Flesh Failure

by Sèphera Girón

  “I can’t,” I said, my throat feeling like it was on fire. I pulled off the shoes and returned to the jug of water. I ladled out more water and drank it quickly.

  “That’s better,” I said as the water soothed the burning fire.

  “If you got a frog in your throat, a good thing to take is honey,” he said. He stopped his wardrobe rummaging and returned to the jug-of-water area. He picked up and set down several jars. At last he picked one and unscrewed it. He dipped his finger in.

  “That’s the honey all right. A dab of this and you’ll be good as new.”

  I laughed. It hurt but I couldn’t believe that sticky syrup was going to help me speak better.

  I took the jar, tilted my head back and poured a large amount into my mouth. The honey was delicious. The texture was smooth as silk and it slid down my throat slowly.

  I swallowed many times, enjoying the soothing sensation of the honey working its magic.

  “I feel better,” I said.

  “Good,” the old gypsy said. He resumed rummaging through the closet.

  He returned with more shoes, men’s shoes. The biggest pair were well worn but they would do. I slipped them on. Luckily, they weren’t too manly and I was able to shuffle rather well in them. It was much easier than when all the twigs and moss would become lodged between my toes in the woods.

  The colours of the outfit made me feel brighter. I was ready to leave.

  But before I did, I craved more bread and more honey.

  “Help yourself,” the old man said. “You can’t be wandering around hungry.”

  There was only a small portion of bread remaining. I felt guilty that the old man would have nothing so I didn’t eat it. Instead, I poured more honey down my throat.

  I looked down at my dress wondering what I looked like but of course, there were no mirrors or looking glasses in a blind man’s caravan. The dress no doubt looked ridiculous, as I was too big for it, which grew more apparent as I wandered around. It confined my movement, which didn’t help the situation.

  “Do you know people in London?” he asked, picking up his flute again. He sat down and put the instrument to his mouth. Sweet music filled the air once more.

  “I might.”

  The truth was, I had no idea if I did or not. But the reality was I couldn’t live in the woods like an animal. It was cold and filthy. I craved a warm bed, a decent frock, a decent meal, somewhere to call home. “Good bye,” I said as I made my way from the caravan.

  “Goodbye, Agatha,” he said. “Good luck and god bless.”

  His words echoed in my ears. Good luck all right.

  I was going to need all the luck I could muster up.

  I left the gypsy camp, walking from the little steps of the old man’s caravan and back into the woods, as silent as the deer that had glided by me this past week.

  The woods ended and there were walkways and beautiful fall flowers, glowing orange and yellow in the gardens. The edge of the park was near. I shambled faster, eager to reach the end.

  Finally, I was out of the park once and for all.

  As I walked the long winding roads away from Regent’s Park, a coach or two clomped past, the horses kicking up dirt in my face, sending me into fits of coughing. Now and again, I glanced up at the skies, hoping for rain or if not rain, the lightning that would boost me up a bit more.

  The air was thick today. The damp heat did nothing to alleviate the growing heaviness of my clothes against my flesh. A moment of my previous life flashed into my mind. I was standing in a room somewhere. It was a beautiful room with flowers and a large bed with many pillows. As an image of the room came into focus, I ached. Although I didn’t actually remember much, the sensation of belonging anywhere but on this filthy road strewn with horse manure and rotting food taunted me. It didn’t seem to matter anymore. But I had a fleeting glimpse of myself, as someone else, staring with joy at my naked body in the mirror. My breasts had finally matured, my hips round, my face full and flush. The occasion escaped me but I remembered lamenting that I had to clothe that body. It had been so freeing to be naked for those glorious moments.

  In the memory, the chronic ebb of pain where my body was sewn together wasn’t present. For the body in the mirror was not the body I wore now. Even my face was not my own. My brain remembered a vessel that no longer existed.

  I snapped back to the task at hand. It was imperative that I find an energy source soon. The streetlights had electricity but I wasn’t sure how to harness it without drawing attention to myself. I was too weak to be crawling up poles.

  In front of me, a carriage slowed to a halt. I ducked into the trees that lined the road from the park. The horseman, a tall, lanky fellow with long, curly dark hair that spilled from his top hat, dismounted from his perch at the front and hopped down to the ground. He opened the carriage door. From inside came the sound of a woman laughing.

  “Come in, my darling,” a pair of arms reached out and pulled him in. The door shut and soon the carriage was rocking back and forth. I took my chance and carefully climbed onto the back where several large bolts of material were affixed. I lay along them, finding a way to cling to the carriage while I prayed that I wouldn’t be discovered.

  Soon they were finished with their dirty work and the horseman emerged from the cabin. I heard him comment to the cabin’s occupant, “There’s quite a foul odour out here, I hope it’s not the horses.” His heavy footsteps walked around the horses and he murmured undecipherable mutterings to the mares.

  “Goddamn flies.”

  He walked around to the back of the coach. I held very still, hoping he wouldn’t check his cargo. He didn’t. He sighed heavily, seeing nothing, and walked back to the horses.

  The carriage rocked as he climbed up to his perch and with a crack of the whip, the horses pulled the carriage.

