Women of the Grey- The Complete Trilogy

by Carol James Marshall

  Superior Mother heard Maggie screaming and inwardly congratulated her; she thought it was only fair that she be let out. This woman wanted nothing but the end and those silly humans intervened yet again. Superior Mother stretched her fingers. She had done what she could to help that woman, and did what she could to propel that woman in Lisa’s favor.

  And then it happened. In slow motion, like a corny comedy skit, Maggie jumped from her bed—tubes flying, the nurse holding her hands up and yelling for help. But, it was too late. Maggie shoved the nurse and headed for the hallway where the other nurses tried to catch her. She managed to dodge them and get into the elevator. “quemarla…corta la…destuir su cerebro.” Maybe this Spanish those witches would understand.

  There is a little lady in the elevator with Maggie. Maggie is screaming; she won’t stop screaming. She grabs the lady and lands on top of her, pounding her head into the floor. Pound, pound, screaming, pound, scream. Maggie doesn’t notice the blood; Maggie doesn’t hear the screams. Maggie only thinks that they are imprisoning her. She thinks that she’s shaking the lady, asking for help.

  Maggie see’s the blood and feels the lady go limp, but nothing registers. Nothing is making sense. Why is she always the victim? Why do these people want to hurt her and keep her in their prison with these witches, these ugly little witches?

  Maggie runs away from the hospital, never realizing that she’s the threat, she’s the terror. Her only thought is to find the freedom to die—something she has wanted to do since childhood.

  Lisa

  Lisa stood on her porch, arms crossed and trying her best to seem comfortable. She spent a lot of time trying to seem comfortable. She was never comfortable and wondered exactly what comfortable felt like. She thought maybe comfortable felt like PJs. Lisa would see people in PJs on TV and sometimes children in her apartment complex would wear PJs. They seemed like they must know what comfortable was like, but she knew it was much more than that.

  Comfortable wasn’t a location or a temperature, it was a state of being in oneself; and yes, Lisa knew she would probably never achieve that. Lisa believed, though, that to never achieve comfortable was a good thing, a solid thing. It meant she wouldn’t let her guard down and she wouldn’t get soft. If feeling like she lived on a bed of nails made her worthy of survival, then the bed of nails it would be.

  Comfort, after all, is as much of a liar as the Mothers’ smiles. The incredibly comfortable beds of The Grey were as much of a lie as being all the same and none different. Discomfort was honest and true. Discomfort was the real hero of every story.

  Craig was still sleeping; she could hear the snoring from her porch. Just as she was coming in, she spotted a woman walking down the street covered in a hospital gown and blood and trying her best to make her way down the street while hiding in the sparse bushes. It was Maggie! Lisa flew down her apartment steps.

  That afternoon, Lisa and Craig cleaned Maggie up. Dressed her, fed her, and calmed her down enough to sleep. Lisa told her to sleep and hide. Here with her, she could rest and tell Lisa her story tomorrow. But tonight, while Maggie slept, Craig told Lisa his story—the robot feeling, the rape, the murder, and burying his co-worker and friend in some far off canyons. Lisa knew she could not pass judgment or feel emotion—it was a means to an end.

  Lisa knew it was going to have to be ugly. It wasn’t going to go down pretty and neat, soft and sweet—everything for her would be ugly and nasty. It did not matter to her what Craig did. It did not matter to her what Maggie did. What mattered was her own mission, and now by some heinous miracle, she had two marks in her house. Only 2 more to go.

  “You need to hide here for a while. Don’t worry about a thing, I’ll take care of both of you,” Lisa got up, handed Craig a beer, turned on the TV, and closed all of her blinds. Having no idea what was next, she sat with Craig, drank a beer, and hoped this week would end quickly.

  Rafael

  Rafael could see Iggy’s legs under the kitchen table. He sat there quietly reading the paper. Rafael now knew this man was his tio. His mother didn’t explain why, she never explained anything. She only told Rafael that was his tio, but he didn’t know what the word tio meant. Rafael nodded and hid in his room, waiting. The little boy didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he was mad. He was mad that his mother never explained anything. He was mad that his body never helped his brain. He was madder by the minute watching the street man sit at his table.

