A piece of Acedia’s essence broke from her form. Falling toward the earth was a red, formless lump that gradually transformed into a woman most becoming to Mercy’s eyes. Acedia certainly hoped so, anyway. Her research indicated that she should send an avatar that only mildly reminded Mercy of her ex-girlfriend, who was dark of hair and fair of skin. The entity now crashing toward the earth twisted until she was nothing more than a speck in Acedia’s eye. She grabbed hold of the deep red folds of fabric manifesting from the air. Her hair, dark and cumbersome at first, soon bloomed into a mystic hue that was neither blond nor brunette. She was a visual enigma, for she represented what any given woman found the most desirable the night they met.
Good luck. Acedia retreated back into her space between reality and nothingness. The place she slept and nourished her own soul until it was prepared to face the world once more.
She only had to close her eyes to see through her avatar’s, anyway.
Delicate feet touched the ground, not that the first of seven avatars had to worry about literally crashing to Earth. When her eyes opened, she realized that she had been awakened for the first time in over a hundred years. The grass was soft beneath her hands. The air? Far from fresh. What had happened to it, anyway? It used to be so pure. Not is was putrid.
Ugh.
She was behind Mercy’s house. More specifically, outside a darkened window that invited her to climb inside and allow the healing to begin.
4
The loneliness of her house was what she required most. Usually, Mercy considered the silence deafening, as every sign of her ex-girlfriend had long departed with her clothes, CDs, and the flat screen TV in the living room. Yet that night, as Mercy shrugged out of her jacket and collapsed into bed, she was grateful to pretend the past two days had never happened.
In truth, she did regret what happened on the bridge the night before. She often regretted those stupid moves, like the time she joined a group of streakers during university finals. Or the time she streaked down Main Street and was subsequently arrested for indecent exposure. At least Mercy didn’t try to jump off the bridge naked. She would never live that down in the afterlife.
Thinking of the possibility of an afterlife reminded her of Acedia. Groaning, Mercy rolled into her pillow and fell asleep.
She didn’t dream, thank God. At this point, if Mercy were doomed to dream, she might imagine a life when Marissa was back. When she dared to hope her job would be more rewarding, or at least not so soul-crushing. Back when she fantasized about this comfortable house being filled with the sing-song voice of a domestic artist and the children they would adopt. Puppies. Kittens. Maybe a lizard and a bird, because Mercy would have a son or daughter who demanded the unconventional type of pet. Well, she had the house. The house came before Marissa, who had never been added to the deed, thank God. But Mercy had been too ambitious. Maybe she had too much hope.
Damn. She was having a nightmare anyway. One where she dueled with her subconscious, the toxic bitch.
Why couldn’t she dream about something else? It had been a long while since she had a good “peeing in public” nightmare. The one where she spent the better part of a night hunting down a toilet before her bladder gave out on her. Only, when she finally found the sweet porcelain throne she had been searching for, the curtain was pulled back and she was suddenly in the middle of a busy shopping mall. Yeah. Why couldn't she have one of those dreams? Anything was better than thinking about how her life had completely collapsed in the matter of three short years.
She couldn’t simply accept that Marissa had left her. To think! A narcissist had left her! Now, Mercy was far from a know-it-all about the big N, but she was under the mistaken impression that once a narcissist sank their claws into somebody, they were almost impossible to shake off without wart remover. It was the main reason she put up with the verbal and occasional physical flare-ups that had become nastier as the months wore on in their relationship. At least, Mercy had rationalized, she wasn’t alone. She might die with an abusive piece of shit in her bed, but her broken brain told her it was better than being alone. Anything was better than that.
Yet, she was alone. Go figure.
Mercy wasn’t roused from her stupor until the moonlight shined on her window and the wind picked up outside. The change in atmosphere brought with it the unheralded arrival of the very entity that had promised to visit Mercy that night.
Only it wasn’t the Acedia she knew. No, the visitor crashing into her guest room down the hallway looked and sounded nothing like the moonlit deity absconding her from bridges and possessing the body of front-desk secretaries.
