She's Lost Control

by Elizabeth Jenike

  Her cheeks bulged as they had never done in life. Her mouth was probably festering with worms. The lips were held tightly closed, keeping them in. I was glad she’d fallen asleep with them closed.

  She had sprouted holes all over her body—wormholes. Worms crawled in and out of every one of them. She was a loaf of bread, only bigger, darker and they were eating her. They were filling up their tiny wiggly stomachs with worm mouth-sized Mama flesh. They ate of her until they were nothing but her.

  Worms scurried in and out of her hair, going busily about their tasks, whatever those were. Her wispy gray hair was fanned out on the cushioned headrest. Dead, she teemed with life. She was alive; a hundred thousand, a million times alive.

  I submitted a special request to the funeral home director. I wanted them—all the worms; every one of them that had eaten of her—that were her. I was given three gallon-sized jars full of worms.

  “Is that all of them?”

  “Every one, Ms.Johnson,” answered the funeral home director.

  Mama went in the coffin. What was dead did, at least. I had the remaining. What was yet alive was in jars. I carried the jars back to London. Now she went with me where I went; wherever I went.

  She lives with me in my apartment. At night, when I’m back from work, I fill a tray with warm, moist mud, bits of leaves and bread. Then I open the jars and let them go. She had never starved me.

  Occasionally, on a weekend perhaps, I take her to the park. I sit on a bench and place her on the bench beside me. We sit together, alone. Passersby give us a wide berth. She doesn’t speak. She was never a great talker, so that’s perfectly fine. As a child, she used to take me to the park. We sat together on one of the little benches scattered around the park and watched the other children at play. We never spoke. We just watched. And then we’d go home. We’re a resilient duo - mother and daughter. She never had time for snivelers anyway.

  Some parts of her are missing. Most of her hair for instance and the tip of her nose and all of her lips—they went in the coffin. My eyes are always drawn to the tip of her nose. Other parts too, but they’re not important.

  I watch their bodies glide smoothly through the mud, over each other, their bellies full of Mama and wonder what she had tasted like. I have never tasted her; they have. Maybe, I should. I eye one—a small squiggly one. I pick it up and suck uncertainly upon it for a second or two. Are worms toxic? Nay, I distinctly remember reading somewhere that they are a delicacy in some parts of the world. Without further ado, I pop it into my mouth and chomp down hard. Just once. Yuck! A sticky liquid squirt inside my mouth. I can’t spit her out. I want a piece of her anyway. I need a piece of her. I don’t chew anymore. I just swallow. Now I have a piece of her whether she likes it or not. My depravity, I convince myself to be brazenness.

  They started dying slowly. Her eyes, nose, ears—they died one by one. I thought of eating them. There were enough of her for a veritable feast. Perhaps I could roast them. Peanut butter or mayonnaise? It might even taste good. The thought was revolting. Besides, I didn’t want too much of her. So, I collected the dead; they had to be buried. I collected the dead as they died, in another glass jar and the jar kept filling. I added new jars. They filled too. I had more of her than I ever had. I had to bury them.

  I couldn’t take her back to the grave, so I made a sort of burial ground on the terrace in a corner of the greenhouse. I wonder whether she liked plants; I sure hope she did. I’ve never seen her look twice at one, although that might be because we never had space enough for a garden. Anyhow, I made her as comfortable as possible. And I checked, often. I saw them come out of the ground; so many of them. They thrived on her. It seemed I just couldn’t get rid of them, of her. They just kept coming— more and more and more. The more she died, the more of her there were.

  I collected them again. Into the glass jars they went, until I had seven jars and a half, full of worms. Cremation—that’s the only way now. I made a funeral pyre—Hinduism to the rescue—and set fire to the lot. Burn. Burn. Burn. Karma and all that shit. I watched the flames lick them up. And they burned. The ashes I collected in a small pot. I didn’t bury them—never will. Jubilant, I secured the pot with wax. A sealed red-ribboned earthen pot—it ornaments my mantelpiece—an ode to my Mama.

