Nemesis

by Cat Bruno

  His number had been memorized, of course, and as soon as I was back in my car, I called him.

  What if he would have answered? I ask myself that far too frequently. He could not save me, not anymore. As much as I wanted him to intervene and to rescue me from my past self, he did not. He could not, I guess.

  Never have the scales of justice tipped so unevenly as when I sat in that car, weeping and ashamed.

  In my right hand, the sword’s hilt burned my palm, searing those lifelines that Matt had read with such certainty. None could take it from me. That sword was mine alone to wield. At my waist I felt the weight of the scourge pull at me. When had the whip been tied to my belt? The lash, used when punishment was warranted but death was not called for, tickled my hip, its notches sharper than thorns. However, it was not the tip of the lash that William would suffer from. No, his punishment would not be so small.

  She had come. Outside that superstore in a town that I never knew the name of, Nemesis returned. It would be she who walked down the aisle. It would be she who kissed William when the pastor declared it time. Nemesis would sip wine all night and dance with her wings folded in. She would smile at those who offered words of congratulation or advice; embrace those who wished her well. She would laugh at Toby’s wry remarks and sarcastic jabs at those in attendance.

  Nemesis, resurrected with all of her ancient glory, would allow William to carry her home. She would make love to him in celebration of their wedded bliss. And it would be she who killed him when the time came.

  What about me? I’d be there, too, somewhere, watching as the sword of justice swung. She is me, or I am her. Both true, although thousands of years once separated us.

  Some time around midnight, after the rehearsal dinner that I arrived late to, William and I walked home. He drank more than me that night, to ease his sorrows or forget what was to come. Oh, he had played happy as convincingly as ever, with light kisses upon my cheek and rowdy jokes about how soon he would knock me up. Neither of us mentioned the prenuptial agreement as we both pretended that our love was true and everlasting. What did he know of everlasting I wondered that night? A lifetime to him, at best, might have been ninety years. And truth? I doubt we ever existed together as a couple capable of that ideal.

  The chessboard sat between us, with pieces missing by now and much of the board exposed. He had begun to play a stronger game, I noticed, ever since I confessed to knowing about Elizabeth. There had been no talk of a prenuptial agreement before then, you see, no house purchased in his father’s name. Yes, William finally realized that he was not the only one who knew the rules and was not afraid to break them. That admission had cost me much, and I beg you not to make such a mistake.

  However, it was too late for him. The gods had been watching.

  He passed out on the couch soon after we got home. That’s when my mother visited.

  I had gone outside and sat down on a thickly cushioned patio chair. The recently purchased flip phone pressed against my hip, but I did not reach for it. Instead, I thought of ways to discard it. While I pondered, the sounds of a chariot – wheels spinning and chiming like bells, chains and reins slapping against horseflesh, and the loud braying of her mounts – neared until a dark mist crept across my gaze. She was silent, the dark-crowned night goddess and wore a cloak of stars along her arms and back. Between the shining stardust, Nyx’s onyx wings opened and covered the night in shadows.

  My mother has been named the vanquisher of gods and men, not by me, but by others far wiser. I trembled as her chariot slowed and landed soundlessly on the grass at my side. When she climbed down, dark clouds followed her movements, concealing her from those whose eyes could not see the divine. The shadow queen is not well-loved, much like myself, I suppose. Most fear her and accuse her of all things terrible and pained. Many tales are told of the dangers of night, and even fools know that night drives sweet day from the skies. My own quaking shows that I feared her some, too, and I did not breathe as Nyx joined me on the deck.

  You might think it’s odd how the gods come when they want, at times no one can predict and for reasons that make no sense. Why would she visit me there, on a tiny deck overlooking a yard full of weeds and with no one else around to see her? Nyx wanted no one else to hear what she told me, I figured, as I finally rose to welcome her. Her embrace, one that wrapped me in cool mist, warmed me all the same. It was not often that my mother could escape from the skies and visit me when no one watched.

  Around us, the stars sparked brighter against her shadows.