“What the hell is it now?” Mercy sat up on her bed, groggy, wiping her face with the back of her hand and willing herself awake.
Another crash.
Mercy was up, brain on full-throttle as she searched for the handgun Marissa had once owned. Right! Marissa had taken that with her! Like she had taken the cat, Dinkles, who was Mercy’s second guess in all matters intruder!
She hustled to the closet, where she unearthed her old softball bat from the corner. Mercy may have had a death wish, but her fight or flight response dictated that she not go down to a burglar. Wish I could say it’s because I actually want to live… More like she didn’t want the epic embarrassment of dying in a home invasion. If she was going down, it was from her own volition. Or, at least, she would go down fighting for her grandmother’s quilt in the guest room.
Mercy creeped down the hallway, bat raised above her shoulder as she proceeded toward the guest room. Show this asshole what it’s like to break into my house… Light streamed from beneath the closed door. It’s the only thing I’ve got left. Marissa may have taken everything else - including the fucking TV - but not the house. Mercy would be damned if she let some robber in and take the last bit of security she had!
Of course, having no regard for her own life also helped. If she had, she may have called the police instead of swinging open the guest room door and screaming like a banshee as she swung the bat. “Get out of my house!” She almost knocked the bat into the antique dresser she picked up from a shop in New Orleans. Original French import. Reduced to scrap. Would be her fate.
A bright, blinding red light made her scream for a different reason, though. Mercy dropped the bat and fell to her knees, covering her eyes.
“Was that really necessary?” came a voice as sweet as syrup.
Mercy’s eyes fluttered open, but all she could see was the beige carpet beneath her nose. A few feet away, awash in a crimson light, stood another ethereal figure in a stunning gown. Or an expensive prom dress. It was getting harder to tell the more Mercy was subjected to some old deity’s whim.
The red light subsided as the guest eased into her more corporeal form. Nevertheless, the crimson hue left behind was the definition of love. The kind that embodied the ruby necklace Marissa had given Mercy for their first anniversary, back before the reds of a slap to the cheek. No, this was the red of insatiable desire and the red of soft lights that set a certain mood. Wearing this red gown was a woman with effervescent skin and a face with high - incredibly high - cheekbones that brought her red lips apart into a kind smile. Hair as fine as silk and eyes as incomprehensible as a dream welcomed the encroaching walls as the light fully subsided and Mercy was brought back to her strange reality.
“Oh, God,” she muttered. “It’s another one.”
The red woman stood back, smile fading as she furrowed her seductive brows. “I beg your pardon?”
Mercy sat up, legs tucked beneath her and bat flat on the floor beside her. “Another one of you deity… things. God, I thought I was dreaming that. Or hallucinating. Am I still dreaming? What the fuck did I take last night? Is it still last night?”
Eyes of endless perception flashed in Mercy’s direction. The woman picked up the back of her skirt and sat on the edge of the queen-sized guest bed. Suddenly, Mercy’s grandmother’s quilt paled beneath the weight of a perfect, godly be
ing. Everything she touched was both beneath her and perfectly complemented her endless gaze. Mercy couldn’t look away. To do so was to go against God.
“Even if you are dreaming,” that honey-laced voice said, “does it matter?”
“Of…” Mercy stuttered, mesmerized. “Of course it matters.”
“Why?”
Mercy wrapped her arms against her chest, fingers clinging to the sleeves of her blouse and teeth baring down upon her bottom lip. “Because it does. How am I supposed to know what is real and what is all in my head?”
All she received was a knowing look and a smug smile.
“Who the hell are you supposed to be, anyway?” Speaking like that to a goddess was probably heretical, but Mercy didn’t care. Her heart raced and her palms sweat. What was she supposed to do? Prostrate before this human-like creature? All the warnings from church came back to her now. Don’t trust anything that doesn’t identify itself as a messenger of God. It’s probably a demon. One of Satan’s agents. Mercy hadn’t believed in Christianity interpretations of spirituality since she was a little girl having the shit scared out of her in Sunday school. Yet here she was, seeing the red, feeling the heat, and declaring this being a hedonistic demon. “Are you the one who would have sucked my soul into hell if I made that jump?”
