Circe

by Jessica Penot

  “Drink of me and I will give you eternal life,” she said. “Give me your children and you will never die.”

  “You can’t have them,” I said.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned. “Sir,” the nurse who was shaking me said. “Are you all right? “

  “No,” I responded curtly. “I’m not all right.”

  It is possible that I was insane. It is possible that I still am. Perhaps I had a brief psychotic episode brought on by too much stress and grief. Perhaps I had always been schizophrenic. Maybe everything that happened was a dream. I don’t believe this, but how can a mad man understand that he is mad? In retrospect, it seems possible that all moments could be a dream or piece of insanity stored up, that all perspective could be illusion. How could I tell insanity from reality as I faced the embodiment of disreality standing before me, as real as the wife I had once held in my arms? All those days of telling psychotics to tell themselves that their demons were shadows of their fractured minds seemed silly to me as I sat there staring at this ancient thing, oozing shit onto the floor like blood. She was Circe incarnate and even as the nurse shook me, trying to wake me from my madness, I knew what I had to do.

  Finally, Circe melted into a puddle on the tile and I looked up at the nurse who was desperately trying to bring me back to reality.

  “Sir,” she was yelling at me.

  “What?” I said angrily.

  “Are you all right? You’ve been talking to yourself. I thought maybe you were sick and I should call you a doctor?”

  I knew she meant a shrink. “No, I talk in my sleep. I must have drifted off.”

  “You didn’t look asleep.”

  “I never do.”

  “The doctor is ready to see you.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Blank is the end. Blank is the beginning.

  Unknown

  Odin—The Unknowable

  I studied the details of the doctor’s face. He seemed like a good man. His hair was messy and he was tired. I imagined he had been up all night with Pria. He had done all he could to save her. Anger and sorrow and pity jutted out of his words and demeanor. He felt terrible, but he blamed others. He wrung his hands as he talked. The sweat dripped down from his forehead like a fountain.

  His speech was slow and nervous. There was blood on his shoes. I don’t think he knew. He’d carried a little piece of my wife with him. His shirt was stained with sweat and he’d taken his white coat off. He was young, but intelligent, and I thought that in another life he and I could have been friends. I smiled at him and Sadaf glared at me. It was over for me. Nothing else mattered. There would be no more thought. There would be only action.

  I could hear what the doctor was saying, but it hardly mattered. I knew what had killed my wife.

  “It was too late when she came in,” he said. “Pria’s Ob/Gyn was an idiot. She should have been brought in two days ago when the fever first came on. We could have saved her then. We didn’t realize how bad things were when she came in. The first fetus died, maybe three or four days ago. The tissue became necrotic and caused an overwhelming infection. We took Pria to the OR and tried to deliver the live baby via C-section, but during the process her blood pressure dropped and we lost her. She died of septic shock. In essence, the dead baby poisoned her blood. The symptoms you saw were a response to something called DIC. I’m so sorry. There was nothing we could do to save Pria or the babies. It was too late when she came in.”

  I left without saying anything to Sadaf or the doctor. I drove directly to Circe, only stopping to fill two cans with gas.

  No thoughts.

  No reflection.

  No time for self-analysis or question.

  Fuck them. Nothing mattered. We were all dead already.

  I walked up to the old acute ward with two gas cans. It was broad daylight. I stared at the boarded-up windows only for a moment before I kicked the door in and doused it with gas. The fumes filled the elegant foyer. I dropped a match. The flames leapt up from the gasoline-saturated carpet. The wallpaper began to peel. Old pictures fell off the walls and the smoke rose like black phantoms trying to find heaven. I left as the building began to moan and shudder. I left before she collapsed.

  I walked casually to the old watch tower with its chipped white walls. Everywhere people were staring at me. Patients screamed. Employees stood paralyzed by fear and shock. I bathed the old watch tower with gas and lit another match. I stood looking up into the heart of Circe. I never went in. I walked out into the courtyard. It was a beautiful day. The sun shone down on the white cobblestone. The peacock sat perched on a bench with its tail feathers spread wide. The azaleas had just begun to bloom and everywhere I looked there were pink blossoms. The patients had planted a little garden of tulips outside the cantina and the flowers were just peeking their heads up over the black soil.

