Women of the Grey- The Complete Trilogy

by Carol James Marshall

  She wanted more food, answers, time out, more freedom to do as she pleased. Lisa wanted more and it was never going to be enough. Knowing that it would never end, Lisa felt she should own that about herself, get used to it, and settle in because no matter what she was handed, it was never going to be enough. She was never going to be satisfied. Cursed to stay hungry.

  Done crushing strawberries, Lisa’s hand kept smoothing her sheets, not caring that she was smearing strawberry juice on them. The sheets were too soft; it was almost lewd. There was a seduction to the silk of this fabric—more like a lie. There was a lie in each stitch. It was just like the Mothers to carefully craft something as simple as sheets into deception.

  The Mother came back into the room with a smirk on her face as if she was just given vital details regarding Lisa’s future.

  “Well my lovely, you have yet to eat almost anything at all. I’m sure you got used to the vile garbage humans consume, but trust me…trust me, it is not in your nature to eat such things. I’m coming back here in a short while and this food needs to be gone.” She patted Lisa’s head like humans do to their dogs, then left the room. It was insulting.

  Gnawing on a carrot, Lisa wiggled her legs out of the liar sheets and let her feet touch the cold floor. There was such weight in the Mother’s ‘trust me’. It was heavy, and Lisa was sure that the Mother had wanted her to recognize it. Lisa decided that she was going to walk. She might not walk right out of this room, but she was going to walk. She was going to walk every corner of this room; there was no Mother around to tell her not to.

  Taking small steps—right, left, right, left—Lisa made her way to the other side. All of the beds looked like they had never been touched; they were sparkly clean and the sheets were tucked in tight. There wasn’t any dust on them, but there never was in The Grey. That just wouldn’t do at all, to have dust over all their nicely placed things. Placed just right, labeled and polished, as it should be in The Grey. Lisa was not going to head toward the door; it was too obvious, even for her. There had to be Mothers sweating at the monitors, wishing that Lisa would head toward that door so they could get one good kick in before Superior Mother stopped them. Instead, Lisa went to the other side of the room. Step one, then another—her legs felt weak and her head felt like it was full of clouds. The Mother entered the room once again, this time frowning at Lisa with raised eyebrows and an ‘I’m better than your bullshit’ face.

  “Full of yourself, aren’t you? Thinking you’re strong enough to prance around, fancy pants.” The Mother put her hand on Lisa’s waist and whispered, “Sleep…” Then, there was nothing more. Lisa was only left to drown in her dreams again.

  Abigail

  The thumbprint was a demanding little thing. It popped and popped, then did circles in Abigail’s belly. Sometimes, when Abigail was walking in the woods, she could hear the baby speak to her. They were the tiny little whispers of a psychopath that Abigail, despite all her mamma love, would very much wish to smother. Thumbprint circled her cage and spoke of murder to her host before circling her cage again.

  Abigail put her thumb against her belly knowing that her daughter was already a brat. Humming, Abigail kept walking through the woods; she needed to be surrounded by trees. It was the closet she could get to hiding herself—from everything she was and everything believed she was not. Looking up at the branches, Abigail sometimes daydreamed that, when the Mothers came for her, she could crawl up into the trees like a squirrel and not be spotted. Still humming, Abigail knew those daydreams could never be possible. The Mothers were snakes; they would easily devour a squirrel. Finding a small mound of loose dirt, Abigail sat in it; there was something so very soothing about dirt. It made Abigail almost wish to kiss it.

  In The Grey, it was swifty-nifty clean, not a spot on anything; it could be so tiresome and concerning—concerned that you couldn’t fart or sit or laugh without getting muck on something. Abigail lived in The Grey, sitting up too straight, walking too tall, and that just wasn’t her.

  Feeling the cool breeze through her tangle of hair, Abigail felt content just sitting in the dirt. She could relax; she had, so far, completed her mission. She slept well at night knowing that the Mothers would not come soon; they would come, but not for a while. Abigail still had time to sit in dirt, breathe the air, and pretend that she was never going back.