A touch of blush only added to the pinkening hue of Mercy’s guest room. Yet that blush was fleeting, since the goddess sitting before Mercy soon scoffed. “I assure you, I am nothing like her. No, I answer to Acedia. An Avatar of Acedia, to be precise. I thought I told you that I was coming tonight?”
Mercy battled with her tongue to speak. The thing was so shocked that it might as well have taken entire purchase of her shrinking mouth. “How was I supposed to believe that bullshit?” She reached for her bat. Somehow, it was always out of reach. “Besides, who wants to believe that you’re going to break into my house and hold me hostage? You’re already possessing people at my place of work!”
“To heal you, Mercy.”
“Oh, so generous of you!”
If the Avatar of Acedia picked up on Mercy’s cynicism, she did not let on. “We’re not coming all at once. That would be absurd.”
“Absolutely absurd!”
“Out of my seven sisters, it is usually best for me to arrive first.” The deity shrugged. “I love volunteering. You might say it’s one of my greatest virtues as a sliver of Acedia’s soul.”
“Who are you?”
“Right. I suppose introductions would be customary. Ahem.” The Avatar smoothed her skirt and daintily planted her ladylike hands in her lap. “I am the youngest sister of the Seven Sinners. I am the blood that flows when you see someone that you desire. I am the rush you feel when your attraction makes you quiver and melts into your arms. I am the fear inside of you when you realize that the one you love does not want you in return. I am everlasting love. I am unrequited love.”
That bit hit Mercy. Hard.
“I am Lust.”
Out of every name - hell, every word - she could have used to introduce herself, that was one Mercy did not expect. “Lust?” She couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s your name, huh? Oh, boy. I’m sorry.”
Those unfathomable brows furrowed once more. “What’s wrong with my name?”
“It’s… come on. Who names their kid Lust? That’s up there with Areola and Clitoris.”
“Nobody named me.” Mercy got it now. The fires of righteous rage also burned red, didn’t they? The quilt was officially toast if Lust decided to light herself on fire from indignant rage. “I am what I am. And I am the sinning spirit of carnal desire.”
“Lusty.”
“Pardon?”
Mercy couldn’t stop giggling. “I will call you Lusty.”
The red deity gasped. “You will not!”
“Lustified. The newest Justin Timberlake album.” Mercy was cracking herself up with her own corny humor. “Or should I say Lustin Timberlake?”
“How dare you!”
By now Mercy was laughing hard enough that a desperately decent feeling filled her with a smile. “It’s okay.” Was this the most she had laughed in days? Weeks? “I don’t like nicknames, either. Lust it is, I guess. Or can it be Lustina?”
That cute, buttonlike nose wrinkled in disdain. “I think that’s enough now. Acedia refrained from telling me that you were like this. No wonder we’ve been dragged out of her closet to work again. You must be a very special case.”
“What does that mean?”
Lust shook her head. “No matter. I am a professional.” She closed her eyes, releasing a calming breath through her nostrils. “There is no woman too tough for me to crack.”
“What does that mean? What am I? A pistachio?”
The bed creaked as Lust crossed her legs and patted the spot next to her. “Come. Sit down, Mercy. We have many things I think we should talk about before we commence with your healing process.”
“Excuse me?” Mercy continued to sit right where she was. “What things? Are you my therapist now?” She had officially gone off the deep end. So desperate for companionship, for someone to listen to her, that she had gone straight past a real therapist and now dreamed them up in her own house.
Lust unclipped her bun and let her hair spill over her shoulders. “Something like that,” the lady in red said. “Come on, it’s only a talk. When we’re all done, I’ll be out of your hair.” She flipped her own and winked at Mercy.
