BONES

by Yolanda Olson

“How?” I ask, walking her to the bed and setting her down gently next to her mother.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never met a guy named Guy before,” she replies, a glimmer in her eye and quick shrug to punctuate what she’s said.

  I nod, the smile leaving my face. I have her where I want her, and I know that with the false promises I’ve made her she’ll do as I ask. But how far is she willing to go to try and win her freedom? Now is the time that I will find out.

  “Wait here, Verona. Hold your mother close. Tell her you love her and try to mean it. I know that deep down inside you do; tell her. You’ll never get another chance,” I say as I turn and walk toward the giant, black armoire that sits on the wall directly across from the bed.

  I pull the right door open and then the left. There’s no rhyme or reason for it when both doors can be pulled open simultaneously, I just like to do little things to fray the nerves of those watching.

  “I haven’t heard you yet, Verona,” I say sternly as I cross my arms over my chest and look at the array of sharp objects in front of me.

  A loud suffering sigh meets my ears, followed by the sound of the bed shuffling slightly. At the very least, I know she has her arms around her mother.

  Now you’re probably wondering why I’m not spending these moments convincing the mother to live. That should be obvious enough; Verona is doing it for me without knowing it.

  I reach forward and slide a finger along the blade of the machete that sits gleaming in the darkness of the armoire. It’s beckoning to me to be used; it wants blood, and I will give it more than it could ever want. To begin, I know that the obvious thing I have to do is to cut the unborn child from the mother; it will be the first time I attempt something of that magnitude and I wonder if I will enjoy it.

  It’s of no consequence to me—the enjoyment of a task—it’s whatever feeds the need inside of me and quiets it long enough that I can go back out and look for her again. I pull the blade off the shelf and hold it up. I can’t help but wonder if this is something she would enjoy; watching me as I quell the need for pain. Probably not; this is a lonesome task, but one that I’m damn good at.

  I turn to face Mother and Verona. They have their arms wrapped tightly around each other. Verona is running her hand over Mother’s hair, and Mother is crying into her shoulder telling her that she’s so sorry that it’s come to this.

  “Come to me,” I say loudly enough to startle them both.

  Verona looks up at me, then to her mother, then back to me again.

  “I don’t think she wants this anymore. Can we just go home?” she asks nervously.

  “When I’m done. Now come to me. Both of you,” I say again as I let the blade swing down to my side.

  “But we’re going to live, right?” Verona inquires as she gets to her feet and helps her mother to stand.

  “For the moment, yes.”

  Chapter Six

  The screams are horrendous when I begin my work. Filled with terror and the knowledge of impending hell waiting to come out of me just for them.

  Verona is now in a harness, hanging on the inside of the armoire where she can’t get in my way. Where she can’t make unnecessarily attempts to save her mother in vain. I will not forget about her. I just want to save her for last.

  It’s taken nine furious hits with the hilt of the machete to stop Mother from fighting me. Usually those that enter my room are full of fight, and that’s what I like the most.

  I don’t beat women.

  This is different.

  This is just my way of incapacitating her so that there’s a minimal amount of blood to clean up. Priscilla always gets angry when there’s a mess, and so do I.

  The two of us are on the bed as Verona kicks and screams behind us. She doesn’t want her mother to die now, she doesn’t hate her, and she never meant anything mean she said to her.

  Those are her lies, not mine.

  I haven’t made any cuts yet. I’ve simply climbed on top of Mother and ripped her shirt open. She’s weak now; hit one too many times with the end of a blunt object, her eyes slowly rolling back and forth as my hand caresses her stomach.

  “Is it a boy or a girl?” I ask her.

  “Leave her alone you motherfucking piece of shit!” Verona screams from behind me.

  I roll my eyes and shake my head; I’ll be sure to cut her tongue out by the time I am done in this room. Perhaps I’ll let her live with a gaping wound in her mouth so she will learn how to speak to others with respect.

