Women of the Grey- The Complete Trilogy

by Carol James Marshall

  Suddenly, Lisa felt someone grab her hair and drag her hissing and mumbling of her worthlessness and her inability to accomplish anything, “You can’t even die can you? Even that is a chore you cannot seem to finish!” A door slammed and Lisa was tossed to the floor. Why am I wet? I wasn’t in water, she thought to herself bewildered. I was in The White. I wasn’t in water. Lisa grabbed her hair and touched her fingertips together; her skin was wrinkled. When was I in water?

  “I wasn’t in water,” she told the room, but the room hissed at her and pretended that she wasn’t really there. Why does everything in The Grey hate me? I’m hated, I know that, yet here I am. “Hear that room? Here I am…hate me. Hate me…but I’m still here bitches. I’m still here.”

  “Bitches, huh, how very urban of you,” Superior Mother tapped Lisa’s forehead with her ring; the icy cold itch burned itself into her skin and Superior Mother laughed. “You are still here because I choose it to be so. It is not a testament to your strength that you are here; it also has nothing to do with the strength of your character. You survive only because I allow it. Do not forget that and do not forget your manners. A thank you would be appreciated.”

  Lisa noticed that this Superior Mother was different. The way she spoke, the way she carried herself, was different. This Superior Mother had glitter in her eyes when she looked at Lisa. The last Superior Mother had dead eyes—eyes that were black and deep, eyes that expressed nothing but eons of time. This one was different. “We are all the same and none different,” Lisa mumbled not to Superior Mother, or even to herself, but she mumbled it to her pruned fingertips and to the question of why they were pruned.

  Before Lisa got lost in her fingertips, she forced herself to focus on Superior Mother, which was difficult. “Thank you, but you’re new? You’re different…you are our new Superior Mother, yes?” As Lisa asked the question, she knew it was a question that should not be asked—a question that a girl at her rank had no business even thinking. But, she asked anyway, knowing that Superior Mother had not killed her yet. And she probably wouldn’t—not yet anyway. Lisa chanced being tossed into The White again, but it was worth it to ask the question.

  “Manners, Lisa, manners.” Superior Mother lifted her eyebrow at her, shook her head, and Mothers appeared from out of nowhere. They grabbed Lisa’s arms, and her feet were hoisted up. A Mother looked at her with eyes that also sparkled like the new Superior Mother’s.

  “Off to dream land big girl…” another Mother said with an insidious wink. With a final slam of a door, all went black in the grungy room.

  Abigail

  The house’s small wooden deck was Abigail’s favorite place to be. Usually, there was a breeze, and in the breeze she could smell leaves, dirt, and woods. Birds seemed to be the happiest of Earth’s creatures—chirping, flying around, constantly in motion. Abigail watched them sometimes, not really paying attention to breed or anything that required that type of thinking. She watched the birds to study their movement. She studied the way their wings went a hundred miles an hour, the way their heads turned back and forth and in every direction. The birds seemed to stop only to sing.

  The women of The Grey were somewhat like birds; they were in constant motion, but sadly never stopped to sing. When the guy wasn’t around, Abigail spent her time on the deck. The Grey was so confining. This little deck, out in the open, was the most freedom she’d ever felt. Freedom tasted of popsicles. Freedom tasted like the guy’s neck. Freedom tasted like eating popcorn while sitting on this deck. Freedom was now Abigail’s vice, and she wanted to own it.

  Time on the deck always moved too fast; before she knew it, she would see the sun touching trees. The guy would be home soon, he’d want food, he’d want kisses, and she’d want to crawl up into him, feeling his breath while he relaxed on the couch. Maybe he’ll grab my legs with his big guy hands; maybe he’ll sit on the deck with me?

  Abigail started to think about what to cook for him. Human food was so odd to her—all cooked flesh, all cooked everything. Everything was cooked! In The Grey, they only ate fresh foods, nothing touched fire. The women of The Grey ate no flesh of any beast. It was forbidden by Superior Mother, but like everything else, never explained why. Cooking was odd and Abigail thought it seemed wrong to burn what you ate.