  Feeling a pinch on the inside, Abigail winced and laid back in the dirt. Thumbprint was awake and wanting attention. Abigail much preferred her baby sleeping peacefully, but Thumbprint’s only lullaby was an ugly one. The pinching got worse; there would be no quieting Thumbprint. She’d nag Abigail until she got her way—such a bratty brat.

  A couple days ago, Abigail stole a trap from her neighbor’s barn. The trap was rusty and tossed into a forgotten corner. Abigail hid it in the woods; the neighbor wouldn’t miss it, and the guy—if he found it—would never expect such things from his pixie, air-headed gal. The pinching, finally getting the best of Abigail, caused her to get up and find this trap—all the while wondering if the neighbor had bothered to check the barn’s hidden corners. If she had noticed the trap gone, would she think Abigail had taken it? There was no way of knowing; the neighbor had only waved to Abigail across a field once or twice, never a word between the two women.

  In the trap, the perfect lullaby for Thumbprint sat in the form of a fuzzy little bunny. Watching its nose twitch and its eyes dead lock on Abigail, she felt a warmth wash over her that made the Thumbprint sigh. You are a wicked thing, Abigail told her belly, knowing what would happen next.

  Worried that it would jump out of her hands and get away, Abigail pulled the bunny out of the trap too tightly. She felt a death grip get a hold of her hands and immediately Abigail knew that it wasn’t her working those hands. It wasn’t her hurting the bunny like this. Abigail wasn’t the one plotting about how she was going to hurt this bunny. Thumbprint didn’t care what she did to her mother’s light-weight emotions. Her mother, a frail Woman of The Grey, was not fierce like the others—not sensible to the point of dread. ‘We are all the same and none different’ was not Abigail. Abigail was quiet, soft and almost a fairytale meek princess. Holding the bunny tightly by the neck, and humming to it. Abigail wished she could sooth it, let it know that she wouldn’t do this if she didn’t have to. “I can’t help it, Mr. Bunny, she won’t leave me be…”

  Standing in the woods holding the fluff of a bunny, humming to it, wanting to kiss it, and let it go, Abigail couldn’t save it. She wouldn’t be able to save herself. Don’t all mothers do for their children what they would not do for themselves? Abigail wondered if, by doing what she did for Thumbprint, she was as much of a horrible thing as her daughter.

  “It’s not me who wants your blood,” Abigail peeked around the woods as if Thumbprint was spying from behind some trees. “It’s her Mr. Bunny. Thumbprint likes the smell of kill and the feel of the blood dripping. I am just a mother who does what her child wants. I can’t help what my child wants. I can’t help what my child needs.”

  Abigail started to feel the now familiar loss of control; she knew that Thumbprint would take over completely at any moment and that she wouldn’t be able to stop her. Abigail felt a sinking in her heart; she didn’t want the trees to think she was horrible. She didn’t want the dirt to know she did such unkind things. It’s the baby, Mr. Bunny, who craves such things not I…it’s not me…”

  From her dirty dress pocket, Abigail took out her kitchen knife. Thumbprint slid her mother’s thumb across it, causing a small cut. It was enough for her mother to know that she was in charge right now; don’t toy with the baby. It was one quick jab from Abigail’s hand that made the bunny go limp, bloody ooze ruining such pretty, fluffy fur. Thumbprint took the bunny and rubbed its bloody fur on her mother’s arms.

  Abigail watched Thumbprint push her fingers through the bunny’s neck and peel the skin away… pull and pull. It was easier than Abigail would have imagined. It was nightmare easy to remove the fur fr
om this little creature. The only comfort Abigail had was knowing it was dead; it felt no pain. It all felt like a bad TV show that she wanted to look away from—something awful on the screen she wished she could turn off.

  With the pelt off, and nothing but the meat exposed, Thumbprint rubbed the rabbits furless body against her mother’s cheeks. Sliding the body of the bunny over Abigail’s lips again and again; it was a lullaby made of horrific things for the thumbprint. Feeling a shame that the woods, her woods, had noticed such things from her, Abigail felt in control again. Thumbprint stopped pinching and was humming herself to sleep.