  STRANGELY FAMILIAR DEMONS

  KT Jayne

  THE SUBJECT LINE of the email stared at me: “Gareth Lancaster, Solicitor.” At first, I thought it was one of those Nigerian scam emails. Against my better judgement, I finally opened it, more from curiosity than anything else, and scrolled down. There he was. Staring at me with brilliant blue eyes full of electricity. Shockingly too-black hair, all teased up, that to anyone else looked as if he’d slept on it and just woken up after a very rough night. Those of us in his inner circle knew that it had been carefully coaxed that way with a hairdryer and a metric ton of product. He was crouched behind an amp. Forever looking as if he’d been caught at something. The bright red railing of the balcony stood stoically behind him. The window was open and I could almost feel the perpetual drizzle there.

  Melancholy and familiar.

  This was the man that had raised me. My brother. I’d worked hard to avoid thoughts of him since I’d left England. He interrupted my silence with an occasional card on my birthday or at Christmas. No response on my end had rewarded me with no contact, and I assumed that he was deeply entrenched in a bottle. After the photo was an email.

  Dear Ms. Barrymore, my name is Gareth Lancaster and I am the solicitor to your brother Crystof’s estate. I would like to extend my condolences as I inform you of his death. Several weeks ago, he collapsed at the pub and never awoke. I’m sure that you have surmised his alcoholism was a great contributor to his death. As you know, you are his only relative. I apologise for the delay in contacting you. I was unaware that you had moved to the US, and it took some effort to find you. I gather, from the amount of effort that it took, that you were not anxious to be found. In light of this, I felt that electronic communication would be the most expedient way to contact you. At this time, and also aware of the great imposition to you, I would like to ask you to return to Liverpool to settle your brother’s estate. I could, of course, do this myself with electronic communication, but Crystof was insistent in his will that you “return home to bury your demons.” I have no idea what he is referring to, but I leave the ball on your pitch. Please notify me within seven days how you would like to proceed. I realise that this may be difficult for you to decide, but if you can at least work out a timeframe for your visit, I will be happy to make all of the necessary arrangements for you on this end. I will do my best to make this trip as worry free as possible for you.

  Gareth Lancaster

  The memory of this man was vague and blurry, buried deep in my past. He stood on the fringes of a fog. Judging me. Looking for weaknesses to exploit. He did, however, hold true to his word. He arranged flights, a hotel, and offered to hire a car which I refused. I hated to admit that if he hadn’t provided all of the maps, apps and directions, I would have been completely lost. Everything had changed since I was a girl.

  Slightly familiar.

  I looked out the window of the train I had caught from the airport. It was raining. I looked for a memory of England that didn’t have rain in it but was unsuccessful. Looking down at my tablet, again, I tapped the screen staring at Crystof’s photo once more. The anger of knowing that I was here to pick up the pieces that he’d left behind stirred deep inside of me. It reached around me like a straightjacket and tickled my spine. Another mess to clean up.

  Too familiar.

  Closing my eyes, I listened as the train sped along the tracks. “Drag you back to Mersey side, drag you back to Mersey side” they seemed to say. I had left Liverpool when I was little more than a girl and had left my roots buried deeply behind. I had become something stronger than that little girl. Moved to another country, started over, built a business and a strong woman. This made me feel as if I’d be
en dragged backwards in time. An unwilling participant in another of Crystof’s sick games.

  Strangely . . . helpless?

  As I disembarked and climbed the train station steps, I looked around, hoping to get my bearings. Instead, nothing was even vaguely familiar. I’d arrived, but felt as if I had been dumped in this place with no landmarks and time speeding past me at a break-neck pace. I took a breath and closed my eyes, slowly exhaling. Scouse accents formed a heavy curtain around me and I stood for a moment trying to decipher them. They were gradually loosening the block in my brain, some words like jackhammers, and others soft, slipping through the cracks like cryptic code. I fumbled in my bag for my phone, poking at it until I found the map app. I twirled, looking for something that matched the screen, but quickly feeling overwhelmed that these two things had no chance at becoming something that coincided with my reality. I was a stranger marching on less that familiar ground. After a few wrong starts, I tripped on a street sign and found my way to the solicitor’s office.

