There are brief moments when you delude yourself that you and Russell share the ultimate in intimate communication, moments when his touch transports you to another realm, of safety and intensity. Times when you make love and the scent of his body fills your nostrils with a feral knowledge - two animals, paired for life. The feeling envelops you in security. And then, afterwards, while he sleeps and you watch his face with tenderness in your heart and see a vulnerability and need there that is never reflected at any other time, you believe you have attained bliss.
But most of the time you feel more alone than you could ever have imagined possible. It becomes achingly clear that what you perceive as love is one-sided. All that keeps you from ending it is the silly thought that Russell needs you, somehow, and there are days when it is a struggle to hold onto this idea. When you are in a black mood, being bitterly honest with yourself, you fear you are expendable, replaceable, and that if you disappear tomorrow, his life will go on without so much as a hiccough of sadness or regret. Annoyance, perhaps, that you have caused him to begin again the search for someone to take care of him. Excitement that the hunt can start anew.
There are days when you believe your life has absolutely no meaning.
You stare at the dead things in these cases, thinking how fortunate they are. Their pain of living has been washed away by nothingness. How you envy them. You wonder what it feels like to die, if the soul exists as you once believed it does, if the spirit ascends. Or descends. The weight of Hell’s existence diminished once it became clear that you were already there.
Russell calls you to come look, and you join him before a case like the others, the case your shadow passed over. This one holds a woman, about your own age.
‘This could be you,’ he says cheerfully.
Her hair, or the tufts that remain, is the same colour as your own. Her eyes, the shape of her body. She is about as tall as you, and of similar weight, or so she might have been if there were more than skin and bone remaining. While not your twin, the resemblance is uncanny, enough to categorise you both as the same ‘type’. What is not the same is that her flesh is charred.
‘I couldn’t tell you apart in a police line-up,’ Russell jokes.
But you do not laugh. She is dead. You are alive. That he cannot appreciate a difference either means he is blind, or that he sees little merit to you being alive or dead.
Looking into this case is too much like looking into a mirror. Her scorched features cannot disguise the fact that reflected back at you is an individual whose life was not under her own control, a woman forced beyond a point of no return. She mirrors those elements you loathe within yourself, and you are surprised when Russell reads her history to learn that she has committed atrocious acts, acts that, on a bad day, reflect your darkest fantasies.
“‘Anna Maria Negro.” I’ll say she’s black! They burned her good,’ he says. Then adds, ‘Pretty ordinary name.’ As if her name disappoints him. As if he does not remember that your name is Marianne. You want to suggest he say her name backwards, but sense it will only lead to unpleasantness.
Anna Maria died on your birthday, two hundred years before you were born. A remarkable coincidence, you feel. Russell does not notice this, since he does not remember your birthday unless you remind him. You do not bring the coincidence to his attention. She died at the age you are now. You fantasise that as her soul departed her body it time-travelled, seeking through the centuries a new body - your body - and that your spirits are linked. Perhaps it is the evil Anna Maria who dwells within you, who is sucking your vitality, causing you to subjugate your energy and stray from the path you were born to follow? Maybe this is why you feel such an eerie sympatia with the remains of this mummified woman, imprisoned in her case as you are imprisoned in your life.
You do not tell Russell your thoughts, of course, since from past experience you know he will be annoyed. At best, he will call you silly. You cannot bear his disapproval.
Quickly he becomes tired of Anna Maria and moves away, down the corridor, rounding a corner, out of range. He is bored with her as he becomes bored with you on a regular basis. You see him as a man who hides from his feelings, and also from yours. He cannot be involved with the intricacies of a true relationship. You know enough to realise that his boredom stems from an inability to allow your reality into his life. He is afraid that if he opens up to you, he will lose himself - Psychology 101. To disguise this, he pretends you are shallow. To protect him, you pretend to be so.
