It was the mornings that hurt, with the rising sun; the tranquility of sitting around bored her to death. She longed for early morning to be over. She wished she could sleep through it, but her body never allowed it, and her animals never forgave it. Up with the sun she was, even if it was forced. This morning, she took out her woes on her boots—shoving them on, then stomping towards the back gate, she opened up the door to her back porch. She could hear her goats yammering on there was no telling them to hush until they were fed.
Abigail
The guy left for work. The morning was chilly with hints of humor. “I feel like flying around those trees and shaking down some leaves,” Abigail told her palmprint of a daughter. Feeling happy and free was a sensation Abigail was just not used to. She was sure she could almost giggle. It was probably the wisp of cool air whipping down Abigail’s shirt. The Grey was never cold, or hot; it was always the perfect temperature. The Mothers made sure of it. The ‘no weather’ of The Grey added to its claustrophobia. Breathing the air outside The Grey, Abigail wondered how the Mothers could not want for just a breeze to make the day less long—breathing in the cool air, feeling the rush of it. But, Abigail knew why The Grey was temperature controlled, even enjoying a breeze would be considered time wasted in The Grey, nothing at all to be savored.
Looking out her kitchen window, from far across the field, Abigail could see her neighbor lady get into a car with another lady. Abigail wanted badly to go look around the neighbor’s house. Abigail wanted to touch the neighbor’s things, look in her cupboards, know what the neighbor kept in her closets. It was wrong, and she knew it, but the neighbor was out, and Abigail couldn’t put that want to be nosy away.
Before Abigail had time to rationalize her actions, or convince herself that she shouldn’t be such a Nosy Nelly, she was half way across the field and sneaking onto the neighbor’s back porch.
The neighbor’s porch was screened in with rocking chairs, tables full of books, some dirty dishes, and the smell of windblown hair. Abigail could picture the lady sitting on her porch, reading her books, feet in the air, and looking up after every couple of chapters to spot a feral cat at her barn, or to hear the buzz of an old truck on the highway.
Happy still to be sneaking, and happier to find the back porch door unlocked, Abigail had a two-second conversation with herself about being sneaky in places where she shouldn’t go. She knew it was wrong, but in The Grey doors were always locked; there were no peeks to be had. It was too enticing for Abigail to refuse. She wanted to peek—to see how other humans lived, what they liked, what they cared for. Abigail didn’t need to convince herself that this was nothing more than informative—information she could, after all, share with The Grey. She could write a report when she returned—let Superior Mother know how this woman lived.
Abigail stepped into the neighbor’s house and it was wonderland; everything in her house seemed like it belonged to another age. The couch seemed worn through—the pillow fabric was thin and the carpet had stains. It was a house that was once busy and noisy. Now, it was just a history museum of what once was this lady’s life.
The neighbor’s kitchen had dishes in the sink and pots on the stove containing food that seemed forgotten. Maybe the food was bad, maybe it just didn’t seem important to throw it away. The Mothers in The Grey would never leave dishes in the sink; they would never leave food out to rot. It would seem wastefully inefficient and thoughtless of the work that had been done to bring the food in. Abigail couldn’t help wondering what passive aggressive remarks the Mothers would make about this home. There would be Mothers refusing to touch anything, noses wrinkled, asking questions about why they were there to study such a filthy old hag of a human.
Looking out the windows, there were layers of dust—as if they had not been opened in years. Abigail found herself being judgmental of this; the Mothers liked everything sleek and crystal clear. The Grey was stainless steel clean, glossy and glimmering. This house was the opposite; it smelled of forgotten things.
Abigail rested her hand on the neighbor’s kitchen counter and it was sticky. The sticky was too much for Abigail—sensory overload of opposite. This neighbor would never survive the Mothers’ ways. Suddenly, Abigail felt like the Mothers were there, standing with her in the neighbor’s house. In Abigail’s mind, one Mother was touching the counter with the tip of her finger, a look of disgust etched unapologetically into her face. Another Mother was going through the cabinets, while shaking her head. If the Mothers would not accept this home, they wouldn’t accept Abigail either. Abigail loved dirt under her feet; she loved a dress stained with earth. She couldn’t handle the imagined grins of the Mothers, acting as if Abigail was again worthless, a nothing, too meek for anything worthwhile. She ran out to the back porch.
