The porch at coffee shop was her place. It felt right; it felt as if it had been there waiting for her to show up, designed for her with her name on it. This street, with its depression, this bar with its lack of charm, wasn’t for her. Lisa couldn’t shake the feeling she needed out of the bar… now. Her fingers were screaming at her, get out, get gone, this is not for you. Leave the old men to the arguments and rancid beer.
After a cab ride that included uncomfortable chit-chat and seats that smelled too much of human, Lisa was back to the couch, back to the TV, and back to wondering where exactly her thoughts would lead to.
Why the endless thinking on them? Humans were nothing more than primates to The Grey. She should not spend so much time thinking about them; they were not more than they were—which was simple-minded apes.
Dozing on her couch, Lisa told her fingernails, “Break The Grey.” Then, she told her elbows, “Break The Grey.” After that, she told herself. “I am going to break The Grey. All the same, and none different… except I. Except I.” Sleeping Lisa didn’t notice Allison’s daughter peeping through her blinds, or sense the Mothers on the other side of the country watching the monitors. There was no direction in Lisa’s sleep to notice Superior Mother probing her thoughts, trying her best to scrub her daughter’s thoughts of freedom, of humans, and of possibilities for breaking The Grey.
Lisa slept without wondering of tomorrow, or even of right now. She only drifted away, deeper and deeper by the second, into her ever-present self.
Teresa
Sitting in her hall closet seemed reasonable. It was perfectly okay to sit in the closet listening to every waft of wind that hit the window. Teresa couldn’t help herself, she was waiting. Waiting for the Mothers to appear and tell her that time was up, mission not accomplished, “You, my dear, are a capital F failure…time to go home…time to go to sleep.”
James had left hours ago, and she had unexpectedly slept away the afternoon. She was now fully rested enough to be too aware of her situation. There was no dulling the knowledge that they would come, and come soon.
When they came, all would be pleasant, with little vicious winks and smiles gleaming with vacant kindness. Then, it would come quick, before Teresa was prepared. The Mothers would grab her, tell her to sleep. She had heard of their methods of killing—always clean and efficient with good manners, if done by Superior Mother’s orders. She had also heard of some Mothers killing without orders; those were not so well-mannered or efficient.
The renegades were to be feared—those that did what they wanted without heed to Superior Mother’s demands. Trying to peek between the wall and the closet door, Teresa told herself that the renegades wouldn’t come for her; they wouldn’t bother with her. She hadn’t broken ranks, she hadn’t gone against the orders of Superior Mother. Breathing in deeply, she silently sighed. She wouldn’t be on their radar, yet or at all.
The idea of Mothers of any kind made Teresa dive farther into the closet, trying her best to hide behind coats she never wore, never needed, and forgot she had. Coats that now felt like a brick wall between her and the Mothers—the Mothers of her childhood that could make a naughty girl disappear after just a couple reprimands. The Mothers seemed to work very hard at appearing serene. It was nothing but pageantry, a well-orchestrated lie of calm and caring. It was nothing but that until you crossed a hair-thin line by not doing as you were told.
Fingering the coats in her closet, Teresa’s thoughts went to Isabel—her most favorite of girls in The Grey; she had just disappeared one day without any explanation or mention. Isabel was the type of girl who didn’t walk, but skipped. There was a happiness to her that bubbled off her skin. Isabel would cross her eyes and stick out her tongue at Teresa when she thought no one was looking. She was silly, bubble gum candy, and Teresa loved it.
Then, the day came when all girls had to train. Training was only for the few girls who seemed fierce, who would be the ones at the front of whatever fight Superior Mother thought was coming. Some days, all girls—even the meek, the silly, and the slow—took some training.
The day that Teresa remembered most clearly, was the day training consisted of a bare room and learning to take a hit. That was it. You were taught how to get hit without getting hurt. The bigger girls in the room looked down on the young ones. The young ones, so scared of the first hit, would pee their pants.