From the very beginning you understood his fear, felt his pain. Back then, you struggled to express yourself to him, in a gentle and delicate way, to avoid intensifying his defences. Then your frustration grew, and what escalated to shouting resulted in abandonment, and you had to work hard to bring him back to you. Now you regret your actions, all of them. If he had simply drifted away then, perhaps your soul would belong to you still. But your love of Russell - your fear of losing him, his need of you, your naive idea that enough love would change him - all of it resulted in misguided actions which led to this indenture. Slavery by its nature demands reassurance, but Russell’s reaction has always been the same: he refuses to reassure you. He cuts you off before you can tell him what truly bothers you. You cannot recall when you stopped making the effort to confront him. Or when you settled for sex as the answer to all your needs.
Now he does not care. He makes advances in your presence towards other women that you know he pursues when given a chance. You turn away from this disrespect, knowing but unknowing. You feel you have no options. You cannot tell him the hurt this behaviour evokes in you, which you know he knows since the one time long ago, when you did discuss his infidelities and made it clear. He has forgotten his vague agreement that he would cease such activity, at least in your presence, which was the most you could hope for. Forgotten, or disregarded, since by now he knows he can do as he pleases. You are there for him, will always be there. Despite everything, you know he needs you and that need inspires your devotion. Love chains you to him, and your need for him to love you back holds those chains in place. You despise yourself enough that no hate is left over for him.
You stare at this woman he has left you with. Her marble eyes stare back at you. At any moment you expect her to move, to grin maniacally, to show sharp pointed teeth, her eyes to turn blood-red, her head to spin completely around. Of course nothing like that occurs, and this lack of movement is unnerving because it is too much like the inertia that has become your norm. No wonder Russell could detect no difference between the two of you.
He has left the book on top of her case, as if daring you to read it. Her story begs to be studied, and you stare at the page of Spanish, letting the few words you understand sum up her life as they swirl through you. Your mind begins to run footage of her existence that you have produced, and the script is all too familiar. Her story is your story, the story of so many women over the world, over time: victims. Chained by love, padlocked by sex, the only intimacy. Self-victimisation takes a variety of forms, but you believe it always culminates in annihilation.
Anna Maria is like a doll you played with as a child. Suddenly you remember that toy vividly. Lifesize, or your size. She walked and talked. Her verbal repertoire was limited, but enough to create a dialogue. You wonder if Anna Maria will respond. You glance down the corridor. Russell is nowhere in sight.
‘Hello,’ you whisper. Your small voice, fragile as ash, drifts to you like a greeting from another age. Anna Maria says nothing. You stare at her face, willing her lips to move. And suddenly, to your half-surprise, they do.
‘Say again,’ you ask her, and press your ear to the glass case, waiting.
At the heart of darkness
blackness swirls
leeching light
paring back time
sending you this message:
Your Shadow knows you well.
‘Did you say that?’ you whisper.
You said that.
You are a
stonished. The poem you wrote, with your own hand, when you were young, still learning, alive with hope, eager for life. A poem about the power of the shadowy self - the part of you that you do not know, perhaps do not care to know. No one else has read that poem, not even Russell - it is the only thing you have withheld from him.
You stare at Anna Maria. Her cracked lips have moved again, you are certain. Now they curl into a definite smile. She is a long-lost friend, a mother, a lover who sees you inside and out, who can touch your heart and body without inflicting pain or demanding bondage. You are astonished at the realisation of this perfection.
‘She’s a witch,’ a voice behind you says, and you jump. Russell stands so close. ‘Says so in the book. She’s got you talking to yourself. Maybe that’s what you need, a lifesize doll. Someone to play with. A playmate. His grin is perverse as he looks around. ‘There’s nobody here,’ he says, and you know what he is thinking.
No! Do not let him!
‘No, we can’t-—’
‘Marianne, don’t be so selfish!’ he tells you severely. But you are here, with him, and you will be an accomplice.
No sooner has he said this than he orders, ‘Pick one.’
‘What?’