  Getting up from the chair on the little deck, she noticed a bug crawling by. This tiny black bug looks like its wearing armor. Abigail gave the bug a polite thump with her finger and thumb. The guy called them potato bugs. Picking it up and letting it crawl up and down her hand gave her time to check out its zillion legs. With all those legs, you would think it could crawl to the sun and back. It was the tiny solider of the bug world, she just knew it. Then, Abigail squeezed it between her fingers. First, just a small squeeze testing to see if bugs made noise. Would this potato bug shriek or grunt; would it cry for help? It was silent, only a give to her squeeze and a frantic paddling with all those legs trying to get away. Abigail looked at the bug a little closer, holding it in her fingers a little tighter than she knew she needed to. Then, it happened; she squeezed until she felt it pop. It didn’t have guts that squirt out, and it really didn’t even pop to her liking. It just silently gave in to the pressure of her fingers. It was anticlimactic, but still satisfying.

  Mmmm, it felt greedily good to squeeze that little bug. It made Abigail’s skin tingle and she almost felt giddy. Although, she had denied a bird a meal and for that, “I am very sorry Mr. Bird.” Today, the bug was mine to have, she thought, flicking the shell of the little life into the dirt.

  Abigail could hear his truck coming up the road; it was time to wash the remnants of the bug off her hand and find her apron. The Mothers would frown at her dirty cooking ways. I think the Mothers probably frown at all my ways, Abigail thought smiling at the idea of dead bug pieces scattered in the wind.

  The Quiet Man

  She always looked unkempt, like a toddler who insisted that her mother dress her up and do her hair, then went and rolled in the grass. That was exactly what she reminded him of—a girl who just couldn’t get being a girl right. Maybe I could get her a magazine or something, he thought getting ready to leave work and head home—another day with a big X on the calendar marking it over.

  Work had been long and hard on his body, but this was nothing to him. His daddy taught him that a real man hurt at the end of the day, nothing to it. It used to be that after work meant quiet nights with cold beers, maybe spot a deer from his deck while eating his dinner. It used to be his life was placid after work—downright boring and lonely, just the way he liked it. Now, in the evening, all he wanted was to see her sloppy locks tangled under his chin, that was good enough. Her food wasn’t any good, but he ate it. The kitchen was a mess, but he ignored it. She was always cold to the touch, but it didn’t bother him any. It used to be him, and now it wasn’t.

  He’d mostly decided that wherever she came from, he’d accept what she brought with her. She brought no family that he had heard of. She brought no friends, no money; all she brought was herself, and Abigail planted it firmly in him. The roots of her were now wrapped around him, tangling themselves into his veins. At first, it confused him, making him wonder what to do with this tiny sprite of a woman wandering in his bed sheets. Tonight though, after a long day in the woods, he found her amusing; he found all of her amusing from the dirty feet to the crispy burnt food.

  Walking into his living room, he grabbed her up. “Come on little mama, it’s time to do some back porch sitting…” With this, she smiled, and he wondered if all women were this content to sit on a back porch with him watching the stars. Maybe it was just this one. Is this it? He contemplated. Finding a woman to share a back porch with can’t be as easy as one landing on his front step. Nothing is ever that easy; somewhere there’s a hitch. No matter how tight he held her, he felt like he should be looking over her shoulder. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the laser was aimed at his chest, even when she was covering his face with cold kisses.
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br />   Teresa

  Teresa hated sharing a bed. She’d had her own bed since she could remember even having a bed. It was the only place in The Grey where she didn’t have to share a space. That mattress and those sheets were hers. Now, here I am among these humans, lying in my bed covered in man. Yuck! He snores, he farts, he’s a chimp, and he’s naked. I like him best when he’s naked. Everything about him annoys me, but when he’s naked that’s where I’m lost. Often at her most irrated with men as a species, Teresa would think about her man’s thighs and what those thighs led to, and the annoyance faded for a moment—and maybe a fraction more.