  A small bronze plaque on the side of the building read “Lancaster Law est. 1819.” The waiting area was barely more than a walk-in closet. I let the door shut behind me with a little jingle and waited while my eyes adjusted to the darkened room and memories seeped slowly into my brain. A tall man with blond hair going gray at the temples emerged from the shadow of the hallway that stretched into the depths of the building.

  “Are you being served?”

  “No, I just walked in.”

  The man stepped closer and smiled at me. Not warmly, but in that way that makes you feel as if you are going to be a sumptuous meal indeed.

  “Crystyna Barrymore?”

  I nodded as the man offered his hand. As our palms touched a coldness threatened to drown me. As if someone had just walked over my grave. I felt a soft rustling between my shoulder blades. The touch was jolting and prodded at something deep inside of me that I had not touched in a very long time.

  “Gareth Lancaster. I’m afraid my girl is gone for the day, but I can probably figure out how to make a cuppa if I need to.”

  Strangely . . . trapped.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Your brother and I were mates in school. We came up in the Liverpool leagues together. You barely look like that little girl that used to sit on the end of the bar. If it weren’t for your hair, I’d have never guessed.”

  “It’s been a moment.” My voice was not friendly. It sounded harsh. Bordering on frightened.

  “You’re certainly a beautiful young woman.” He looked into my eyes, and I was caught for a moment in the crystal blue sea of them. The little girl inside of me struggled to scream something at me about him. The entirety of my inner soul clenched. As if to protect me.

  “You have some paperwork for me?”

  The solicitor looked down at me. At first, I saw a trace of annoyance, but he quickly covered that with a crooked smile and patted me on the back.

  “Of course, I understand.”

  His voice betrayed him. He didn’t understand at all, but his British upbringing was not going to allow either of us to be outwardly uncomfortable. He turned and walked down the hallway to his private office. Clearly expecting me to follow.

  The office was a deep burgundy, except the ornately carved polished ivory desk. Windows stood watch on either side of it. Lancaster was already sitting behind the desk looking smugly in charge. He gestured to a tall leather chair that towered over my head by a half meter. I sat and looked around. One wall was filled by a bookcase. Only a few personal belongings were interspersed among the stern spines. A football sat in a square glass case by itself on one shelf. I recognized the Liverpool Liverbird exactly in the center of several signatures. The solicitor followed my gaze.

  “Championship League ball. Last game Crys and I played together. Then we discovered alcohol and punk. The rest of that is history. Do you follow our lads?”

  “When I can.”

  I held my phone tightly and thought of the Liverbird on my home screen emblazoned with “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” I remembered something Crystof had said when I left: You can take the girl out of the Mersey, but you can’t take the Mersey out of the girl. My fierce backing of the lads in red was one of the few clues to my former existence.

  “You know that you are all Crys ever had. He generously left you his whole estate. He makes some stipulation, however.”

  I looked at him blankly. Waiting. Crystof was always attaching strings. And leaving things to be picked up.

  “He wants you to spend a night in the flat dispersing his belongings according to his will. After this, you will attend a gathering of friends at Stonehenge. Then you are free to leave. If you choose, I can arrange the sale of the bar and flat for you.”

  My hands clenched tightly into fists. I had a day to prepare for my brother’s little party. I could tolerate the nonsense of staying in the flat and even disbursing whatever possessions he thought were worth something. I couldn’t tolerate the idea of holding a memorial service that was so obviously contrived. It was just too much. I hadn’t even seen the man in fifteen years. We had barely talked the last ten. I struggled to figure out what the catch was.