‘There are plenty of bodies here. There’s not even a guard. Nobody will miss it. Pick the one we take home.’
A glacier melts through your bloodstream, turning it to crimson ice water that courses through your veins, numbing you as it travels. ‘I just don’t think—’
‘Don’t think. You’re not good at it!’ Russell laughs.
Choose another!
You stare at Anna Maria, helpless.
‘Pick one, or I will.’
You know that he wants you to pick Anna Maria. Clearly he wants this one sitting on your couch, upholstered with the flesh of an endangered species; joining you at the dining room table where the centrepiece is a bone he shoved into your purse at the catacombs in Paris; propped up on the toilet seat while you bathe, an arm draped languidly over the tombstone pilfered from a Boston cemetery; sleeping between you and Russell in your bed, and doing more!
Horror causes you to tremble. This is the part of Russell that terrifies you. He has forced you yet again into a no-win situation. His is a win-win: if you love him, you will pick Anna Maria. If you do not love him you will not choose, or you will choose another. And then you will be forced to deal with his displeasure, which will result in rejection. All roads lead to the same place with Russell. Regardless of what you do, he will take Anna Maria.
His hand grasps your neck at the back, beneath your hair, burning your skin, cooking the frigid waters until you boil with desire.
Please, you think silently, hoping Anna Maria will hear you. And understand. There is no escape.
No!
‘Her,’ you say, in a weak voice, your betraying finger shaking as you point.
‘Give me your shoulder bag,’ he says, and you hand it over. This case has no door, no lock. He uses the soft pigskin to try to smash the glass surrounding Anna Maria, but it will not yield.
I have warned you!
You mumble nervously, ‘Maybe we should forget—’
‘Shut up!’ Russell snaps, and glares at you, erecting a barrier. His eyes dart, rodent-like, around the room, searching for some implement that will shatter the glass.
Do not do this!
He races down the corridor and quickly you lean towards the case to frantically whisper, ‘Please, please, forgive me. It will be okay. You’ll be safe with me—’
As safe as you are?
The sweet voice has turned hard. You stare at Anna Maria and see that her smile has been replaced with a severe slash. Her eyes accuse you.
She is right. You cannot defend yourself, let alone another. You step away from the case, deflated.
‘This should do it!’ Russell says. He hefts the metal fire extinguisher and smashes it against the case. The glass quivers. He hits it again, harder. It spiderwebs.
Stop him!
He slams the metal through the glass. It explodes, sending shards everywhere - into his face, your arms, splattering blood all over Anna Maria.
A scream rushes through a vortex of time. It is unbearable. You clasp your hands over your ears as you back away.
The silence that follows is not complete. Your heart roars in your ears. Your body longs to convulse. You begin to retch.
Russell ignores you. He reaches into the case and slowly caresses Anna Maria’s shoulder, her chest, her breast. A charge runs through your body as if he is touching not her but you. He grasps Anna Maria around the waist and prepares to lift her out. ‘She’ll make a nice addition … What the—?’
Suddenly two scorched hands, more like claws, grasp his wrists. He is yanked forward. Into the case with her. On top of her, like a reluctant lover.
‘Fuck! Help me! I’m stuck here. Something’s caught me,’ he cries as he struggles with Anna Maria.
You are shocked. Paralysed. Encased in eternal time.
Russell’s words finally penetrate beyond your ears, into your mind, and your body moves forward instinctively. Your hands grab his arms to pull him away.
Then your eyes lock with Anna Maria’s. An understanding that spans the ages flows from her to you. Go!
This will be your last chance, your only chance of freedom.
‘Marianne, what the fuck are you doing! You’re useless! Pull me out of here - now!’
You release him. And step away. Back out of the room. Out the door, which is not locked after all.
‘Marianne, don’t leave me! Yes, go get help. But hurry back. Please!’
The words nearly touch you. You hesitate only a moment, but then close the door on his demands. You have no intention of helping him any more.