  Perhaps, but not likely.

  “Uhh...” is all Mother can offer me in response.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her softly, as I lean forward and run a hand gently down the side of her face. “I like surprises.”

  I move quickly and carefully, sliding the blade as deeply into the lower part of her stomach as I dare. I don’t want the child to die in her stomach. I want to see it first, hold it, give it the hope of love, before I rob it of life.

  I’m not a thief.

  It has no choice in the matter, as I’ve said, and I just like the thought of being able to look into its face. To watch it as it molds to me for the few moments that I let it live, to let it believe that it’s in a warm safe place as I have thought so many times before.

  Oh her screams are glorious the harder I pull the blade across! It digs in maybe an inch deeper, and I use both hands to steady it so that it doesn’t go any further in than it needs to. Behind me Verona is screaming violent threats of what she’ll do to me as soon as she frees herself, but I pay her no mind. This task is meticulous and must be handled with care if I want them both to live.

  One could argue that I’m providing a service, or a kindness even. But, of course, that would only be argued by someone that doesn’t know me, and I would allow them the thoughts.

  “I’m almost done,” I say to her through grit teeth as I continue dragging the machete as far inside of her as I dare to go, and across. The sound of the flesh as it rips is almost melodic to me. Chaotic in its tune, but a beautiful sonata nonetheless.

  I’m almost to the other side of her stomach when something inside me snaps and I lose my careful patience. I take a deep breath and place a hand down firmly on her stomach and yank the blade the rest of the way across. One jerk. Two. The blood flowing out of the giant gash on her stomach is majestic and for a moment, I lose myself in the sight.

  I had never seen such an amount of blood flow from a body before and I wonder if she would mind terribly if I stuck myself inside of her.

  Remove the baby first.

  I pull the machete out of her and lay it on the bed next to us. She’s too weak now to use it, and even if she tried, I would be able to stop her. I dig my hands into her, as far in as they will go—which turns out to be almost my entire forearms. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be feeling for, but I know that I’ve cut her deeply enough when my hands brush against something reminiscent of a newborn child. I turn my head to the side and wrap my hands around it tightly and begin to extract it from her, when another song of screams hits my ears.

  I look down and smile; it’s so small, not full term, but not quite what I would consider premature. I never did ask her how far along she was, but it was of no matter once I had decided on taking the child from her womb.

  The umbilical cord is attached to something still inside of her, and I cradle the baby covered in blood and what looks like some kind of mucosal substance against my chest as I tug until it comes out.

  Afterbirth? No, this is the placenta.

  I lay it on the bed as I hold the baby against me, using my pinkie to let it suckle while it calms.

  It’s a boy; Verona has a brother.

  I gently rock the baby boy in my arms and look up at Verona as she continues to buck like a wild horse.

  “PLEASE!” she screams at me through a cascade of tears. “Just let us go!”

  “But there is nowhere to go,” I reply as the little boy’s cries begin to subside. “Now, tell me,
did your mother pick a name out for the baby?”

  Behind me, she moves on the bed, and I reach quickly for the machete. I’m not sure if she had been attempting to rest it from where it was laying, but I won’t allow her the attempt. Not now that my arms are preoccupied with new life.

  “Guy, please!” she begs.

  I chuckle and look down at the little boy still suckling my pinkie and smile. “Are you calm now?”

  His eyes, still not open, squeeze together tightly as a small cry escapes from inside of him.

  “No?” I ask him softly. I reach for the machete again and place it under the cord, laying it over the blade like a pyramid of sorts. A couple of tugs in a downward manner and I’ve severed it from the placenta. I get to my feet, machete in one hand, baby in the other arm, and whisper softly to him.

  I tell him how the world is a dark place made of utter shit. I tell him of how life isn’t really worth living with a mother that wanted him to die and a sister that only thinks of herself. I tell him it’s better this way, and I think he believes me.