  The Mother’s told her to find a human man, build a relationship with him—a relationship that had strength to it—for when the time came to birth a daughter. They told Teresa that she would need a partner that was strong of character. A man made for survival, but also a man who would easily forget—forget her, forget their daughter, and go on living a life where he forgot all that was given to him and all that was taken away.

  Lying in her sheets, his arms wrapped around her in possessive slumber, Teresa allowed herself to be clenched and thought about her man. He was a man of thought. There were books and maps. He was a man of kindness; the way he spoke to his grandmother was kind and almost honey sweet. But, was he a man of survival? Was he a man that, when he saw his daughter, would protect her and shield her from harm? Or would he pass out in a heap on the floor, nothing but a child himself—too immature to comprehend the cycle of birth and death.

  Teresa did a soft roll and removed herself from his arms. I’ll let him sleep while I think on him. She wasn’t sure what to do. She must breed, that was why the Mothers sent her. But, it wasn’t happening, not yet.

  What do I do? Who do I see? I’m alone here, no friend to console me, no Mother to give me orders.

  Four months of endless sex and no baby. Am I barren, is he? How do I ask him? What happens to me if I am? That is an uncompleted mission, what then? What then? Teresa was now daily, and almost ritualistically, tormented by uncertainty.

  Answers were never given in The Grey; they were earned. The answer she needed, on what would happen if she couldn’t complete this mission, stung Teresa. What would Superior Mother do? Perhaps there were wolves in the back rooms that she would be tossed to. Would the wolves refuse tainted meat? After all, Teresa was now officially different—not the same; she never knew what was different. Teresa was never told what happened to those that disappeared. One day a friend would stand next to you in the garden, and the next day they were gone as if they never happened in the first place. You can’t ask where they went because you’re afraid that tomorrow it will be you who is gone; there’s no way of telling if gone is better, but since there were no answers of where gone was Teresa always believed it worse—much, much worse.

  He woke up and walked to the bathroom; wanting to watch him made Teresa feel shame. Wanting to grab him again annoyed her even worse. Teresa was becoming nothing more than a junkie for men, so much for being a fierce, independent young lady. Teresa was too preoccupied watching him now, standing in front of her yawning, hair on end, naked, and warm to the touch. This thing called man was delicious and luxurious to the hand. She pushed her face into his belly and looked forward to the day when she could slice him up.

  Shit, what the fuck? Teresa shook her head. What was up with those little, tiny thoughts that sometimes sprinkled their way around her consciousness. Teresa considered herself strong, but not vile. Those nasty little inclinations where vile, and she grossed herself out sometimes. I just need to shake them off. Teresa took his hand, took him back to bed, and crawled up his legs. She pretended that she had never wanted, even for a teensy second, to gut him.

  The Thinker

  It was as if she never slept. She was always awake somewhere in her apartment when he woke. He was the type of guy who fell asleep first and slept for hours, comfortable in the bed that had her scent; it was cloud-like to him. Yet, he found it confusing, a woman who never really seemed to dream. Maybe it’s a female thing, or a person thing. She’s not easy any way I look at it, he thought. Sighing he sat up. She wasn’t easy; there was nothing easy about her. Smiling to himself, he thought she could complicate a glass of water.

  Teresa was a science theory to him—a hypothesis that was difficult to solve. There were so many ‘maybes’ and not enough ‘actuallys’ with her. The fact that she was not straight forward could be what attracted him to her. He wanted to figure her out, to solve her and know, really know, what made her work. What were the thoughts that ran through those arms, legs, and brain? What were the thoughts that ran rampant in her hands? But, every time those cold hands touched his shoulders, he would get this small hint that she was in charge. He was the monkey and she had already figured him out. Cold little figures dissected him with every touch and her eyes looked at him so deeply that he often felt like she was in control of his every breath. I have to question if this is love or slavery.