Sighing, Mercy heaved herself up and shuffled toward the bed. Her pants strangled her limbs. Her blouse was much too tight. Her bra felt like a vise, and she was pretty sure she had a wedgie. Far from sexy. Far from erotic. Far, far from everything this personification of Lust proclaimed herself to be.
Aside from the harrowing minute when Acedia carried her away from the bridge, Mercy had yet to touch one of these so-called deities. Now, however, she sat close enough to touch Lust - not that she did. Mercy hadn’t been religious since she was forced into a church, yet growing up in such a family made her think that touching a deity without permission was a bad idea. Sacrilegious. Yuck. There was a scary word. Although Lust gazed at Mercy with those soft, bedroom eyes and smiled like a naive maiden, a name like “Lust” implied she was anything but naive or a damned maiden.
“Someone has hurt you, haven’t they, Mercy?”
Mercy steadied her chin and gazed at the floor. The beige carpet did nothing to alleviate her doubts, since it was the same carpet Marissa picked out when they renovated this room. Back then, they planned on inviting tons of friends to stay over in their happy, loving home. Marissa wanted to show off how much money she made with the high quality furniture and linens. She had taken those things when she moved out, leaving Mercy with nothing but a bed frame and a stupid beige carpet.
“I guess so,” she grumbled. Could she be any more unappreciative about everything going back to church and fucking Marissa? Besides, didn’t an omniscient being like a goddess imply that she already knew everything? Not that it was any of her business, damnit.
“What was her name?”
Something gnawed at Mercy. Indigestion. Bile. Flaring in her chest and heaving up her throat. “Marissa.”
“That’s a beautiful name.”
“She was a beautiful woman.” Mercy slapped her hand over her mouth. Why did she share that? Because an image of Marissa, with her thick hair and freckles, made her remember? “No, I mean she still is a beautiful woman. It’s not like she’s dead.”
“She’s dead to your life, Mercy.”
Not quite. Mercy touched the scar on her face, the one few saw unless they looked too closely.
“I’m sure there are many things troubling you.” Lust looked away, the scent of strawberries exuding from her intangible skin. “We wouldn't have been sent to you if it weren’t so. Yet what I know best is the matters of the heart and loins. The pain that comes from the person who hurt you. What did she do to you?”
Mercy stiffened. What could she say? She had ne
ver told anyone the full story of what happened with Marissa. “She was my girlfriend of four years, and I was madly in love with her. What else matters?”
“Something terrible happened.”
Many terrible things had happened. Why should Mercy talk about them? “Things were great until about one year in. Then she…”
“Yes?” Lust brushed her soft fingers against Mercy’s arm.
Silence filled the room. “She lost her job and started drinking.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I didn’t think much of it at first. I mean, I drink when I get upset, too.” Jesus, did she ever. She had been drinking too much lately. One thing Marissa hadn’t taken was a collection of spirits in the kitchen cabinet. “She kept it together at first. Went job hunting for a long time. But then…”
Lust’s shoulders raised toward her ears. “Then you got that scar.”
Mercy covered her face and held back the tears. “It started with her shoving me when she wanted to be alone. Then she would yell at me, constantly, belittling me and insinuating that it was my fault she hit me so hard that her nails ripped open my cheek.”
“I’m sorry, Mercy.”
“You know the worst part?”
Lust said nothing
“If she hadn’t up and left one day with all her shit, I would still be with her.”
Mercy awaited the condescension. The, “You deserved better and should have known better.” Yet Lust didn’t say any of that. Instead, she stroked the back of Mercy’s head, like a mother soothing her heartbroken daughter.
“You loved her very much. It’s easy to blind ourselves to what is right in front of us in the name of love.”
Mercy sniffed and looked away.
“How long ago was that?”
“I dunno. Six months? I should be over it by now, huh?”
“Everyone heals from such trauma at their own pace.”
“I guess so.”
“Have you tried dating again since then?”
“Why bother?” Mercy laughed. “I’m damaged goods now. Who would want to be with someone messed up like me?”
Lust Page 4