  “I had not thought to see you here, mother.”

  To many, her voice sounded like thunder. To me, it sounded as soft as a lullaby.

  “Daughter, I could not let you face this alone. Your fate is not an easy one, and the sword of justice is never easy to lift. But you were born to carry it, even when the weight seems too much to bear.”

  She often talked this way, I remembered as I listened. Most of the gods speak in these same riddles.

  “The dawn comes, like she always does, and I rest until I must ride across the skies once more. Daughter, your rest will come after your work is done. That is always how it has been, and it will always be so.”

  More riddles, but I said nothing. The comfort she offered saved me from a self-destruction that peeked out from beneath my own crown.

  “Let justice be swift and with mercy. Divine vengeance is yours, my child.”

  “Will you be back tomorrow?” I asked quietly.

  Her wings had begun to unfold, and I knew that she must go.

  As the shadows softened, the twinkling of the stars faded and I nearly cried again in loneliness.

  “I will see you at home, in Rhamnous, where your temple once stood,” my mother told me as her chariot climbed high.

  Nothing she had said had been unexpected. Nothing untrue or frightening. It was a pep talk, of sorts, a reminder that I had been born of the gods and gifted with the task of retribution. If she visited again, it would not be so benevolent. If she had to come again, it would be in warning or punishment.

  That night I opened all the curtains and windows and welcomed my mother’s breath into William’s home. Rivers of fog, ash-like and scented with dusk, sneaked inside, weaving along walls and across the floors. Shapeless and ever-moving, the blackened dust spread. I feared that William would be overcome with the fog, suffocated and choking as it covered him. Crawling along after the mist, I found him unharmed, asleep on the couch and breathing normally.

  My mother would not do my job for me. She was night; I am justice. Under her blanket of shadows, I slept more than I had all week.

  Wedded Bliss

  “Did I sleep on the couch all night?”

  “Whiskey has that effect,” I laughed as I raced toward the bathroom to collect my makeup.

  His voice thick with dehydration, William asked, “Where are you off to?”

  “I have to be at the salon in twenty minutes.”

  “Will you be back?”

  “No,” I called out from down the hall. “The next time you see me I will be walking down the aisle.”

  “Shouldn’t we talk, Dani?”

  “About what?” came my cheerful reply, one that intentionally sounded absent of distrust.

  Did you think he would beg for mercy? If so, you do not need to feel embarrassed or duped. That was my first thought as well, but such was not the case.

  “There is still time to call the wedding off.”

  Is there any hope for a marriage that begins with that question? If I had wanted to forget my fate and forgive William for his transgressions, then those thoughts vanished with his statement. With my large cosmetics bag in my hand, I walked into the living room. He was still seated on the couch, wearing his suit pants and a white t-shirt. His hair, even messy and uncombed, fell across his eye handsomely. His cheeks still blushed red – a side effect of his heavy drinking – and his eyes glistened. Around him, the scents of revelry burned like incense.


  “Is that what you want?” I asked with a gentleness that I did not feel.

  He could not look at me. Instead, his hands scratched at his hair and wiped at his face.

  I am not entirely without anger. And now, with Nemesis at the helm, my temper flared hotter than it had ever before. If I had not thrown out that gun, I would have used it. I would have shot him in his beautiful face. He would have died. I would have been arrested and jailed. My life would have been over and my destiny unfulfilled: a goddess imprisoned and humbled. Standing there and watching his discomfort multiply, my anger matched it. Wings of fury slapped at my chest, crying for freedom.

  What if I ran to the kitchen, which was just behind him, and grabbed my sword? With a righteous cry, I could strike him down.

  Yes, I must do so.

  One step. Two. Slowly, as if Medusa lurked somewhere near and stared at me with her stony gaze. If William spoke or cried out, I could not hear. The fluttering of wings pounded louder. Drum beats thrummed in rhythm with the wings. Or was it my heart, mortal still, expanding and banging against my skin?

