively scrubbing her fingers. “That means clean cloths, clean hair, and a smile…got it lady?”
Abigail did nothing but smile at him with her big blue eyes. He was hoping that she’d see this for what it was—her coming out party. It was time for Abigail to show her face in town and present herself as his girlfriend, lady friend… something—anything. Just so he’d quiet down the gossipy hens in his town and get his burger.
“It’s about time you show yourself around town and let them know I’m a taken man.”
Abigail got out of the tub covered in bubbles and shamelessly naked. She shook off the water like a dog and nodded at him with a ‘ta-da’ type of stance. That’s when he saw it—like a hidden picture. It was something your eyes unexpectedly focus on and it all suddenly becomes vivid. The tiny, hot dot was larger now, and it moved slowly back and forth as if it were rocking itself. Walking up to Abigail and getting on his knees, he could see the steam coming off her skin from that one spot. It was swaying, just slightly, back and forth, back and forth. Back and forth, it’s rocking itself. He looked up at Abigail who wasn’t at all surprised by this.
“She’s a thumbprint now…bigger every day…” Abigail kissed his head and put his finger against it.
He pulled in his breath and quickly took his finger away from the rocking dot; it burned his finger. The scorch he felt was real. The red inflamed skin was there; the tiny dot burned his finger the same way a hot stove would. This wasn’t interesting. This was concerning. One burned finger, and his point of view of Abigail changed—his feelings for that baby changed. What was this thing? A baby? His baby?
“Why do you always say ‘she’?”
“Because, she’s a she.”
He wondered how long his brain was going to pretend that this was normal. He was a simple man, but not simple-minded. He knew that something was wrong—the laser sight feeling, the hot spot on her body moving back and forth, it all muddled his mind sometimes. It’s all so wrong. It’s not normal. It’s not human. Why can’t I get myself to question her? Why do I keep getting up, going to work, and paying bills like every other guy? I have done nothing, but accept whatever this girl has brought me. I keep accepting, but why? I can’t understand why. Am I lonely? Am I stupid? Am I just lost and confused?
Then, it dawned on him, I think I’m still interested. As stupid as this movie seemed, he was interested enough to want to know the ending. In his simple life of quiet tranquility, Abigail was interesting and that kept him checking in. He wished he could remove himself and kick his own ass.
Teresa
Breakfast was one of those meals Teresa could do without, but this man kept singing in the morning, frying up eggs, making toast, and handing her cups of coffee with a wink. Damn it, what does he have to be so damn happy about? He was unemployed, immature, and gorgeous in boxer shorts, handing her cups of coffee. Seriously, why am I so weak to the mere sight of his thighs. It’s dumb. I’m stupid. On and on the self-loathing went; it seemed to be Teresa’s theme for the day, every day.
Teresa knew that she was born for more than just breeding. There was more out there. She just knew that there was more beyond the store fronts, trees, and houses of this quaint little town. Why did the town have to be so damn cute, anyway? Why couldn’t Superior Mother send her some place desolate and dry? Instead, Teresa was in a town that was inviting to the eye, with a man who was also inviting to the eye—all the while her guts churned to be more than just this. Teresa had an instinct that was more, than just, what… she didn’t know. She just knew that she was more than this town, this guy, this… all of it. Teresa wished she could grab it, crumble it up in her hands, and toss it in the air like confetti.
“Baby doll, that grumpy face you give me every morning only makes me want to bend you over…” Teresa sipped coffee wishing she could swat and hiss at him without him deeming it as cute. Were all men like this? Teresa hated that she fell for such nonsense talk from him; the bull he spouted from his mouth charmed her, and when that happened, she felt completely angered with herself. I’m more than some tinker bell. I’m more than eyelashes and a skirt. I’m more than this. Teresa told herself under her breath, more than this.
“Today sweet lady, we shall get up, get dressed, and head to the lake. Maybe a picnic…maybe some dancing in the water, followed by napping under trees…”
Again, with this man, Teresa sat full of self-loathing and fury while he planned a day of postcard beauty.