  People were hysterical all around me and security guards were pointing guns at me. I didn’t care. I walked over to Mr. Fat and borrowed a cigarette and sat down with the patients to watch Circe burn. Mr. Fat smiled at me over the smoke. We were brothers now, he and I. We saw the same hallucinations and suffered from the same delusions.

  He put his enormous sausage fingers on my back and said, “Good job.”

  Sirens rose in the distance. Their sound blended in with the cacophony that surrounded me. Patients ran around shouting and wailing and talking to nothing. Mental health workers were desperately trying to contain the bedlam. The security guards were screaming at me. In the midst of the chaos, Mr. Nicca sat down beside me and lit his cigarette off of mine. The three of us sat together. Andy and John were gone. Order was inverted and I found my new place on the bench in front of the cantina with Mr. Nicca and Mr. Fat. We all smoked and smiled at the fire.

  “We’re all mad here,” Mr. Nicca said.

  “I guess so.”

  “Bob was a mental health worker on the third floor. They say he went crazy and bashed Roy’s brain in,” Mr. Nicca said. “But you and me, Doc, we both know that the devil under my bed told him to do it.”

  “Yeah. I just set the devil on fire.”

  “Yer more fuckin’ crazy than me if you think you killed the devil.” Mr. Nicca laughed.

  The police surrounded us. Mr. Nicca and Mr. Fat moved lazily out of the way. The police tossed me onto the ground, searched me, and dragged me away. I had thought I would go find Cassie, but I had plenty of time. It wasn’t like I had anything better to do. I sat in a holding cell for eight hours. I couldn’t feel anything or see anything but Pria’s crumpled body on the bed. The men around me spoke and moved and maybe even threatened, but I saw nothing. I could still feel her hand in mine, hear her voice begging me to take her away. Her blood still stained my shirt. Still covered my hands.

  It was Jeremy who came to pick me up. When he saw me, wandering out of the jail covered in blood and tears, he grabbed me and hugged me. I couldn’t return it. I could only meet his eyes coldly. I could hear him talking, spouting out apologies and offering his condolences. I could smell pity on him like the rot coming from Circe. Blah. Blah. Blah. Words crawled out of his mouth like slugs, as dead as Pria. There was no room for civilized conversation. I turned and walked away from him.

  “Where are you going?” Jeremy asked, grabbing my shoulder.

  “I have unfinished business.”

  “Your wife’s funeral is in two days. You just set a fuckin’ building on fire. They aren’t pressing charges because of all the extenuating circumstances, but I suggest you go to Sadaf’s and help her plan the God-damn funeral!”

  “Fuck you, man. I don’t need suggestions.”

  “I know you’re hurtin’. I see it, but you’re a psychologist. You have to see that the way you’re going is wrong. Do you think Pria would want you to burn buildings?”

  I thought about those last days together. I remembered her pleading with me to see Cybil, to run away. She had wanted me to stop it. She wanted it to end.

  “Yeah. This is wh
at she wanted.”

  I knew where Cassie lived. It wasn’t far from the courthouse. She lived in midtown amidst the pretty, classic houses that surrounded the downtown and spread out from the basilica. They were encircled by trimmed shrubs and neat lawns. Cassie’s home looked quaint, like something out of a book about Americana. There were no signs or symbols that would lead anyone to believe a monster lived inside. Surrounded by majestic trees, it had a long southern porch, fit with a charming swing. A King Charles spaniel barked loudly at the window, clawing at the lovely lavender drapes.

  I pushed open the front door and all the picturesque beauty faded into the vision of Cassie. The inside of her house stunk of her. The walls were covered in masks from all over the world. Old prints of witches and demons hung in crooked frames on the pink walls. Dust covered the furniture. Bookshelves in various states of disarray lined the walls and all the soft furniture was covered in dog hair. A single family picture hung on the wall. The picture showed Cassie with a man and child. She looked happy.