  I lean my face down and press my lips softly against his head for just a moment; to give him the only feeling of love he’ll ever know in his short life. Then with his mother watching from the bed, and his sister screaming from her place suspended in the armoire begging me for mercy, begging me for his life, I turn him upside down and grip his ankles.

  I smile when I know I have their undivided attention. I raise the baby over my shoulder, the baby boy with no name, and with every bit of strength inside of me, proceed to slam it violently against the wall until the crying stops.

  Until there’s nothing left but blood, brain matter, and the broken bones of a limp corpse that lived so briefly in an small moment of insincere love.

  I take the now mangled shell of a life that was once so briefly and toss it onto the bed with the mother.

  “It’s a boy.”

  Chapter Seven

  The inside of my mouth is dry and rotting as I pull on my second cigarette of the day. I’m sure this is some kind of record for me as I’m not much of a smoker. This moment requires a minor sedation, and I happily indulge the need.

  But I’m not really happy right now; I’m confused. Confused as to why Verona is still screaming and struggling in the harness. Confused as to how Mother is still alive and not realizing what’s happened yet.

  Perhaps if I put the baby back inside of her and sew her up somehow, it will be enough of a redeeming act that it won’t haunt me for the next few days.

  The acts never stayed burned in my mind for too long, but just enough to make me sit and reflect on what I’ve done. A good man would care, but I’m not a good man.

  I have to stop her screaming, it’s giving me a headache.

  I get to my feet and look around the room. There had to be something I could shove into her mouth that would silence her but not kill her. My plan is to save her for last, so that she can savor the destruction of her family and know that her hatred is what brought them to me.

  My eyes drift toward the broken body of the baby boy. I see something just beneath him that I can use. I got to the bed and move his body aside retrieving my new prize and turn toward Verona.

  She’s screaming louder now that she sees what I’m holding and I put the cigarette in between my lips. This will have to do.

  “Open your mouth, please,” I say, now standing in front of her.

  “Fuck you!” she screams back, trying to kick me.

  “Verona, I need you to stop screaming. Stop fighting the inevitable. You wanted your family dead, didn’t you? I saw it in your posture when I first came in, and I obliged. But you have to stop screaming or I’ll snap your neck, and that just won’t do. Now, please open your mouth,” I say tiredly.

  She spits on me instead of complying, and as I wipe it off the side of my face, I become ungodly angry. I’ve never been spit on before, and I don’t appreciate the act. I use every ounce of my strength and punch her in the jaw as hard as I can, continuing violently until I hear the snapping sound that tells me that her bone is broken.

  “Thank you,” I say, as she begins to cry. In pain, frustration? I don’t care; at this point her mouth is hanging open and it’s what I needed. Of course, I have to find a way to keep her jaw closed, but that’s not going to be a difficult task.

  I grunt as I push the bloody placenta into her mouth. Far enough inside to make her gag, but not to obstruct her airway. Choking to death would be too easy, and her little act of defiance has earned her a more glorious death than that.

  I use one hand to keep it in place, then reach around her, blindly feeling the shelves in the armoire until my hand closes around a strap of leather. I pull it out and use it to make a tourniquet. It’s long enough to wrap around her head at least once, and I step back satisfied that it’s done the job quite nicely.

  “I imagine that’s what a brain with the spine still attached looks like,” I muse more to myself than her. Part of the umbilical cord is still attached to the afterbirth and it’s swaying softly as she tries to swipe at it.

  I raise an eyebrow and watch for a moment. If she pulls it out of her mouth that won’t do, but the pain from a broken jaw is restricting her movements, and the most she’s been able to do so far is cradle the sides of her face.

  “Leave it in,” I warn as I pull deeply on the cigarette. “If you pull it out, I’ll impale your hands against the door.”

  Her rage leaves her eyes. It’s all replaced by a small, fragile girl terrified of what’s unfolding in front of her; resigned to the fate that she so desperately wished secretly upon her mother.