  Three steps, four. Five. I was closer now. Six, seven, eight. There, on the counter beside the sink, glimmered my sword. My love for gold suddenly replaced with an obsession for that silver-tipped sword. It glowed so pretty. So pretty, prettier than anything ever. Like a beacon, it glowed with the promise of enlightenment.

  Where is my camera? I must take a picture of the sword as it pulses with the ichor of justice.

  Now I’m in the bedroom, throwing clothing out of the closet.

  Where is Jakob’s camera? The first one I ever held. The first to allow me to see true while nearly everyone can only see lies. More clothing flies. Piles of sweaters and jeans, unworn all summer, now line the floor of the bedroom. Sneakers and boots thump loudly, but I do not hear. I hear nothing. I see nothing now except blood. Red and running, warm against my hand.

  The smell sickens me. I’m reminded of Mickey’s baby. The dead one.

  Why am I bleeding?

  Am I bleeding? Why is there blood all over my hands? What have I done?

  I crawl to the bathroom. The smell follows me; a rusty, iron-like scent overpowers the tangy incense. I can’t see the toilet, but my hands find the lid and lift it. When I vomit, the water splashes against my face. And I wipe at the droplets, disgusted that the toilet’s waters are so near my mouth.

  Shaking, quaking fingers reach for the handle. I pull, listening as the small whirlpool swallows up my sickness. My vision starts to clear as I fall against the wall, crumbled like a statue destroyed by Poseidon, earth-shaker and kin. Am I broken? Are pieces of me scattered along the black and white tile? Oh, yes, I see it now. This floor, this chessboard that I lie upon. All around me the chessmen fall. There, on his side, rests the knight, defeated and weary. My poor bishop, in his stoic repose, quiet in his collapse. The rook, castle-shaped and carefree; even he a victim of this massacre. The pawns, small things, too numerous to count, accept their deaths without complaint, knowing their fates well. The gallant king, oh how majestic you are. Tall and sleek, the largest on the board. Even you have fallen.

  Where is the queen?

  Why is there blood on my hands?

  The wall, the floors, the toilet. Blood, everywhere, smeared streaks darkening as they dry.

  What have I done?

  Where is the queen? She will lift me from this game board and lead me to Olympus.

  My arm hurts. It’s stinging now. I can’t stand up so I dip it in the toilet and wash it clean. The water swirls with pink as I bring my hand to my chest, pressing it against my human heart. The blood returns, spreading between my fingers and spilling onto my neck. Now my shirt is stained, and my hand still burns. Toby picked this shirt out for me; he’s not going to be happy that I ruined it. Do you think I can tell him that it’s tie-dyed? Gray and maroon swirls dancing across my chest; yes, maybe he will believe that.

  I should call him. I need help. Hermes will come, like he always does. I try to stand up, but my vision blurs. Blindly, I reach around with my other hand, searching for a towel. When I can’t find one, I pull at the toilet paper, unraveling it as quickly as I can. It, too, turns red, sticking to my hand in chunks and strips. Through narrowed eyes, I notice that I’ve wrapped the paper around my wrist and fingers.

  “Am I a mummy now?” I laugh aloud, unsure whose voice I’ve used.

  Nearly a full roll covers my hand. Finally, the blood is hidden. I’m so tired. Even my heart is tired. It has slowed now, the drumbeats silenced. What if I just take a quick nap? I’ll just curl up here on the floor, with all the other chess pieces, and sleep. Good night, my friends.

  “What have you done?”

  “What have I done?” I mime back in murmurs, without moving or opening my eyes.

  “Dandelion! What happened?”

  Am I asleep? This is a dream. Should I wake? I don’t think I can sit up. Where is my phone? Did I call Toby? How has he come so quickly?

  I try to tell him that I just need a nap, but my lips won’t move. My mother has returned, and I want to say hello. I attempt to explain. Why won’t my tongue move? She cradles me against her breast, and I want to sob, but my eyes won’t listen. She’s humming to me, a wordless tune accented with the sounds of the stars twinkling. Do you know the sound? It is the loveliest of all sounds, for it is the sound of creation.