  The horses clomped slowly down the road and I watched as the streets passed. When the carriage stopped to let another carriage pass, I climbed off. I didn’t want to press my luck of discovery. Although the streets were packed with moving throngs of people, no one seemed to notice me dismount or even walk among them.

  The street noises were garish and hurt my ears at first. Vendors squabbled with customers over fruits and vegetables, harried nursemaids attempted to navigate prams, clumps of school girls herded by tight-lipped nuns marched past. I was jostled and bumped by people and carts and soon the business of it all overwhelmed me.

  A little boy stopped his mother to point at me, causing others to look as well.

  “A freak, oh my god.”

  “A real live freak, walking among us.”

  Murmurs spread through the crowd and I scurried on.

  I took the scarf wrapped around my waist and pulled it over my head so that no one could see my face. I blended in with the others as long as I kept moving. The cobblestones beneath my borrowed shoes hurt my feet. The shoes were made for the forest, not for the harsh pounding of the stones. I stopped to sit in a doorway, flies buzzing around me.

  Before long, a young woman came up to me.

  “You shouldn’t sit there, miss, like that,” she said as she tapped me on the shoulder. I must have been dozing for she startled me.

  “Why not?” I asked her, sitting up taller and pulling my scarf so that it still hid my face.

  “The coppers will pick you up for soliciting. Best to avoid trouble,” she explained. She was a pretty little thing, short, and likely a prostitute with her very red cheeks and bottle-dyed hair. She looked at me.

  “What’s wrong with your face?”

  “Accident, nothing more.” I shrugged.

  “You poor dear. Are you a gypsy?” she asked.

  “A gypsy?”

  “Your clothes. So bright,” she said.

  “I guess I do stand out here. I’m not a gypsy but I did borrow these clot
hes.”

  “Gypsies don’t do well around here in Whitechapel. Come with me.” She led me down a series of streets and alleys until we reached a hole in the wall where she made her home. Her room had three beds. There was no window and the only light was from the dim hallway. The young lady set to work lighting two gas lanterns. In the glow of the flame, I saw a rickety armoire, a dresser and two little tables. There were clothes piled and bugs crawled down the walls, startled by the light. She closed the door and I stepped in further.

  “Not a palace, but me and my mates all have our own beds at night. That’s a luxury not all can boast of.”

  “I can’t,” I said.

  “You poor dear. What happened to you?”

  “I’m not really sure. Something bad and when I woke up, I was in the park.”

  “You were mugged at Regent’s Park? You’re lucky you weren’t killed. There’s been some murders there as well as here.”

  “I was likely left for dead.”

  “Let me see your face, your hands…”

  Charlotte’s face froze in horror as she stared at my wrists. I didn’t bother trying to hide them.

  “I can’t imagine the pain, you poor dear,” she said, inspecting the stitches that were seeping with green pus. “You need some peroxide. I know about infections. Us girls always have peroxide even if we have to trade for it.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You smell like death. Take off those clothes and we’ll leave them out for some other poor soul. You can wear one of my old rags until you earn money for your own.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I mumbled but she was already unfastening the buttons down my back. She had trouble wrestling with the stubborn final ones but at last, the dress was opened.

  “Oh my,” she gasped. I didn’t turn around.

  “You don’t have to do it. Put your dress out for me and turn away.”

  “But those wounds. They need to be treated,” she whispered.

  “I will do it myself,” I said firmly.

  She walked in front of me, her face stern, her eyes staring into mine. “I’ll help you. You didn’t ask for this to happen to you, whatever it was.”

  I pulled off the dress while she watched in horror as bits of my body emerged. The dress fell like a discarded cocoon and I stood naked in front of her. She dry heaved into her hands and then composed herself. With tears dripping down her face, she stumbled over to where the bottle of peroxide sat. She found a rag and began the long, painful task of attempting to administer to my wounds. Of course, there wasn’t enough peroxide and she attempted to clean the festering stitches with whatever stale water was left in jugs around the room.

  “There is nothing more to do,” I told her as she sobbed with frustration. “Don’t worry. Help me get dressed.”

  She pulled her frock over me. It was too small as she was a wee thing and I was above average in height. At last, she made it work somehow with the addition of several scarves. She found a black one and handed it to me.

  “For your head,” she said.

  I nodded, understanding what she really meant.

  She gathered up my dress and threw it out the front door. Within seconds, people descended on it, scrambling for purchase like vultures. Charlotte shut the door again.

  “It will go to good use, if they don’t destroy it first.”

  She sat down heavily on one of the beds.

  “Sit down. What is your name, anyway?” she asked.

  “Agatha,” I replied. Again, I wasn’t sure which lifetime the name came from.

  “Well, Agatha, I’m Charlotte. We’re going to have to figure out how to get you to earn a living. You can’t be turning tricks like that so we have to figure out a plan. In the meantime, I have something special.” She stood up and went over to one of the clothing heaps. She dug around for a few minutes until she returned with a bottle and a bag.