  I know girls like Verona; I see them on the streets and I’ve had them in my room. In the end, I make them realize that they are worth only the sum of their thoughts. But none of them are ever enough for me, because they’re not her.

  Verona begins to gag, and I smile as she brings my attention back to where it belongs—this moment. It snaps me back to the task at hand, and I turn back toward the bed. The boy belongs back inside of his mother; in the warm safe place that so many of us take for granted.

  Once we’re brought into this world, we’re under the weight of our mothers’ sins for seven years, then we’re on our own. I hadn’t afforded him seven minutes before saving him from the hell I knew he had been destined for.

  She moans on the bed, her head turning slowly to the right, and I climb on resting next to her. I want her to see my face, my eyes, to remember her last moments with me and no one else. The child will have to wait; this woman has clearly suffered enough in her life that it would be an unnecessary cruelty to sew her child back into her while she was still alive.

  I caress the side of her face gently as she blinks slowly. She’ll be gone soon enough and this charade of emotion has to last much longer.

  The only sounds in the room are the sounds of Verona whimpering, this dying woman next to me taking slow, shuddering breaths and my own breathing slowing to match hers.

  It’s a comfort I’ve learned to give those that don’t walk out of my room; to falsify my own death so they don’t feel as if they’re going into the unknown alone.

  She opens her eyes widely and looks into mine one last time, before they shut. Her breathing becomes less and less labored, and I find my hand has moved from her face to her stomach. It’s not as firm as it was before, and it’s not as majestic when not filled with life, but I gently rub in circular motions.

  Death comes to us all.

  Is she afraid? Is she accepting of her fate? I don’t know. To be honest, I only try to ease her passing as a solace more to myself than her. It quiets the demons that try to revive themselves after the deeds are done.

  One last warm breath against the side of my face and she’s no more.

  I gently lean forward and kiss her forehead before I move myself up to a seated position. Verona is still now, weeping genuine tears as she realizes what’s happened.

  But does she cry for her family or for herself?
A child such as herself would surely not feel any pain at the passing of her mother and brother, would she?

  “Look away,” I say to her as I get to my feet. I wait until she closes her eyes tightly and reach for the baby boy.

  With a deep breath, I pull open the massive wound in their mother’s abdomen and begin to cram him back inside of her. I don’t care if he’s comfortable or if I’m putting him back in the right place, so long as he’s inside of her where he belongs. They’ll be buried together; I’ll make sure of it with Priscilla.

  Chapter Eight

  I seem to have a bit of a smoking problem today.

  I have my third cigarette hanging from my mouth as I meticulously attempt to sew Verona’s mother back to her former state. I don’t want there to be a scar, though I know that’s a lost cause. If I had cut her correctly when I took the boy out, then there would have been less of a chance, but I lost myself in that moment.

  It was of no consequence, I just needed to finish the job. I’m halfway done now, but the damn baby’s foot keeps falling back out of the wound prohibiting me from continuing. I don’t want to have to sever the leg, but I will if I must.

  I give him one last hope to stay whole as I lean down and push him back in, further up into her, causing a rigid bump to form on top of her stomach.

  Not my best work, but it will half to do.

  I let out a sigh as ash falls from the end of the cigarette onto her stomach. I’m not upset by any means, just relieved that it’s over now. He gets to keep his leg, and I’m proud of myself for not following through on that thought.

  I sit down on the bed, rub the back of my hand against my forehead, and take the cigarette from my mouth. The oddly shaped mound sitting next to me is watching me. I can see it from the corner of my eye; taunting me, telling me that I haven’t done a good job. Telling me to rip him out and start again.

  I won’t do it.

  I won’t listen.

  I won’t let the boy mock me from inside of her.

  With a quick, strong shove, I push her body onto the floor on the other side of the bed where I can’t see them anymore. Where he can’t see me or watch me or provoke me to start over.