  With her thumbprint sedated, Abigail felt glad. The horror was over with for today. Abigail had the same feeling every night when she crawled into her bed in The Grey. She was glad that, for that day, it was over with. Abigail refused to think about it starting all over again in the morning. She would just be glad for now, nothing more, nothing deeper than that. Tossing the bunny into some bushes, Abigail whispered, “Sorry Mr. Bunny, but the thumbprint wants what she wants…she can’t help herself.”

  Looking down at the blood flakes on her hands, Abigail wondered again if—when the Mothers come—could she run, could she hide? Why didn’t they tell her what her baby would want? Abigail rubbed at the blood; she should have been told by the Mothers what her daughter would want. Abigail should have been warned. Where are the other women of The Grey that went out with me? Are they pregnant? Are their baby’s blood thirsty or just plain mean? Abigail had to puzzle-piece this together…go from dot to dot figuring out what Thumbprint wanted. Abigail felt such grief. It is so unfair to do this to us. We should have been warned that our daughters would be so blood thirsty, so controlling, so incredibly awful.

  What if only my daughter is blood thirsty? Abigail couldn’t toss the thought in the bushes with the dead rabbit. Can’t be… we are all the same and none different. Abigail’s daughter must be the same as all the others. Abigail thought about patting her belly, but didn’t dare. There was no reason to wake the beast. Was her daughter different? How long before she would want more blood? When the thumbprint became palm-sized, would she demand more? Would the brat pinch and pinch until Abigail couldn’t handle it anymore—forced to go about her day killing creatures just so she can touch the blood. Abigail was not a bad person. I’m not that kind of lady. I hate to do it, but what should I do. What should I do?

  The sun hit Abigail in the eyes, and she knew she couldn’t be caught looking like this. Walking back home quickly, Abigail felt such panic. The guy couldn’t know that his daughter was digging deep holes in her mamma. He couldn’t understand how dangerous his little thumbprint was, even before she left the womb.

  The neighbor, from her kitchen window, spotted Abigail running home, covered in dirt. She is such an odd little lady, thought the neighbor as she poured vodka into her coffee. Abigail never noticed the neighbor and wouldn’t have cared anyway; Abigail might have been inclined to wave at her with a bloody hand.

  In Abigail’s mind, the blood lust Thumbprint had was a mere consequence of what a mother was willing to do for her child. The neighbor lady would understand if she had to kill a few critters here and there to keep her baby still and content—at least that’s what Abigail believed. Wouldn’t all mothers do what needed to be done for their children? The neighbor would have to understand.

  Getting back home, Abigail contently showered using all the bubbles and soap she could find. She slipped on a clean dress, then went to the kitchen and turned up the radio while trying to decide what to cook for dinner. Abigail hummed and looked at the inside of the refrigerator completely calm on the outside; but inside, there was a nudge. A nudge pushing her brain and her knees; the kind of nudge you ignore at first, until it gets to be a great, big brat demanding to be heard. But, the nudge Abigail knew wasn’t spiteful or wicked. The nudge was wisdom coming to call. The nudge was the elders in her DNA telling her what she didn’t want to hear. She was not the same. She was different. That baby girl of yours is trouble, both for The Grey and for mankind.

  Abigail grabbed some lettuce out of the refrigerator. What if the thumbprint started to demand more? Soon the thumbprint would be a palmprint, then a hand print, then bigger and bigger. Would that mean more blood? More time covered in blood? More, more, more. Abigail stopped humming, rubbing her lips together. How was more supposed to happen? The ‘how’ stuck in the air in front of Abigail’s face while she munched on a chocolate chip cookie.

  The Quiet man

  “Jacob, the little lady of yours is an odd duck,” Mrs. Hanson looked at Jacob for answers to her statement as if it was a question—and as if it wasn’t mostly an insult. She was old and known around town for being gossipy and starting arguments where none were needed.

  Jacob smiled at Mrs. Hanson and did the only thing he could think of that would annoy her more than silence; Jacob gave her the nod and a pat on the shoulder, then walked away whistling. Normally, Jacob didn’t bother with whistling; it wasn’t in his nature to let people know when he was coming, going, or around for that matter. It was best to arrive and leave in silence.

