The shaking had Lisa almost falling off whatever she was on. She knew there were corners, and where there were corners, there was an end. She also knew that she could fall off of whatever she was on. Lisa could feel her brain jiggle with the rest of her body as she trembled. Tears started to come. They simply bounced off her face—probably trying to escape the dark also. This darkness was wicked; it was its own being. Lisa felt it wrapped around her, savoring the fear that was pouring out of her. It had the feel of that hell they talked about in Maggie’s church. What would Maggie do here? Would she growl at the darkness or pretend to pray while cursing? Lisa remembered the old woman fondly. It was strange to have a memory of an old “friend” pop up in this time of complete terror.
I think I should speak to it, Lisa told herself as if she would answer herself. She wasn’t even sure she herself would bother to care. She wanted to tell The Black that she was sorry, truly sorry, for whatever it was that she did. I’m sorry I didn’t finish my mission. I’m sorry I am an empath to humans. I did not choose it; it chose me, it chose me. This time, Lisa felt herself sink, and it was real. She felt herself fall on a hard floor, and it was real. In total darkness, she saw blurry stars. Lisa knew she was going to pass out, and that too, was real. If I pass out, then what? What about the thing that whispered to me? Biting her tongue and furiously blinking, as if that would clear up her sight; it was all real.
Superior Mother sat patiently in her chair waiting for her assistant. The ring’s frigid poke at her finger made her antsy. She chuckled to herself, with great power, comes great annoyance.
“Should we retrieve her?” her assistant was a no-nonsense, not an inch of compassion, lust, or greed woman of The Grey. She was plain white paper without the lines. A thousand percent true woman of The Grey: which is why Superior Mother chose her as an assistant. When Superior Mother swayed at the thought of her daughter suffering, and wanted nothing more than to ease her plight and sooth her, a glance from her assistant put her back on track. She must never give the slightest clue that Lisa was her birth daughter. For then, the shouts of treachery would never end and the other Mothers would also want to know their own flesh.
“Leave her. She can do with a little more humility.” Superior Mother pounded the ring against the chair. It was painful to do so, but the pain kept her from showing the lies she was telling.
When Lisa woke, she felt her eyes open, but it was still only black again. “I’m lying on a concrete floor and its black,” Lisa told herself out loud for clarity. Fear for whatever was in the room took second place to the idea that maybe the room was not black—maybe she was blind. There was no deformity amongst the women of The Grey. They were all the same and none different. Blindness, deafness, missing limbs, etc. did not exist among them. “I can’t be blind,” Lisa repeated to herself. At that point, Lisa almost believed that repetition could bring truth. I saw the stars before I passed out; the twinkle of little stars. If I were blind, would I see those stars? Perhaps I would at this point; anything is possible. Lisa now truly believed that Superior Mother could achieve anything.
Still on the floor, Lisa flipped herself over onto her belly and told herself to stand up. Coward. I’m being a coward. I am many things, but a coward I am not. I will not let ‘coward’ be a word that defines me. Standing, Lisa raised her arms up to feel for a ceiling. Nothing. I need to find a wall. She took a step and then stopped, thinking that she might walk right into a trap. I’ll shuffle; yes, I’ll shuffle my feet slowly. If I shuffle, I stay sure footed. If I shuffle, I will feel more of what might be in front of me. Explaining everything to herself helped to assure Lisa of her sanity. A sanity she had a very loose grip on. Lisa put her hands out slightly forward and willed herself to shuffle.
The shaking had calmed. “Not a coward. Not a coward. Not a coward,” she spoke the words as if her life depended on it. She spontaneously found herself wishing that she knew her origin. She wished she knew of her elders, her true home, and her first leaders. I need the knowledge of my history, to know where to find strength. If I knew who I truly was, maybe I wouldn’t second guess myself so much. I could be less empathic, and more of a killer if that is what I rightly am.
The realization that Lisa had been shuffling for several minutes stopped her in her tracks. Lisa was in a void trying to find it's ending, and for thirty-seconds, she found that depressing. What if there was no ending? What if there was nothing to the blackness? It could go on for eternity. Shaking off the depression, the shuffle continued. This shuffle through blackness was a struggle—an attempt to achieve something when there was nothing to achieve, a determination to figure out her surroundings when there was nothing but black space. Am I being brave or being a fool?