Abigail stood still in the sun, trying her best to wash away the feelings left by the thoughts. It was then that Abigail heard a noise coming from the barn—a noise that Abigail had never heard, a noise that Abigail was a bit afraid of. It was animal, she knew that much, but could not tell what kind of animal.
Walking to the neighbor’s barn, with the wind in her nose and the animal sound in her ears, Abigail got the sense that maybe she should head back to her house. She knew what she was doing was rotten—it felt wrong and kept feeling worse—but she ignored it and followed her feet to the barn.
Abigail walked straight through the barn and into the field, following the sound. There were three large beasts and one tiny miniature version of the large ones. They all marched up to the fence, to Abigail. She could smell them, touch them, and hear their constant cry for whatever it was they wanted.
Abigail could sense the beasts wanted something from her, but in The Grey, there were no such beasts. They did not eat beasts, raise beasts, or speak of beasts. The Mothers never taught anything on it. Abigail looked at the animals for the first time—brand new to her, she couldn’t fathom what a person would do with such a creature. But, Palmprint knew. Palmprint was now wide awake and swung herself around in mother’s belly, wishing she was out already and could lay hands on the goats.
Abigail reached out to touch the beast, to feel the beast. Running her fingers on the top of its hide, Abigail felt lost in how soft it was. She had never known a beast could feel so gentle to the touch. Abigail felt a kick, then another, and with one blink, she knew that Palmprint was awake and no good would come from that. Palmprint would direct her mamma as she pleased, and Abigail would watch herself do a terrible thing.
Palmprint pulled the puppet strings for her mother. Did all daughters of The Grey behave like this? Did they all lust the way Abigail’s Palmprint did? Abigail wondered this almost hourly. Brat, was all Abigail could think as she watched herself pick up the dwarf beast with incredible ease.
Holding the beast, Abigail began to sob in a way she didn’t know she could. The sound of the other beasts yammering and calling for their tiny friend was more than the word awful could describe. Her tears smeared her vision, but Palmprint knew how to get home, and Abigail had no choice but to follow her Palmprint’s orders. “Sorry, but I can’t stop her…I can’t stop her…she’ll do what she pleases…” Abigail tried to yell an apology to the beasts, but Palmprint forced her forward, straight into the guy’s tool shed.
For the babies of The Grey, it was in their nature to want human blood. It was in their character to see blood, then get the urge to roll in it. Many generations of Superior Mother’s had seen this in their ladies; now, the want to have human blood smeared on them, rubbed into them, was in the fetuses and the daughters of The Grey. For years now, Superior Mother after Superior Mother maintained tight control of The Grey’s diet and environment in an attempt not to awaken that want. The want to have human blood-to-skin contact for the women of The Grey was not something that should be awakened. It was too carnal, too real among them to ignore. They were here to breed and go home. Killing for the sake of blood would lead to murder upon murder and that would leave a trail that would be i
mpossible to hide. This was one of the deepest secrets the Superior Mothers had to protect. Human blood was euphoric to the women of The Grey—a drug they would gladly murder for more of. Something so addictive, it would be not only the demise of their kind, but of human kind. The women of The Grey loved all blood, but human blood was considered supreme—the most lavish of them all. Red Drug was The Grey’s dirt in the center of all the organized clean.
Yet, with all attempts at control by Superior Mother, her flock always had strings sticking out and holes that needed mending. It was never perfect, never ever as elite as they tried to be.
Abigail found herself standing in a small, plastic kiddie pool with the beast between her legs and the guy’s hunting knife easily slicing its little white throat. There was no point in crying anymore, Palmprint would do what she wanted, and this episode was almost half way done anyway. Abigail was an emotionally abused wreck of a women; the taunting from the Mothers, and now the bullying from her own daughter. Abigail lived each day grateful for the smallest amount of quiet happiness she could get.