  Work today was long, it was hard, and after that, Jacob wanted to see his odd duck and soon to be duckling. He accepted that this was what a man should want at the end of a work day. He should be tired, and hopefully he’s got a woman at home that welcomes him into the nest. The odd duck was a woman that dutifully provided him with the silence and simplicity he appreciated and respected—kind of in the same way that his truck did.

  Jacob was best friends with his truck. His truck was there when he was happy, sad, mad, or needed a ride, just like a best friend. Anything Jacob needed, his truck was there for him. It wasn’t new and it wasn’t fancy. Jacob didn’t do fancy; he did Jacob. Jacob was quiet, country, and solid like the foundation of his small home. Abigail picked right when she picked him. It seemed that nothing could spin Jacob’s brain.

  Sitting in his truck, still whistling, the steering wheel fit perfectly in his hands. Jacob’s hand and the steering wheel knew each other like mother and child. The driver’s seat in Jacob’s truck was his favorite seat anywhere on the planet. There was no couch anywhere that Jacob could rest on like the driver’s seat of his truck. Whistling along the tree-lined road, Jacob thought about his truck—how he started his day out with his truck and ended his day out with his truck. At the beginning of the day, the view from behind that steering wheel was picture perfect. There was no greeting card to match it. There was no perfection to describe it.

  After a long day at work, driving his truck home was like having a beer with a good friend. Whatever song was playing on the radio, whatever the weather was, his truck was the best friend with an open bar stool and a decent joke.

  Almost home, Jacob started thinking on dinner. Taking Abigail out to dinner the other night was an experience. That was one of the things Jacob enjoyed about Abigail; the everyday mundane was unusual and different in Abigail’s eyes. Abigail reacted as if every sunset was the first for her. Every glass of chocolate milk might as well have been champagne. There was nothing to Abigail that wasn’t brand new and worth talking about.

  Watching the pine trees lined up against the road, Jacob’s thoughts were more on dinner out with Abigail than driving. Abigail talked about every salt shaker in the restaurant, the waitress, the cook, and the lighting. The most common detail was up for discussion. She seemed puzzled that Jacob wasn’t the least bit excited about her French fries; how could he not think ketchup was incredible?

  Shaking his head at himself, Jacob couldn’t help thinking of this gal of his. The incredible seemed like the norm to her and normal seemed incredible. It was a backwards, Alice in Wonderland point of view.

  One eye on the road and another eye on his thoughts, Jacob confirmed with himself what his fingers already knew; every time he touched his woman, ice ran through his veins. His woman, the mamma of his baby, wasn’t a woman. She wasn’t a monster. She was real and alive…you could see her breath
in the cold. She was different, this he knew; she wasn’t human, she wasn’t monster, she was just different. What the different was is where the road ended for Jacob. Every drive home, he anticipated what Abigail would be up to.

  Jacob wished he could ask his truck if Abigail was close to being human. If her kind and his kind could come together in the biblical sense, then she wasn’t far off from being human. These were the thoughts he pushed aside almost every second of his day, from eyes open until eyes shut. Abigail and the questions about her constantly flooded his mind. Shaking his head and slowing down on the gas, Jacob felt it was coming time to ask; soon he’d ask Abigail, “What are you?”

  First though, Jacob needed time to watch her. He wanted to watch Abigail like someone who was awaiting the next great Bigfoot sighting—hoping he was wrong about the bizarre, but trusting he was right. Was he the only man in the world with one like her? Were there more of these frigid, odd-duck women wandering around? Jacob blew out some confusion mixed with his breath, then tightened his grip on the wheel. It was time to do one of the things Jacob disliked most in the world. It was time to get his hands dirty on the internet; computers, internet, and smart phones were all just too much for Jacob’s old soul. It seemed all convenience and no charm or character. Jacob preferred to get his hands dirty with dirt and oil, not keyboards.

  For Jacob, the internet was that dirty bookstore in town that he knew about, but felt less of a human if he actually went in there. It just wasn’t him; he was a man of hard labor, quiet nights, and an occasional whiskey. Driving his truck down the dirt road to his home, Jacob knew it must be done; he needed to know what the difference was with Abigail. No matter what kind of dirt he had to deal with.