  So, he snuck out of his room. He snuck down the hallway. He snuck a kitchen knife, and finally snuck under the table. Rafael waited under the table a while. He needed to think about stopping himself. He needed to think about telling his body to do what his brain wanted. His body never listened to his brain. Please stop. Please stop. He told his body over and over again. Rafael felt panic and sweat pouring down his little face, and inside his chest he could feel screaming, but he was silent and his little hands dove that knife into the street man’s leg.

  Then, the screaming came. The street man screamed and Rafael screamed. His mother ran into the room and told everyone “Shhhhh los demonios estan escuchando,” She snatched the knife from Rafael and went to her brother, “Silencio!” Iggy became quiet and together they told Rafael to go to his room. Rafael could hear noises, walking back and forth, and back and forth, the telephone ringing, and then strange voices.

  Rafael wept silent tears, he didn’t want to hurt the man, but his body never listened to his brain. Rafael buried his face into the dusty carpet under the bed where he was hiding. Suddenly, big hands reached under the bed, grabbing Rafael and pulling him up into big arms. The big, quiet man held the little boy for a long time, smoothed his hair, and rubbed his back.

  Rafael had never been held like this before. Nobody had ever held him, loved on him, and made him feel safe. Rafael had no choice but to melt into the big man’s arms and try his best to stick to him forever like this. Rafael wanted in this man’s rib cage, deep into him where he could hold him forever.

  In Rafael’s living room sat his mother, Iggy, and now Augustine still holding Rafael. Together again, they knew each other very well; they knew each other’s history. They knew the deep truths of each other… there was no secrecy here. There was no room for pretending. Together, they could speak freely, but instead they sat quietly—all trapped in their own skin.

  Augustine was happy his sister finally reached out to him and allowed him to help her. He had seen his little nephew run the streets and wanted nothing more than to grab the little boy. Now, he had Rafael in his arms and nobody would take him from him.

  Rafael’s mom sat watching her big brother love on her son the way she could never do. The boy was empty because of her. It was all her fault, and the demons were her fault also. She was soulless, lost, and wrong—wrong in the mind, wrong in body, wrong in soul. She was wrong in every way.

  Iggy had a sister and a brother, and he stared at them as he laid on the couch—one hand resting on his injured leg. Iggy had never been so clear headed and confused in his life. Last week, he was homeless and insane, this week he was sane, but so lost. Iggy wasn’t angry at the little boy, he was lost too.

  Augustine smoothed Rafael’s hair, put the boy on his lap, and looked at Iggy. Iggy was talking like his brother and acting like his brother. The homeless, yelling-at-sidewalks Iggy was gone now? How? Augustine felt grateful for his brother being ‘normal’ again. Augustine was grateful for the opportunity to help his nephew. Rafael’s mom is where he was lost. Every time he looked at her, wanted to speak to her, and be there for her, she was physically there, but that was it. Augustine had always wondered how she had vanished right in front of him, while still sitting right there.

  Rafael’s mom looked at her brothers and her boy; she wanted to speak to them. She needed to tell them she needed them here, now, and that the demons were trying to take her and Rafael away. Let the demons take her, but not the boy. Not the boy! The boy deserved better than what he got with a mother like her. She was
a lost cause, there was no fixing her kind of broken.

  Instead, she sat there staring at the white wall, trying to get her tongue to start spilling out everything she needed to say. No words came, only tears—an endless waterfall of tears. The three of them did what came naturally: they sat in a circle, arms around each other with Rafael in the middle. They sat still and together, understanding that whatever the demons were—mental, physical, or otherwise—they would fight together.

  Rafael watched his mother cry. He’d never seen her do that. It didn’t scare him. It didn’t bother him either because the street man was there and the big man was there. Maybe his mother couldn’t cry unless the men were there. Rafael sat in the middle of their circle, watching them like a TV show—a weird TV show that he was in and could never turn off.