Immediately your eyes are drawn to the hot sunlight streaming from the clear sky above. White light like fire, that burns away nightmares and memories, and forms shadows. Shadows which you no longer fear.
Anna Maria Negro. A witch, the book said. Burned alive in the eighteenth century. One of nine million killed worldwide over four centuries of the Inquisition. Because she was a woman? Living alone? Owning property? Her accusers insisted she cast spells, turned men into animals, evoked demons, embraced evil. She did all of that, and more. Her story is larger, one you know intuitively. Of how strong women become weak. Of how they teach their daughters submission, silence and compliance as protection. Generation upon generation, living with a terror that mutates into something hideous and unnameable, the only solace physical touch, purchased at an impossible price. You know Anna Maria’s story well. It is a woman’s story. Your story. And her revenge is your own.
Your shadow, now relaxed, stretches out sensually before you on the dusty ground; long and full, possessing a life of its own. ‘Hello, Anna Maria,’ you say, and hear her seductive voice answer back.
Buenos dias, chiquita!
For the first time in what seems forever, you smile; you no longer feel alone. But then, an old worry nags at you. ‘Russell’s in good hands, isn’t he? He’ll be taken care of, won’t he?’
Worry yourself no longer, a powerful voice replies. Then, in a sultry, enticing tone, the words darkly mesmerising as they swirl through your hungry body: Russell will get what he deserves!
Nancy Kilpatrick has been called ‘Canada’s Queen of the Undead’ is a Bram Stoker Award finalist and winner of the Arthur Ellis Award. She has published more than fourteen novels, more than one hundred and fifty short stories, five collections, and has edited seven anthologies. Her books include Sex and the Single Vampire, Endorphins, Dracula: An Eternal Love Story (based on the stage musical), Love Bites, Child of the Night, Near Death, Reborn and The Vampire Stories of Nancy Kilpatrick. Under her pseudonym ‘Amarantha Knight’ she wrote several volumes in the erotic The Darker Passions series, and she is currently working on a non-fiction book about Gothic culture, which will be published by St Martin’s Press in 2003. ‘The museum in this story really ex
ists,’ reveals Kilpatrick. ‘I visited it in Guanajuato, Mexico, during the Day of the Dead celebrations in 1999. Most of the four hours we spent at the Museo de las Momias, my companion and I were alone with the wood and glass cases and their eerie contents. We did a website about this trip, with a page of photographs devoted to the mummies: www3.sympatic0.ca/nancy. kilpatrick’
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Eglantine’s Time
JAY LAKE
Women had worn high-button shoes when that syringe was new. It gleamed, antique glass and brass fittings, the cylinder’s arms curled like the youthful curve of Eglantine’s breast, the glass barrel with the engraved volumetric scale glittering like a mirror in the desert. She imagined the huge, crude needle slipping elegantly into her body, perhaps between the scarred ridges of the soles of her feet, or beneath her tongue, within the folds of her labia. It would bring a brief, sharp excruciation that would catch her breath like the smallest of pleasures. Pain was a friend, always there for Eglantine in her withered legs and shivering muscles, most especially in the ceremonies of medicine. But friend pain had a close cousin, death, which was the province of the syringe.
‘Don’t touch the terminal.’ Nurse Woodbourne walked on crepe-soled shoes that made no noise at all, save for a small squeak when crossing the metal doorframe. Eglantine could never quite hear Nurse’s quiet footfalls, but somehow she still knew when Nurse was coming, like an itch in her head.
Nurse slapped the metal railing. ‘Look at me when I’m talking. We don’t want the straps again, do we?’
Eglantine hunched tighter in the bed. She had been nowhere near the computer, and she knew better than to try to message for help anyway. There was no one to e-mail, no one left but herself since her sister-twins had been taken to Isolation one by one. She imagined Nurse’s thoughts, tried to deflect the tides of irritation. ‘No ma’am. I wasn’t going to—’
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