In the middle of Lisa’s turmoil, when her whole expedition seemed bleak and going forward was nothing more than a lame bar joke, she felt a poke. It was a small poke, like a child’s finger on her left calf. NO sound, no footsteps, no breathing, only a sudden poke, and then nothing again. Stomping her feet out of frustration, Lisa wanted nothing more than to yell a violent, “FUCK YOU” to the whatever that poked her; but instead, Lisa stood still, determined to stand her ground. Should I move forward or should I move back. Side shuffle, side shuffle, side shuffle…stop, hands up, hands down…side shuffle, side shuffle. Lisa felt nothing but hard concrete. No wall, no ceiling, then nip—a tiny bite on her thumb. Pulling her hands to her chest immediately, she felt her thumb. There were a few bumps—tiny, little, motherfucking teeth marks. The bite was the end to Lisa’s patience and nerves.
What bit me? What creature has such a tiny mouth? What creature would find me tasty? What creature would find me hateful enough to nip? Lisa kept stomping her feet again and again and again; it was nothing more than a tantrum and she knew it, but she didn’t care. Lisa wanted that thing now, she wanted it cut into chunks and tossed out. She wanted to take the creature that bit her and feed it its own tongue. She wished to grab it and bite at its limbs. She kept stomping and kept thinking of ways to make whatever bit her suffer.
The words in The White were painful bullies that she could take; Lisa even felt that she deserved such punishment. She deserved to be treated like a traitor. Now, Lisa understood that telling Iggy, Maggie, and Craig about The Grey was not a release for her; it was a betrayal to the women of The Grey. It was a betrayal to her home, to herself. The words in The White taught her that lesson. But here, being terrorized was doing nothing but making Lisa angry. What gift of knowledge was this trying to achieve? This was sinister, nothing more.
Lisa told herself to move, move, bitch, move! There was no choice but to keep moving. Once again, Lisa found herself getting lost in her theories, and again, Lisa shook it off and shuffled to the side—shuffle side, shuffle side, shuffle side, stop… hands up…nothing. Hands out to the side…nothing. Hands to the floor… hard concrete, and then a wisp of cloth that dragged over her right index finger. Lisa grabbed for it. She grabbed at nothing. Lisa knew what she felt; there was no way it was her imagination. There was no way it was her nerves. Lisa was sure that it was a very light cloth, but not a sound, not a smell to accompany it—just a one-second putter of cloth across her finger, just enough to warn Lisa that in another inch, or in another mile, something was coming. It was painstakingly creepy and underhanded of The Black.
I should sit. I should sit and wait out whatever is tormenting me. As Lisa explained this to herself, she realized that would be stupid. How could she wait it out with no defense of her own? Lisa had no weapon, plus she was in total blackness; the whole thing was funny. I should sit in total blackness and wait on what? Another poke, nibble, the feel of fucking cloth? Carry on, carry on…move along, yes that’s what I need to do, move forward not back. Lisa could hear herself chuckle, even though nothing was funny. That was the first sign of completely losing her mind, she knew. It’s not funny yet, Lisa chuckled at the stupidity of the situation. If this was what the women of The Grey were about, then they were a miserable, distasteful
bunch of cunts.
With the last syllable of ‘cunts’ coming out of Lisa’s mouth, the slap came. It was a hard slap across Lisa’s face, and it vibrated deep into her skull. With pure unfiltered anger, Lisa launched forward and grabbed it; for seconds, Lisa was elated that she had it! She had the troll that haunted her. What she was holding felt like a neck; it felt small as it clawed at her, flailing around, and whipping itself towards her. But, she held it tight and away from her. It was as if Lisa was trying to control a fabled banshee.