“Lake-side it is.” Teresa got up, got dressed, and promised herself that she would smile the entire time—not understanding if she did so for her mission or for her man. She felt like a conflicted beast, not sure if she should go back to her cave or kill her mate.
The Thinker
Maybe it was because his father was a man of all bark and no bite that he watched his words carefully. Maybe it was because his mother was a woman of constant cheer that he now found himself adoring the grump of the woman he had. He probably self-analyzed a bit much, but that had always been his nature. One step forward, immediately followed by two minutes of pondering why he took those steps to begin with.
This frozen woman of his was a constant question mark. It floated above Teresa’s head like the comic book dark cloud. That air of mystery made him want to know more, then more, and more. Today, her sullen lump of messy blonde hair and coffee made him want to poke that perpetual bear. He needed answers to so many questions. This lake-side date was just the place for him to ask. He would ask today, ask those questions that have been rolling around in his brain. He had been telling himself that it was too soon; he didn’t want to be too pushy by asking such questions. But today, he would demand answers because he was her lover, after all. Shit, I’m her boyfriend. I am the only person I see come to her home. Where is her family? Where are her friends?
He needed to grab the question mark and show it to Teresa—shove it at her and make her understand that he saw her; he saw the question mark above her head clear as day. I’m more than sex. I’m more than kisses, he preached to himself. He was a man in love, and that demanded attention to detail and answers to secrets.
Lisa
The days that followed were nothing but sickness. Lisa endured an overwhelming feeling of being ill, swimming in sleep that wouldn’t shake off. Several times, Lisa desperately tried to sit up, look around; she saw nothing but a dormitory room with empty beds.
Why are the beds empty? Lisa felt the urge to go look, to explore. Was she seeing yet another room behind one of those elusive locked doors? This might be an opportunity to get some answers—at least a partial answer to big questions that she had about everything—anything—in The Grey. Just when Lisa was brave enough to act, the weakness told her to lay back down, and again she was lost to sleep. In sleep, there was nothing but small dreams full of tiny encrypted messages that Lisa read too much into. In her dreams, she was bullied by baby-like little monsters, ready to chew her fingers off. There were men floating around, asking endless questions that she never had an answer for. It was too much to handle, this endless feeling of exhaustion followed by hours and hours of sleep. A sleep so twisted by the depth of her dreams that The White seemed almost cozy.
At times, Lisa caught glimpses of information from in between her lashes. She spied the Mothers trolling around her—looking at her, nodding, glancing at monitors. Lisa knew that they wondered as much as she did why she was there; she had deserved to be sinking into The Black or tucked in for an eternal sleep. Lisa could only imagine that most of those Mothers coming in to sn
eak looks at her—if only to satisfy their own judgmental agenda—wished nothing more than for Lisa to be tucked in, ‘goodbye sweetheart, sleep well’.
“It is time, sweet pea, that you eat a little something. A little of this and a little of that, put a kiss on it and you’ll be right as rain soon enough…maybe well enough to walk out of here…not that your company is not fulfilling and thrilling to say the least.” The Mother pulled her arm, sitting Lisa up and putting a tray in front of her. She winked at Lisa and blew her a kiss before walking out of the room.
There, before Lisa, sat a tray loaded with fresh strawberries, cut up carrots, and a pot of hot tea. So strange, the food here is so strange. Never cooked, all vegetarian. So strange. Lisa sipped the hot tea and craved steak. The food outside The Grey was better; it sat heavy in the gut and clung to Lisa’s lungs. It always made her feel full, sickly full sometimes, but full. Here, every meal reminded Lisa of how empty she was to begin with. A full meal in The Grey left Lisa hungry and wanting more. Crushing the strawberries with her fingers Lisa always wanted more, but could never really tell what she wanted more of.
Women of the Grey- The Complete Trilogy Page 25