  Superior Mother

  Superior Mother’s assistant was serving her some hot tea on a hot afternoon, and this made her wonder many things. She often questioned her Superior Mother’s motives, actions, and requests, but never ever mentioned them. She had learned that the best way to be in The Grey was quiet, obedient, and always take lots of mental notes. Today though, being quiet was making her tongue itch and before she could stop herself, the question slipped out.

  “Superior Mother, why the shift?” she then quickly corrected herself, “I mean why the actions?” She needed to watch her words very carefully. “I’m just interested in what causes the marks to do what they do.” She bit her lip; she could be hushed and sent away or she could get an answer.

  Superior Mother sipped her tea and gave her assistant a sideways glance. “We merely open their mind up to suggestions that are already ideas in their head, nothing more. We do not plant the seed, only water it.”

  The assistant took a deep breath of relief, but then she couldn’t help it—she had to ask again, “But why? Why the mission?”

  Superior Mother’s sideways glance turned into direct eye contact. “Birth does not make you worthy of being a woman of The Grey. You must earn this right to be among us. A mission is nothing more than a fight to be all the same and none different.”

  The assistant nodded and quickly reminded herself to be quiet, ask no more. Nosey Nelly’s never fared well with Superior Mother.

  Helen

  There were rooms in the cavernous home of The Grey that Helen had never been in. She had been outside The Grey on missions and within many areas of The Grey, but not all. There were doors she’s never opened, and she was positive that those doors led to somewhere deep in the pit of whatever Superior Mother protected.

  The Grey lived in the open, but hidden. The rocky mountain they called home was next to a highway where hundreds of cars drove past daily. People driving their cars never noticed the little dirt road that seemed to lead to nowhere among the rocks and sparse bushes. But, at the end of that dirt road, along an obscure dirt path, was a stone that—when hit just the right way—opened up the gate into The Grey. Once you heard the clink of the gate behind you, the rest of the world got flushed away and before you was the lair of The Grey.

  There is nothing cozy here. Everything was factory like—polished, streamlined, and efficient. Quietly, over friendly faces start to appear, letting you know where to go and what to do. Unless you are one of The Grey, it would unnerve you that every single face you saw was exactly identical. Everyone looked exactly the same. The only distinguishing factor was the name tag. Then, when you started to process the fact that every face was exactly the same, you were startled to also realize that they were all women.

  If you don’t move quickly towards your destination, then one of the many Grey would come forward, take your hand, and with a tone full of sugar and spit, ask you where you need to be so that you waste no one’s time.

  Helen remembered “coming home” after her first mission. Everything outside The Grey seemed so unorganized, foul, and unkempt. Everything inside The Grey was clean, shiny, and underhanded. It was after her first mission, her first “home coming”, that she realized the mountainous area that The Grey used as home, was massive. There was no way she had seen it all.

  Helen wanted to see it all, and the only way she could do so was by becoming Superior Mother. She had to figure out a way. She must know; there was no other alternative for Helen She must know it all or cease to exist—there was nothing in between.

  Craig

  Being stuck in an apartment wasn’t hard for Craig. He’d been stuck places before and this was no sweat. There was AC, cable, and beer. He could ride this out for a week or so until everything seemed right. No sweat, I can handle this, he kept telling himself.

  He felt sick daily, hourly, every breathing second there was a gnawing in his lungs that wouldn’t go away. He wondered why he did it, what made him do that to her. She was his co-worker, his friend, she had brought him home cooked meals and poured him coffee. Sure, he’d look at her ass when she wasn’t watching. There were times he’d picture the breasts underneath that blouse, but Craig didn’t think he was capable of such a violation of her being.

  Craig began to vomit everything he had for breakfast, he vomited until there was nothing left but the heaves. This wasn’t sickness; this was Craig being repulsed by himself—so much so that his stomach couldn’t even hold food. He could live with murder. He knew he was capable of murder, but rape? Craig couldn’t stomach the fact that he was a rapist.