  Later in my hotel room, I lay on the bed, mindlessly flipping channels, unable to focus. I kept turning it over in my brain. Had Crys actually gotten sentimental? I thought back to my childhood. I could hardly remember our parents. Crys was so much older than me that he just took over when they died. Most of my childhood was spent in the bar. My brother had never even attempted to give me a normal childhood. He didn’t care if I went to school. He didn’t care if I had friends or did the things that normal kids did. Instead, I nursed him through the DTs and made sure the bar opened every night. I made sure that bands were booked and had somewhere to stay. At some point I drifted into mixed-up dreams full of caravans and screeching guitars.

  Strangely familiar bedfellows.

  I awoke before dawn, tangled in the bed clothes and my own confusion of the memory of gossamer wings. The pain between my shoulder blades had intensified, but I attributed it to sleeping in an unfamiliar bed. Somehow, I was still clutching the keys to Headbangers in my hand. I dressed purposefully. Every item carefully chosen to provide a sort of strength that I was definitely not feeling. Lancaster had given me the address to the bar, and I picked it up off the night table as I left the hotel room.

  Once outside, I wound my way through streets that I no longer knew with the help of my GPS until I was standing in front of my childhood home. For a moment, I was a little girl again. Handing out flyers for bands that were playing and giving away door passes. I stepped up to the door and pulled the key ring out of my pocket. Taking a guess, I tried a key in the lock and it turned. I stepped inside. The bar smelled of years of cheap alcohol, cheaper ale, and cigarette smoke. It lay so heavily on everything that it had sunken in and embedded itself. A snap of the torch and I could see a few tall tables standing in the middle of the space while booths lined one wall. The bar filled the corner opposite me. I could see the ghost of the little girl that I’d been perched on the end. Dark purple hair obscured her face and fell in heavy straight lengths around her waist. I knew her eyes were closed as she listened to some long-ago band, rocking gently in time.

  The stage was a two-meter-tall raised platform with a small set of steps leading up to it. Memories of the music that had once filled this place inundated me. I found the light switch next to the bar and pushed the button in. It was brown and stiff from nicotine and disuse. There were only a few working lights, and they did little to help illuminate things.

  I’d spent my childhood in this place. Suddenly, I was angry. I felt it welling up inside of me, and I clapped a hand over my mouth, terrified I would scream out loud. Tears were streaming down my face, and I blinked. It took a moment to realize where they were coming from. I felt foolish, but in an instant every sadness for all the things I’d missed in not having a normal childhood and living in this place crashed in on me. Before I knew
what I was doing, I’d picked up a stool and thrown it at the bar. It made a hugely satisfying crash as it splintered into a thousand pieces and I ducked, covering my head to avoid them. I felt a sharp stab high in the middle of my back and dreaded that I’d actually caused some true harm to myself.

  Just as quickly as the anger had come, it was gone. I decided to take stock of what was still there, assuming Crys’ “friends” hadn’t cleaned the place out. I fished in my bag and found a flashlight, aiming it at the back of the bar, its bright light guiding me. Glasses of dubious cleanliness lined the shelves underneath the bar. I grabbed a short one and shined the light through it, sitting it on the shiny mahogany surface in front of me. I turned and focused the light on the meager alcohol supply. I was right, there wasn’t much left. Taking a step, my boot crunched and a quick flash down revealed the floor blanketed with glass, answering the question of where all the alcohol had gone.

  They must have sat and drank for hours after Crystof collapsed. I could see the picture of my brother passed out in the middle of the floor with a crowd of drunks raiding the shelves while he remained untouched. I tapped a button and a panel under the register opened. Crys had always kept a bottle of the best stuff there “for special occasions,” which, if memory served, meant any time there was a reason to have a toast. Or not. I cracked the seal, grateful it had escaped the obvious revelry. Opening the lid to the ice chest, I found it mostly full. I guess drunkards who are wreaking havoc don’t care about ice. Using the glass to scoop some up, I sat it back down and filled it within a finger’s width to the top.