There was instruction from a Mother about why you should learn to take a hit. “Learning that being hit isn’t such a big deal, my little darlings, will teach you that you are stronger than you can imagine…you won’t be afraid, and you’ll hit back.”
With that, the big girls stepped forward and Isabel giggled. She giggled loudly, nervously, and when the Mother giving instructions glanced her way, Isabel laughed. Teresa knew that Isabel was scared and couldn’t get her terror out any other way, but the Mothers wouldn’t be so understanding. All they saw was a girl not learning, not being efficient, incapable of being a true woman of The Grey. The other Mothers saw a girl who was constantly clowning, not understanding her place.
In a glance, the Mother placed her hand on Isabel’s neck, right below her ponytail. Isabel didn’t fidget, not a frown or tear drop. When the Mother started walking Isabel out, Teresa looked for her eyes. She wanted to catch one last glimpse of her friend. Their faces were alike, there wasn’t an inch of Isabel that was different than Teresa, but she wanted to see Isabel’s eyes. She wanted to catch a piece of what Isabel was on the inside, because she knew naughty girls didn’t come back.
Teresa never got to look at Isabel’s eyes again and she knew better than to ask. In secret, when she thought she wouldn’t be caught, she’d stick her tongue out at her reflection in the mirror, trying her best Isabel impersonation. She missed the small amount of happy that Isabel gave her each day.
Teresa had pulled the coat off the hanger and was holding it now, taking the corners of the collar, and sucking on them. She could see the last peek she had of Isabel, just the tip of her ponytail out of the door. This was the picture in her head that would never go away. That was the moment when she truly understood lonely. She was lonely for Isabel before the Mother gently shut the door behind her.
Teresa had always known it was best to be serious—to not laugh, giggle, or even smirk. It was best, then, to focus on her allegiance to the women of The Grey. She believed with all of herself that she should follow as told, because she didn’t want to end up like Isabel. This felt like a betrayal to her friend—so be it. Terror had a way of ending loyalty.
Now, Teresa would end up like Isabel; not because of disobedience, but because of an aberration in her body that she could not control. Yet, the punishment for disobedience and obedience would be the same.
Lying flat on her stomach in the closet, Teresa pulled the coat over her and thought of all the times she had laid in her bed in The Grey—thinking about Isabel, wondering, hoping that what she believed to be true wasn’t. Teresa wanted to think that Isabel was understood by the Mothers to be a free spirit, not full of disobedience, but of laughter and glee. A little girl could be silly without being naughty. A woman of The Grey could be efficient and loyal to her kind without being a breeder. Teresa wanted to believe.
She wasn’t defective, and neither was Isabel. Scratching at the carpet, Teresa was miserable. Hunger ran up her leg, into her chest, and poured images of food into her thoughts. The dust in the closet went up her nose and pounded the inside of her throat. But right now, hiding was better than being caught.
Shoving her face into the carpet, she wanted to know if it was better to linger in cowardice or present herself. The trouble was, there was no presenting herself. There was no going home until she was called home. There was no map that could help her find the front door. Cowardice pulled the coat tighter over and around her.
Teresa knew now there was only wait. You wait to be called. You wait to be picked up. You wait to be plucked up when you least expect it and have your future spit in your face f
or the Mothers to decode. The wait would slowly pull her into a hellish paranoid madness.
She was being a coward. A lowly, nasty coward. Cowards in The Grey were looked upon with the same sneer as disobedience. Those that disobey threatened the well-being of The Grey. Those that were cowards would not fight when needed. Teresa willed herself to sit up and walk out, knowing that closet—with its dust and smell of hundreds of humans past—was where the Mothers would find her…in a giant heap of coward.
She knew she needed to get out, shower, dress, make herself look pretty and put together, and when the Mothers arrived, she’d paste a face of ambivalence to herself. Teresa would show the Mothers that she was glad to go back to The Grey. She would skip there face Superior Mother, face the faces looking at her, squinting their pity while she was marched away, branded ‘different’ when they were all the same. Teresa would be given a generous amount of shame to mix with her doom.