  Cassie sat on the sofa under an old afghan watching TV. Even in her bathrobe, her beauty lingered, whispering to me, reminding me of all my sins. She looked up at me calmly and smiled.

  “I just want to know why?” I demanded.

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you kill my family?

  She laughed. “I’m as powerless as you, little man. I’m merely a tool.”

  “What are you talking about, you crazy cunt!?”

  “It’s the price of admission. The price you pay to cross over, to live forever. I lost my family too. The pain dulls with time. Circe killed your family. I only walked you through the steps to their demise.”

  “Why did you have her kill Pria and my babies? Why not me? I’m the one who dumped you, not her. Why not me?” I was crying again. I couldn’t turn it off. I wished I could find the numbness again, but the grief consumed me.

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Why???!!” I screamed, punching her in the face.

  She fell back, but she still smiled at me.

  I attacked her ravenously. I beat her face until the blood bubbled up from her nose and mouth mixed with mucus and saliva. I kicked her in the belly and kept on kicking her until I could hear bones crunching, and then I picked her up and threw her back onto the couch. I stared with cold eyes down at the bloody pulp that remained of her once licentious body. She could hardly breathe. One of her eyes was sealed shut with blood.

  “You killed my love. You killed my babies,” I said.

  She rolled over and wiped her face on the sofa. Again she laughed. It was a wicked, broken laugh that ended in a tortured cough. “I didn’t do it. You were in that basement with me that night. You killed your own fuckin’ wife.”

  I hit her again and listened to her scream. “Liar,” I roared.

  “Idiot. You’ve always been stupid. Do you think Circe only hears spoken words? The old ones can look right into our hearts. What were you thinking while you fucked me in a pile of my blood? What were you thinking? Were you thinking, I love my wife? No. You wanted her gone and Circe gave you what you wanted. You told her what you wanted and she did it. She gave you your deepest desire.”

  I sat down and stared at her. She was a liar, but her lies always tickled the truth. She smiled through her blood and tears. I could still see Pria in my mind. I could see her sitting on that old rusty swing singing lullabies. I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be rid of her. I couldn’t remember not pining for the scent of her hair or the taste of her skin.

  I kicked Cassie one last time and left her unconscious on her dirty green sofa. I didn’t know where I was going. I wandered around the basilica in a daze. Finally, I fell asleep on a bench in front of it with the other homeless. Someone called the police. In another life, I would have, too. I was covered in blood, Pria’s and Cassie’s. I must have looked like a serial killer. I hadn’t slept or bathed in two days. I found the last few moments' rest I would ever know in the shadow of the basilica. I think I lay on that bench for ten hours or more, dreaming of my wife chasing our children on the white sands of Pensacola.

  I awoke to the police dragging me to yet another holding cell. This time I sat there for much longer. I think days passed, but I couldn’t count. I didn’t sleep or eat. Jeremy came and got me again. We went to the courthouse. Babcock and the C.R.C. lawyers were there. They were dropping all charges and taking care of things, but they strongly suggested I get a psychiatric evaluation. As an afterthought, they offered their condolences on the death of my wife.

  Somehow, all the madness was lost. Our story never made the paper. There were no obituaries. I never heard any news of Circe burning. It all just vanished, like it had never happened, like all the accidents that no one ever heard about. We disappeared into the fog.

  * * * *

  I never went back to Circe. I couldn’t bring myself to go anywhere near the place. I only went back home once. Sadaf had taken Pria’s dog and most of her things, so I grabbed what pieces of Pria and the babies I could and what few things I needed and ran out the door. Pria’s blood still stained the sheets and there was vomit on the carpet. I couldn’t stand to look at it. There was nothing I wanted anymore. I only needed to remember her the way she was. I just grabbed two suitcases and went to the beach with a case of beer. I sat in front of Jeremy’s apartment with no plan of action. I didn’t expect Jeremy to take me in. I just didn’t know where else to go.