Abigail felt disgusted, but fascinated, by Palmprint. How could she do this to such an innocent creature? It was ghastly watching the blood pool around her feet; yet, when it sunk into Abigail’s skin, it gave her such immense pleasure that there was nothing left to do but wallow in it.
The blood washed over Abigail’s toes, starting a rush of smooth that began crawling up to her knees. The feel of it was velvet; it was caramel and salt. The blood kissed Abigail’s skin and quickly seduced her.
Swooning and not knowing why, Abigail sat in the shallow kiddie pool, spreading the blood on her skin. Abigail ran her fingers threw her hair and tried to put drops of it in her eyes. She spread it around the bottom of the pool, mixing it with the dirt already present, making a paste that she wanted to spread on her belly, her face, her everything.
Tossing her clothes aside, Abigail put some of the blood on her nose so she could smell it even more; she licked her fingers and pressed her face against the bottom of the pool. If this blood were a God, Abigail knew right then that she’d worship it, dedicate her every action to it. This blood was Abigail’s path to bliss.
Abigail felt an intense happiness laying in the dirty pool, smothered in goats’ blood. She was in a daze, absentmindedly caressing the tip of the tiny beasts horns and running her bloody fingertips through its now matted fur. Abigail finally felt a connection to Palmprint. It was a moment of bonding; it was an understanding of who she was and who her daughter would be—all the same and none different.
Abigail sighed and patted the beasts head. Such a good little animal; such a sweet little thing to be killed so quickly and give so much.
Superior Mother watched Abigail on the monitor. This one’s daughter is slightly more dangerous than most. Superior Mother considered pulling Abigail out. Tapping the monitor with her finger, Superior Mother thought she could bring Abigail back to The Grey to birth the girl. But, as that thought hit, her eyes were not focused where they should be, and the concerns she had for Abigail’s daughter left in a blink. She was too distracted by her thoughts of Lisa to recognize the assassin that Abigail was cooking in her belly.
Jacob came home from work early, and like any man, went searching for his woman. When Jacob didn’t see Abigail in the house, he wasn’t concerned. She was usually wandering around the woods or on back porch. But then, Abigail wasn’t in any of her usual spots. He didn’t get riled up; he was a country boy who took his time with things and kept a level head. Where would a pregnant sprite like Abigail go? Being a man of instinct and patience Jacob followed his wits around his home until he found Abigail asleep in a child’s swimming pool left behind by the last tenant.
At first glance, her mess of blonde hair sticking out of the swimming pool charmed Jacob. She was just a tiny, petite gal who could lounge around in a kiddie pool. Then, in the middle of enjoying being charmed by her, Jacob started to see that she was covered in muck; it was in her hair, up and down her legs, smeared all over her breasts and thickest of all on her belly. When Jacob took in that Abigail was also nude, the charmed sensation completely faded, to be replaced by a panicky doom Jacob didn’t know he was capable of feeling. Kneeling next to the pool to check for breath, he then noticed that she was fast asleep, snuggling a dead pygmy goat. The whole picture slammed together, shoving Jacob to the ground. It did more than make him drop from his knees; everything he was taking in was pushing him into the dirt, hoping to be swallowed whole.
Trying his best to shake it off, Jacob sat next to the pool, watching Abigail sleep so very soundly, naked and looking completely insane. He needed to call the cops. He needed to do something; this was illegal, this was insanity, immoral, wrong…so very wrong.
Then, Jacob noticed movement from Abigail. He saw the palmprint’s face pressed tightly against her mother’s belly. The baby’s eyes were open; Jacob could see them looking directly at him. The baby blinked and put its hand against the skin, pushing so much that Jacob thought Abigail’s belly would tear open like tissue paper. The idea of Abigail hurt like that scared Jacob enough that he jumped to his feet, grabbed Abigail up in his arms, took her inside, and put her in the shower.
With the water hitting her face, Abigail woke up confused—content to see her guy, but not understanding his panic. Not comprehending why he was barking orders at her: “Wash yourself, get clean, wash yourself again, stay inside…” He was being so mean, so very mean, and Abigail didn’t understand why.