She told the carpet, “If I have to go, I’ll go with my head held high and a smile. That’s what I will do.” But, Teresa was still in the closet, convincing herself that she would do her best to not let the Mothers win, even when they always did and always would.
Everything she believed about being a woman of The Grey—strong, fierce, and all the same, none different—now sat crumpled on the closet floor with her. In The Grey, Teresa considered herself focused on the mission. She could remember pouting when she was sent out to breed. She had told a Mother that to live among the humans, and to fuck a human was vile, but it was her duty to go forth, to do as Superior Mother ordered.
Getting ready to leave The Grey, Teresa swallowed her disappointment in leaving her home for a second mission. The Mothers who stayed behind told her that this was for The Grey, that she was doing her duty to keep them strong, and to follow Superior Mother’s orders was all that was and would ever be.
Teresa stood stoic, believing that she would bring home a baby girl for the Mothers to raise and bask in the pride Superior Mother would have for her. She truly believed all this would come to pass. Then, she’d sit at the table with the other Mothers, she’d be assigned her duty, and she would be the same, no different. Danger gone, no terror coming her way.
Now, none of this would ever be her reality. Instead, Teresa laid in a closet, on the floor of her tiny apartment, far from The Grey. Her hair was knotted, and she was in her underwear with puffy eyes and raw hands from clawing the carpet. She was disrupted, off her game, and what made it worse was that she knew she was the perfect example of being a spineless fool.
Teresa was still sucking on the collar, wrapped up in a ball, rocking and repeating, “Spineless fool” to herself over and over. She wanted to brand it into her skin, live as she had become. She was so wrapped up in her hysteria that she didn’t hear the noise… a shuffled noise. The type of noise that sends red lights flashing through your head. The kind of noise that tells you there’s someone there. Someone was outside the closet door, and when the door started to open, there was a choice to be made—either fight or panic.
Teresa chose panic. She let out a blood curdling scream that could be heard from blocks away. A hand grabbed her and pulled her towards him. James… it was James. She knew it was James. The feel of his hands, a man’s hand, big with fingers that grasped not picked at her. He held her, hushed her, and with great pity, showered her, fed her, and lay down with her to soothe her.
James’ heart was broken now, it laid in pieces. He rubbed her stringy blonde hair, fear of the unknown crawling all over him. Teresa was a strong woman of sour character. She was sweet when she could allow herself to be, but what James saw curled up on the closet floor was a creature that would soon be taken from safety to a place of devastating threat. She knew what waited for her in the bowels of hell, and James could almost taste her torment. She knew it was coming; she would be taken back.
Teresa was no longer a woman, but a creature, and James felt pity for such a creature. When he combed out her hair, he shivered thinking of the depths of evil she came from and how she tried to escape. There was no saving her; James could only help her right now. He covered her in a blanket, knowing that soon he would have to save just himself.
Teresa never questioned why James was there, how he got in, what happened. She buried her face in his chest, breathed him in, and tried to remember this moment because another might never come.
Abigail
Content was the word for Abigail, sitting in her element on the back porch, reading the local newspaper. The mundane daily actions of the humans fascinated her. It seemed so random and unfamiliar. There was no reporting of news in The Grey, only orders from Superior Mother.
It might have been nice to have known when a woman of The Grey accomplished a task or came home. Instead, there was hushed gossip that circled around every corner and every hallway. It was impossible to mind your own business, even though everyone acted like that’s what they did. In The Grey, every mother knew everyone’s business, but acted angelic and dumb to the details.
Reading the comics, Abigail felt a bump from Sunny. She had been rubbing her belly and speaking sweetly to Sunny for days, trying her best to keep her behaving—to keep the monster tame. But, she knew it was almost useless. This brat daughter of hers was a ticking time bomb, and her recent well-behaved manner did nothing but prickle Abigail’s nerves, knowing that soon Sunny would go boom.
Abigail knew that time was running out. She had constant reminders of this every time she found herself staring at the neighbor’s house, wondering how she could get over there. Knowing those thoughts weren’t hers; they were Sunny’s.