  Jeremy saw me sitting on the beach and sat down beside me. He put his hand on my shoulder. He didn’t say anything. He just sat there with me, watching the sun set. Once twilight had faded and night had begun, he invited me in. Jeremy took me in gladly and so I stayed, sitting on the beach, drinking beer, and watching the wind blow.

  I couldn’t get over the trials and travesties of the last year, so I succumbed to my depression. I lay in Jeremy's guest bedroom until well past one every day. I never slept. I just lay there staring at the wallpaper, thinking of nothing. I ate nothing. I drank and I smoked and I sat with my feet buried in the sand waiting for the damnation that was promised me by so many fortune tellers and witches. But perdition seemed to have passed me by.

  Out of the two suitcases I had packed, one contained all the remnants in life I cared the most about. I would stay up well into the night looking through the collection of objects. I would hold the little microphone Pria had made me use to read stories to the babies and pretend I was talking to them. I would rest with the tiny stuffed bear Sadaf had given us for the twins, tucked under my arm. I would cover my pillowcase with Pria’s shirts and bury my face in the pillow, trying to find the whisper of her scent in the clothes.

  Spring and summer slid by me. Jeremy said nothing. He watched me with sad eyes. Sometimes he would ask me to go bowling or go to the Florabama. He would try to sucker me into going to New Orleans on the weekend. I just shook my head. There was no more joy left to be had.

  John came by to see me once. I gave him a beer and we sat on the porch drinking. He told me Babcock had died of food poisoning and that there was a new director at Circe. He offered his sincerest condolences on the death of my wife. He tried to convince me to join him at a new internship in the fall. He told me all this would blow over and I could have a life again.

  I didn’t really listen to very much he said. I couldn’t hear him tell me about his wedding or his new job. I covered my ears. He was the only one of us left. He offered me money; he offered me everything he had to give. I only shook his hand and shuffled him out the door just in time to go back to my dark room covered in the pictures from all of Pria’s baby books.

  Hurricane season came. Along the Gulf Coast we always watch the sea when it comes. The news said she’d be a beast. I knew her name. Cassandra. She was coming for me and the apocalypse came with her. Circe never slept. She wandered the beaches watching me. Sometimes I could see Jane sitting in the sand staring sublimely at the sea. Calm as Buddha. She took Cassie’s name as easily as she had taken Cas
sie’s soul. The storm didn’t seem to be heading towards us. Jeremy and I sat in front of the television eating chili out of a can and watching her move towards Florida. It was a day or two before her course redirected towards the Gulf Coast.

  During the last few days before the storm, the Gulf Coast was riddled with the most horrifying stories. People seemed to go mad. This was but a shadow of the aftermath. Murders soared, animals went crazy, and C.R.C. was set on fire again. This time it was Mr. Nicca who attempted to burn the entire facility. But the hospital was strong, and the old fort’s walls were impervious to fire, so C.R.C. weathered the fires. Jeremy and I watched the news quietly. He rarely spoke to me anymore. I had been there for months. I was on probation for the savage beating I had given Cassie. He had never asked me what had happened to us.

  “What really happened?” he asked me, as he stared at the glowing red vortex of Cassandra.

  “When?”

  “What happened at C.R.C?” he asked. “Is what Pria told me true? Did you and Cassie summon the devil?”

  “I don’t believe in the devil, but there was something there.”

  “You know, one of my best friends killed his wife last night. I’ve known him for eight years and he never hurt anything in his life. He was a fuckin’ boy scout. C.R.C. has been burnt again. Every night I dream and now this storm is coming and I can’t help but feel like it should have another name. Is this what you did?”

  “I don’t know. But if I were you, I would find Brooke. I would apologize to her for everything she thinks you did. I would remember how you once loved her. And then I would take her and get as far away from here as you can.”

  “She won’t have me back.”

  “She will. She’ll see the storm coming and she will remember that you have always been faithful. You were always the good one. You were always the strong one.”