  But it is also the sound of death. Am I dying? What have I done? I’m so tired, my friends. Death is near. Thanatos, he with the gentle touch like his brother Hypnos, cradles me against his black-robed chest and hums sweetly into my ear. Do you know who once defeated him, my friends? Rarely was the death god overtaken, but the great hero Heracles wrestled him to the ground and saved a woman from his deadly sword.

  Will Mickey come for me? Will he hold Thanatos off me just long enough for my mortal breath to return?

  Never before have I wished so desperately for Mickey to remember who he once was. Please, Heracles, save me from my brother Death.

  Wedded Bliss, Interrupted

  He thinks I tried to kill myself. Now, we’re driving somewhere, but he won’t tell me where. There’s a towel covering my whole arm, from just below my shoulder to my fingertips. And it’s a new towel, from the small wedding shower that William’s mother threw for me. I’m certain that it is an expensive towel, and now it’s ruined. Blood never comes out.

  “I need to be at the salon.”

  “No, you need to get help.”

  The camera is still missing, much to my annoyance. Worse, I did not kill William.

  “Can we stop for coffee?”

  When he ignored me, I asked again. There was no blood on him. None. Not a drop. In fact, he was wearing the same white undershirt as the night before.

  Just then, his phone rang, and I recognized the name that popped up on his car’s display screen. Constantine Diakos.

  “Hello.”

  William switched off the Bluetooth connection so that I could not hear the whole conversation, despite how brief it was.

  “We’re a few exits away, maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “Ok, thanks Constantine. Let me know what I can do to repay you.”

  I had nothing with me. No purse, no cell phone, no money. Had the call not come through from William’s plastic surgeon friend, I do not know where he would have taken me. I suspected he wanted me committed, hospitalized I mean, in some sort of mental institution. But, after some thought, William realized that would be the death of his career. A crazy fiancée that slits her wrist the morning of their wedding? No one, not even William, could recover from such a scandal. So, instead, William did what he does best: he cleaned up the mess by placing a mask on top.

  “I really could use some coffee.”

  “Shut up!” he screamed as his hands slammed against the leather-covered steering wheel.

  “Do not talk to me. Say nothing, to me or to Dr. Diakos. He has promised to stitch up your arm and will say nothing to anyone. If
you do not cooperate, I will drive you to a hospital, where, so help me god, Dani, I will leave you.”

  Was he bluffing? Probably. But I stayed quiet, until we entered Dr. Diakos’s office.

  When he asked me to tell him what I could remember, I looked at William, who nodded.

  “I was looking for an old camera, one that I have had since I was a kid. I thought that it was in a closet. The next thing I remember is being in the bathroom and my arm and hand were covered in blood. I think I passed out. And then William found me at some point.”

  As he unwrapped the towel, he asked, “Did you slice your arm on something inside of the closet? Or did you do this yourself, Dandelion?”

  There was no judgment in his question; in truth, he asked it quite matter of factly.

  Before I could answer, William interjected, “The slice is across her wrist.”

  As if I was not in the room, Dr. Diakos said, “William, it would be best if I talk to her alone for a few minutes.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Let me do my job. That is why you have come. I need to examine the wound and stitch it up. You will only get in the way.”

  Dr. Diakos, the elder, did not relent. William did, however.

  Once he was gone, the doctor dabbed at the wound with moistened cotton squares. The burning returned and I winced.

  Slowly, as if he thought of me as a child, the doctor announced, “You’re going to need several stitches. I’ll numb the area first, but I can’t give you too much because it will affect your usage for the rest of the day. While I clean the area and prep it for the stitches, I need you to tell me what happened. I know this is not the first time you’ve needed our help after some type of accident.”

  “I did not do this intentionally,” I began without much emotion or an attempt to convince him of my truthfulness. “William had no part in the injury. It was a terrible, ill-timed accident. What I’ve already said is true. I was searching for a camera in my closet. The next thing I knew, I was covered in blood.”