  She felt busy. When he touched her breast, or grabbed her hand, or the second he woke up and found her sitting somewhere thinking, she felt busy. When he touched her it was as if she buzzed. As if there was a task to be done, yet she wasn’t doing it. No matter the kisses he gave her, the poetry, little songs, the foolish quiet talk naked people do under covers, no matter the silent hand grasp under his parent’s kitchen table while his father bellowed, no matter it all; Teresa had a feeling of anxiousness that was sitting in her lap, waiting for her to get up, and causing him to feel a reckless panic over something not tangible, not seen… just a buzz.

  I want to know what the task is. What is so important that she wanders away constantly? Sitting in the same room with him, hand in his, he could tell that she had gone somewhere in her mind, mulling over her task. Chewing on it like an old piece of gum. It was a little secret among her many mysteries. He felt like an experiment for her, as if she was trying him on like a new pair of shoes and couldn’t make up her mind whether to buy them or not.

  Beautiful woman

  So sublime

  Your cake

  Your whiskey

  You’re every thing

  that I want to taste

  Grabbing her and holding her tightly against his body made him shiver; she was always so cold to the touch. If he held her close enough, she wouldn’t be able to escape, then maybe he’d be in control. He wanted to feel like the owner, not the slave. He wanted to feel in control of this relationship instead of always wondering, worrying about the ‘what next’ or ‘what is she thinking’. It was tiresome to love a woman, to touch a woman’s every inch, but worry that tomorrow she’d decide to banish him. If he was banished, it would be his call alone, only his.

  So, he held her a bit too tight and he knew it, but maybe he could memorize her body, draw himself a mental map of every inch of her skin. With the map, he’d start to navigate her enigma.

  Lisa

  First, all was white; now, all is black. Lisa woke up to black. What next, Lisa couldn’t fathom, first white, with abusive words tossing me around like a ball; now a black out. What’s next on the color spectrum is it grey? Shouldn’t it be grey? Women of the Grey, right? The dark was so deep, it coated Lisa’s teeth and slid down her throat. It was uncomfortable here. Lisa didn’t think it could get worse than The White, and yet it had. It felt like sinking, but Lisa hadn’t moved an inch. She released a deep sigh and wondered why she had her eyes open. Open or closed, it made no difference. Among the humans, she felt every little niche of their character; in The Grey she only felt apathy. What else can be done to me? What else can I fail at? I failed at my mission; I failed at dying in The White. Now, why dig even deeper into my wounds, fail again at dying again—such a cycle of endless bullshit…infinity of crap.

  Lisa was at the point when anger mixes with terror, and it seemed like those two emotions shouldn’t mix. They had no business being at a party together. Then, she heard a door open…Lisa heard footsteps, but could see no eyeballs. Squinti
ng and reaching as far as she could, Lisa could see nothing; she couldn’t even tell if there was movement. Just one breath hitting Lisa’s ear with a whisper, “We are all the same and none different.” Then silence.

  Lisa felt herself beginning to shake. After all she had been though in The White, this shaking was insulting to herself. Lisa wanted to jump up and claw at every corner in this place until she found the Mother, the thing, that just said that. Then, she wanted to claw at its face until her hands reached its mouth so she could pop open the jaw. The panic of knowing something was in the room with her—maybe within hands reach or maybe not—was intense. It was worse than fire. It was worse than The White. It was worse… just worse than everything, anything.

  Focus, Lisa could tell that she was lying on something. She felt corners. Feeling for boundaries…Where’s the floor? Where’s the wall? Follow the wall. Swinging her feet over, she was hoping to find the floor. The uncontrollable shaking of Lisa’s body was making everything almost impossible. She was trying to keep calm, but her arms trembled and fear controlled her movements. The idea that, if she stuck her feet out farther, something may bite her toes made Lisa almost want to spit with fear; so she immediately pulled them back toward her body. Then, she thought she felt a breeze behind her. Turning, Lisa started to believe that something in a corner of the room just blinked at her. Trying to rationalize the idea of something blinking at her, the fear of something biting her toes jabbed Lisa again. By this time, Lisa couldn’t control the relentless trembling of all the fears piled together. They were all against her wanting to tumble her over. The room was nothing but darkness, and Lisa sat in a tiny ball knowing that her back was exposed and anything could happen to her now. Anything was about to bite her toes.