  Maggie wandered into the bathroom, watched Craig heave, and handed him a towel. She walked out with the patience of the dead. Craig laid on the bathroom tile. He couldn’t decide what kind of man he was. Was he a sociopath? Were his feelings of not being able to control his actions in his head? What the fuck happened? Craig knew he was not a stellar human being. He was not a man of decent character, but like most men, he had always controlled his actions.

  There were thoughts that bounced around his brain continually—everything from stabbing a slow driver in front of him, to robbing banks, but he had stopped himself knowing the consequences. It was as if someone had turned on his faucet that day, and in the deepest corners of his wants was to have this woman no matter what way.

  It didn’t matter how I got her, only that I got her, was the thought cooking in his noggin this whole time. Craig stayed on the bathroom floor; he didn’t have the strength to get up both physically and mentally. He was done. He needed to run and get very far from Feline Street, very far from the waves he loved. He needed to get away, but there was no away at this time.

  Iggy

  Laying on his sister’s couch, Iggy had nothing to do but think, and in thinking, Iggy came up with some truths. Truths about himself. Truths about his family. He realized that his sister was not right. There was a darkness to her that followed her around the room, out the door, and to bed every night. An emptiness to her that Iggy could not understand. Iggy thought that her empty might be what happened to her child, his nephew. That boy was like a cup with nothing in it, but the possibilities of what to fill it with were endless. The boy needed filling and Iggy knew neither he nor his sister were the people for the job. His sister needed to give her boy to Augustine.

  Augustine was full in spirit, that was his truth. What Iggy’s sister lacked, Augustine received. Iggy’s spirit had holes in it—large gaping holes that let things in, then leaked things out and that was Iggy’s truth. Iggy’s life was full of holes. He needed answers and that made Iggy’s wisdom random and off center.

  These truths came easily to Iggy, but the main answer he needed, the most fundamental truth, was in hands reach—he just didn’t know in which direction yet. Iggy needed to know what happened to him. How can his sanity go away, and then suddenly come back? The idea that insanity was already in Iggy’s mind kept twirling around his brain. Iggy already had the capacity to be sane and insane, somebody just turned the switch. Could the somebody be those ladies? —those blonde skinny ladies. He remembered one at the beginning of his insanity, and now he had seen several at the end of it.

  Sitting up, Iggy wanted t
o run down the street and find the apple lady. Iggy needed her truths. He needed to crack open her rib cage and see exactly what was inside her. Were there machine parts? Were there organs, guts, and a heart like everybody else?

  Then, Iggy felt a look. He felt a strong intense stare. Turning to his left, there was the lady—the blonde lady on the other side of the street. She stood there watching the house. If Iggy didn’t know exactly who it was, then he’d think she was a ghost. She looked like a ghost from some made-for-TV movie.

  Iggy sank himself into the couch and hoped she didn’t see him through the curtains. Why was she here? How could she know that he was in this house? Was she looking for him? Iggy wanted so badly to run out and speak to her. Ask her question after question until she stopped answering them, and then force more answers from her.

  But, Iggy stopped himself. What if she was here to take his sanity? What if she was here to take him—take him where he didn’t know, but Iggy couldn’t move. He wasn’t strong enough yet. He wasn’t sure, but he knew that one way or another, there was going to be a battle with him and this lady, or the ladies, and he didn’t know how to prepare himself for it. Iggy only knew that now, right now, he wasn’t ready. The truth was he’d never be ready.

  Maggie

  Laying in the white girls bed, Maggie thought about her apartment. It was hers. A place to be 100% alone; where no one could look at her and she didn’t have to nicely answer questions. Maggie missed the old carpet in her apartment where she could walk with bare feet. She missed her bed; it knew her body and she fit in it so comfortably.

  Maggie missed every corner of her apartment, and she knew she’d never see it again. She would never go back, not for clothes, not for pictures, not to spend one last night in her small comfortable bed. This had Maggie in mourning—not for anything else but the lack of her own little private space.