She felt that Sunny might devour her if she did not get her way. When the lust for blood took over, there was no controlling Sunny. Abigail was nothing but the marionette, and Sunny the puppeteer. Abigail understood so much now; to the women of The Grey, human blood was bliss. It was a massage. It was all things wonderful. To feel the blood against your skin was to feel, what humans would call, heaven. Sunny was nothing but a drug addict.
Sunny bumped Abigail again, causing her to drop her paper. It felt like she was stretching. Picking up her paper, Abigail wondered if this feeling brought joy to human mothers. The feel of that little body getting ready to see the world. The bump of “Hey mom,” with the idea that soon they would snuggle, kiss, and bond. Abigail tossed the newspaper on the porch swing; there would be no such thing with Sunny.
Looking down at her belly, Abigail watched Sunny move. A foot went up, a foot went down, and her belly skin looked like the ocean waves Abigail had seen on TV. She was getting so warm now that steam rose up from her arms and sweat poured down Abigail’s neck. Her favorite dress had scorch marks all over the part that covered her belly. Abigail was always odd looking, but now, with the sweat pouring down her and the scorched dress, she was other worldly to stare at. There was no joking away or explaining her appearance easily.
Getting up off the bench, she felt the weight of the chain on her ankle. Jacob had chained her to the house. She looked at her chain and liked the way it shined—the sparkle of it. She was going to pretend it was jewelry.
The neighbor watched Abigail from across the field through her binoculars. It was strange to do this, and she knew it, but she added some whiskey to her coffee, then sprinkled it with just a touch of scripture, and that gave her enough courage to peek, just peek, at the neighbors.
The girl sat on the back porch swing, and the neighbor could not figure out the picture. Here she sat alone, with a big pregnant belly, casually readying the newspaper. It looked casual; it was set up to look like anything you’d see on a normal day anywhere in the world. Except, the girl was chained. There was a thick metal chain around her ankle, and she didn’t seem to mind it. Then, there was this smoke, maybe steam, that came off her. It was like there was a fog machine behind her, blowing all around this strange girl—maybe strange creature, but that could’ve been the whiskey thinking.
The neighbor looked through her binoculars, saw the sc
ene, took the binoculars off, shook her head, and looked again. She kept at it for several minutes. Every shake was supposed to clear things up, but all it did was mix them into one huge pile of goo. The itch to go speak to this girl, this child, was sneaking up on the neighbor. She was trying her best to ignore it, but there it was nudging at her. The neighbor wasn’t sure she could ignore her pesky conscious much longer. Maybe, I should call the sheriff.
The idea of the sheriff made the neighbor huff. He was an older gentleman who spent most of his time napping or chasing young girls. He was a disgusting has been, but had been the sheriff for so long nobody bothered to think on it. The town was quiet, with little crime, so there was no need to rile people up with a new sheriff.
The neighbor explained to herself with every head shake that she’d handle things herself. Be the hero, save that girl. She’d go to the girl, take a shotgun, and get that chain off her. Then give herself enough time to get to the next county over and get a real sheriff to help. It would be simple, easy. Then, she’d come back home and sleep better knowing that whatever was happening next to her land was over. This might give her the push she needed to sell her land and move closer to the daydreams she had of the ocean.
Putting the binoculars down, the neighbor felt proud of herself for the decision to help that girl. She’d do it. She would. Taking a sip of her whiskey-laced coffee, the neighbor pursed her lips. She’d go, just not today. The neighbor had to think on her words, choose the correct timing, and most importantly, sober up.
Going inside to lay down, Abigail felt Sunny bump her again. But this time, it was the kind of bump people do when they want to start a fight. The bump was enough to knock Abigail down on the floor; the heat from her belly was rising. She felt like her insides were on fire and there was no moving from that floor. Sunny was angry and the anger wasn’t going to fade. The anger was building. Abigail feared how tall the building would rise.
Women of the Grey- The Complete Trilogy Page 36