Jacob ran outside grabbed a shovel and spent the next few hours burying the pygmy goat in the woods, taking the swimming pool to the dump, panting and panicking at all he had seen and what he had just covered up. The most bothersome was that he had no clue what kind of crime, besides goat stealing, he had just covered up.
Later that night, he tossed Abigail’s bloody dress in the barbecue fire while he grilled some steaks for dinner. He was terrified at what the little blonde lady humming and baking cookies in his kitchen had in her belly and couldn’t stomach the realization that the terror thrilled him. It thrilled him that Abigail was wrong, insane, different. Whatever it was, took Jacob by the dick and dragged him towards her. Abigail was different; her not being right and his daughter being demonic, alien even, made his heart feel like it would jump out of him and run down the road. Jacob wouldn’t run; he couldn’t. He had to know what this was, what she was. What that thing growing in her belly was.
He kept muttering to himself, what did I help create? The child within Abigail was also his. Would his child be born to build nightmares or would it be born to build empires? Jacob couldn’t help himself; he had to know. He would do what he knew was death to most humans; he’d enable the wrong out of pure fascination.
The Neighbor
After a night out with her daughter, the neighbor came home to a house that felt threatened—as if it was a young child who had been bullied at school. Walking around, looking at this and that, nothing had been moved—nothing had been touched. All seemed as it should be, but the vibe was off. Someone had been creeping about and the neighbor could feel it. Stopping herself at the kitchen window, she remembered her late husband and how many times she had told him that something felt off. She trusted her gut, but he’d simply wave her words away. She had been right every time. Anger at her late husband was starting to make some whiskey sound very tempting.
Suddenly, the neighbor heard her goats complaining and wanted to kick herself for forgetting to bring them in from the field. She knew she should have put them in the barn before she left. Cursing herself, she marched to the field, planning to rush them into the barn quickly and get back home to a hot shower, an old book, and her whiskey.
Looking at her goats, the neighbor immediately realized that one was missing, “Where’s Joe?” the neighbor asked the other goats. The pygme goat was nowhere to be found and the other goats seemed panicked. Just like the house, something was off, something had gone wandering around her property while the neig
hbor was out. The neighbor’s notions were never off. Joe the pygmy goat was gone.
Then, the neighbor caught the smell of barbecue drifting across the field; the smoke traveled along with the breeze and whispered in her ear, “Go inside, lock the door.”
In the house, the neighbor locked all the doors, checked all her windows, took a quick shower, and sat on her couch—telling herself over and over again that her gut was never wrong. She was not being paranoid; her late husband didn’t know shit about anything other than what he could see. Sometimes, the world wasn’t about what you could see, but about what you couldn’t. Logically, the neighbor figured, a coyote had gotten to the pygmy goat, and it was her fault for not locking them up. She’d find pieces of Joe all over the field tomorrow. The neighbor would find it, she was sure. There is no way those two across the way did anything to that sweet little goat. No way, couldn’t be it, was all her crazy old lady thoughts could reason. The neighbor liked to think logically, but she knew better; the smoke from the grill had confirmed it.
Lisa
The smell in the air woke Lisa up. It was a smell that flicked her nose and told her eyes to open. Open eyes, open. Blinking, and looking straight up, Lisa saw a ceiling. Confused, she touched the pillow below her head. Sitting up in the bed, Lisa saw plain walls. It suddenly registered that she was in a bed, but not a bed in The Grey—she was in an apartment. Through the window, Lisa could hear children playing. There were no windows in The Grey. Lisa rolled her eyes and stretched her legs. Shit, there is never the sound of children playing in The Grey either.
Sniffing the air, Lisa realized that the apartment smelt like lemons. That’s what it is… lemons. The smell was overpowering and it crawled all over her, telling her to get up, ‘get out of bed lazy bones’. Putting her hands on the sheets, Lisa felt a paper and grabbed for it. It was a bright yellow note paper; the paper looked and smelled like lemons.
Women of the Grey- The Complete Trilogy Page 29