“What are you? Where am I? What are you?” Lisa screamed as she continued shaking it. She could feel it getting weaker. Lisa shook the creature, its clawing eventually slowed down and it stretched less. Even after Lisa felt the life give way to this thing, she tightened her grip. The grip of a winner. I won. I won… for now anyway. No answers came; she didn’t care. The shaking had satisfied something deep within her. Then, light appeared—a small glow from a door far off. It was enough for Lisa to see what she was holding; it was one of The Grey’s girls, dead, in her grasp. She was filthy and grey, emaciated with eyes that seemed larger than they should be. Lisa saw those large, dead eyes watching her in the half second of light that came from the door. Lisa dropped her and she fell to the floor like a heap of laundry. Lisa felt like someone kicked her in the stomach.
Information is a tricky beast. When you know something, you can no longer not know it. Then, when you have all the facts and you know everything, it sits in you like a bad meal, weighing your stomach down and making you feel as if you ate bricks. The information you wanted for so long now was part of you, twisting your guts and moving every gear in your head.
Lisa sat next to the girl in The Black. Feeling the girl with her fingertips, she traced her fingers over the long, ragged nails of the girl’s; her hand felt dirty, not sticky or greasy, just dusty and unclean. Lisa followed her fingertips up the girl’s arm and to her face, it felt like plastic wrap on bone. Putting her hands through the girl’s hair, Lisa stopped; there was no going through the girl’s hair. It was tangled beyond any help and felt like the carpet in her apartment on her first mission—old, dirty, worn through. Lisa told herself to stop, but as always, didn’t listen, not even to herself. She ran her fingertip down the girl’s nose and put one finger in her mouth—no movement, no breath. She just needed to feel the girl’s teeth, the tiny teeth that bit her. Lisa needed to know if this was the thing that bit her. She needed to make sure, no matter how crude it was to stick a finger in a dead thing’s mouth. The first tooth was sharp almost to a point and tiny, the second the same, the third the same and on it went. It felt like this dead girl had a hundred tiny razor teeth. She must not have bitten me with her full force. It was a nip, not a bite. It was a warning, maybe. Lisa felt like asking the girl, but she had heard once that the dead don’t speak. Lisa had to do one last thing, she put her palm against the girl’s stomach. She was nothing but bones, yet her stomach was puffed out, rounded like a ball was planted in her. It was disgusting! Lisa wanted to pull her hand quickly away and instantly wished she could wash it, but instead Lisa found the girl’s hand again and held it; now she knew where the naughty girls went.
Laying down next to the girl. “I’m sorry,” Lisa whispered. She was sorry—not for what she did to the girl—it was a mercy—but Lisa was sorry for what The Grey did. Closing her eyes, Lisa let go and laid there, allowing herself to put courageous aside and wallow in pity.
The Quiet Man
Lying in bed together, bodies under sheets, elbows to elbows and toes touching toes, was one of things that didn’t feel confusing to him. It didn’t feel odd, to have this skinny gal in his bed—a bed that he, for the most part, accepted would be empty for most of his life. Her body snuggled up next to his, breath for breath, didn’t feel like something he needed to accept. It was enjoyable. It was, for lack of a better term, cuddly. Many nights before her, his bed was empty, and no matter how much she touched him, no matter how many frigid kisses she planted on him, there was a small nudge that kept telling him it would probably be empty again someday. Placing his hand on her indented belly, it seemed impossible to believe that there was life in that frozen land. There was no meat to his woman and because of this, she was so cold to the touch.
In the beginning, he thought she might be dead when he’d wake to her cold body in the middle of the night. But, he’d gently run his fingers through her hair and wait for her to stir; with that, he’d fall back to sleep. This happened often, before he decided to accept whatever it was that she was to him and with him.
Fingertips still on her belly, he remembered being wrapped in the sheets with the stars twinkling in the background. He’d wake up and look at her, really look at her—the kind of thing you can do when the person is asleep or not paying attention. With the stars as his witness, he studied every inch of her. On one or two of those nights, he could not help but think that she reminded of him of those aliens you see on TV abducting people. She was so frail and ghostly looking, just like on the TV shows. When that image popped into his eyes, he felt fear crawl up his back and that in turn made him feel less. He felt less brave, less of a man; he was just a country boy. As the song goes, a country boy can survive. But, with those late night haunting glimpses of her, he could feel his intelligence slipping from him, down the bed sheets, and drifting away like dust. So, when the thought that she resembled stuff seen on late night TV came up, he shook it off and called himself a fool. He wanted to kick away that fear and grab back his smarts.