  “Absinthe,” she said as she produced two glasses, an absinthe spoon, sugar cubes and matches. “It was special, given to me by a rather kind gentleman who took a fancy to me for many months. Of course, the good ones never last. Never.” She began the ritual of preparing the drink. I vaguely remembered seeing it done before. Somewhere dark. Somewhere with a lot of bottles and glass. Red velvet cushions. Smokey air. Thick green curtains lining the walls.

  “He was rather young for the men that come to the likes of us. He was also very handsome. I could never understand why he didn’t have a lady friend, a countess, he was that charming. He treated me to the luxuries of a lady. Perfumed baths and pretty clothes. That’s how I have so many dresses. He never demanded anything odd, nothing like some of those bastards.” She shuddered. “But one day I realized I hadn’t seen him for a while. I heard from one of the other girls that he had been shot by robbers in his carriage one night. Just like that.”

  “A shame.”

  “Really. That was a terrible time for me. Made me wonder if there’s any good in the world ever.”

  “I wonder…”

  “No, I know. There isn’t really. But we can be kind to each other. I see you’re in trouble and I want to help, like Freddie had helped me not feel dirty.”

  Charlotte held one of the prepared absinthe glasses up to me and I took it. She drank hers in little sips, suddenly quiet as she savoured the flavours.

  I drank mine, quickly, and in three gulps.

  “My,” she said.

  “I needed it,” I told her. The warmth of the liquid seeped through me. At first my wounds throbbed even more painfully than they had when the peroxide was poured over them. But then a warm flush weaved through them and I relaxed into the gentle pulse of my blood flowing.

  For that was the real miracle, wasn’t it? That my blood flowed despite being comprised of multiple body parts.

  I remembered him boasting to the room of people about me, how he had created a being. I lay on cold metal table under a sheet of sorts. A bright light was warming me. His voice, that accent, that smugness. How I hated him.

  “I’ve done it. I followed the fictions of Shelley, the renderings of da Vinci, important publishings from Cavendish, Galvani and others and combined it with modern science. You will see, gentlemen, that I’ve created my own creature. A woman who will obey our every command.”

  He lifted the sheet. Although my eyes were open and could see, my body couldn’t move. In fact, I couldn’t even blink. I saw men in their Sunday best with cloaks around their shoulders standing around me, staring at me and murmuring to each other. Their breath was foggy in the crisp air. The ceiling was far away, a dome. A church perhaps. Or perhaps a hospital. Maybe I was in London Hospital, in the secret experiments room that I’d heard about.

  “She appears dead,” he continued, that bastard. “That is because, she is.”

  “Nonsense,” a voice said. “She can see. She is looking at me right now.”

  “Mere reflexes. A brain that is active but her body still sleeps. She needs to be animated to full potential.”

  His footsteps went around behind me. I braced myself as I heard clicks and clacks. Before long, an excruciating pain surged through me. I jumped.

  “Are you okay?” Charlotte asked me, shaking me from my reverie.

  “Sorry. I was thinking.”

  “About your accident?” She was preparing two more glasses of absinthe.

  “Perhaps. I’m not sure.” I stared down at my hands. In the dimness of the lanterns, they didn’t seem as horrific as they did in the light. The glow from the lanterns swelled, giving Charlotte’s face an angelic sheen that contradicted her dirt-smeared face and matted hair.

  The new clothes were okay but rather itchy since they didn’t fit right. I preferred the loose flow of the gypsy gear but this would have to do.

  “So what are we going to do with you?” Charlotte asked, staring intensely at me wh
ile she sipped on her absinthe. Her eyes were dark, her mouth had a slight pout to it. I wondered how many men had kissed that mouth, had been cruel to her face, had tormented her body with their greedy desires.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What can you do? Can you sing? Dance?”

  “I’m too weak. I’m not well,” I said. “This drink is making me feel good but when it’s gone, I will be in agony once more.”

  “Oh…it’s a shame we can’t find a doctor for you. But one step at a time. First, we need to get you making some money. You can stay with us but you gotta pay too.”

  “Yes…yes. I appreciate it. I know it won’t be for long.”

  “Can you juggle?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe…” Charlotte took another sip of her drink and cleared her throat. “Maybe…well, you know how they had the Elephant Man, just down the street there really.”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe, we could show you off and people would pay to see you?” Charlotte asked.

  I stood up. My stomach rolled so violently that I feared I would lose the precious absinthe.

  “I’m a freak? An oddity? I’m that ugly?” I cried out. “Where’s a mirror? Let me see for myself.”

  “We don’t have…” Charlotte said, stepping back in fear. I stomped around the room, flinging clothes and knickknacks until I found a small oval hand mirror, under a pillow on one of the other beds. I went over to one of the lanterns and squinted at myself, trying to see. It was clear in the flickering of the light that my face was far worse than I had dared to dream. The scars were everywhere, weeping their thick green tears across my cheeks, around my eyes, my forehead. I held the little mirror at so many angles, trying to gauge how hideous I truly was.

  “Oh…” I sighed and returned the mirror under the pillow. “What am I going to do? No, I can’t be a freak. There’s no one to protect me. No one to stop me from being robbed or killed.”

  “I could…”

  “No…I won’t do it.”

  Charlotte held up her bottle of absinthe. “Enough for two more, we might as well.”

  “Yes, we might as well.”