Tonight though, he held the mantra to forget it all. He held her, running his hand absentmindedly down her back, across her hip, and up her belly. She lay there contently being petted. He was clueless to the fact that she had never been handed tenderness before. She lapped it up like milk. Yawning, he ran his hand down her belly one last time and, in the icy land of frost, there was one small warm spot. A tiny dot that felt warm to the touch. This caused him such pause that she noticed and put a finger on his finger over the tiny dot of warmth.
“If it’s a boy, we will name him Enoch,” he said. She smiled at him and shrugged.
“But it’s a girl…it’s always a girl.” With that, she was asleep; and with that, he would not be able to sleep at all.
Abigail
It was early morning. After the guy left was the best time. It was the time that everything almost took on a gossamer appearance. If Abigail had a religion, or could even fathom religion, mornings when the sun was just peeking in on her world was when she would be most devout. It was then that everything seemed possible. The day lay ahead with possibilities Abigail never had in The Grey. The possibility to spend her day on the back porch, followed by the opportunity to be lazy was delightful. In The Grey, all was fast; rest was for the useless. Abigail was often considered useless, by the Mothers whose opinions often spread to Abigail’s peers.
Here, with the guy, Abigail felt soft, cuddly, and female. Female in the TV way. Female in the catalogs with girls in pretty underwear way. In The Grey, she didn’t feel that; it just felt different. In The Grey, she felt like she was standing too straight, eyes squinty, and tongue tied. On the back porch, her tongue felt loose, Abigail could almost sing… almost.
Abigail put her finger against the warm dot on her belly. A little dot of girl. This thought made Abigail curl her toes around her sandals and stare at the trees. Her girl was only her girl for a short while. Sooner or later they would come. Sooner or later a message to return, or be returned, to The Grey to hand in her girl would happen. Back to The Grey, to walk through life there pretending as if she’d never felt the guy’s big hands rubbing her back. A world of efficient cold, where being prepared to do as told, when told, was number one on the endless agenda. Abigail squeezed her toes tight at the thought of The Grey, a place where Abigail was regarded as useless, muddled, and infantile.
Rubbing her finger over the dot on her belly, Abigail was surprised she didn’t see steam. Her icy cold finger against her girl’s pumping heat. Then
Abigail, who was always placid, stared at her finger and the anger rose deep within her. The anger bounced off her dot, ran towards her jaw, then landed—and up, up, up, to Abigail’s brain it went running in its own personal marathon. This dot wasn’t theirs to take, but they would. Superior Mother would claim her girl for The Grey. We are all the same and none different. But, Abigail felt different. She wanted to be here, not there. The anger spun in Abigail’s brain so much that she had to get up and walk along the trees, feel the bark, so rough and so very organic—burying her toes in the dirt, hoping she’d get cobwebs in her hair. Frustration is anger’s close cousin; when frustration kicks, anger follows along making sure everyone hears what they have to say.
Both the anger and frustration were clawing at Abigail, giving her no real peace among her trees. It was mixing itself into her dirt; anger was whispering in her ears, “You should have a choice, you should have a say, that’s your girl, not The Grey’s, not the Mothers’, but yours…the dot is yours, yours.” Abigail’s thoughts were buried somewhere between frustration and anger to the point that she almost didn’t see that a baby bird had fallen from its nest and landed at her feet. Abigail watched the baby bird chirp and flutter, swooshing its wings in the dirt. Abigail could feel the almost invisible weight of the baby bird against her toes. Picking it up, Abigail felt the weight of it in her hands, noticing the tiny bird feet and the miniature beak. She should take it home and nurse it. It was such a little thing in such a very big world. The baby bird was her. Abigail was such a tiny thing in a great big world, just like this bird. Maybe she could be the bird’s salvation, since she herself had none.
Women of the Grey- The Complete Trilogy Page 23
