Where the Dead Live

by Marissa Farrar

  I tried to push myself into a sitting position, but nothing happened. The water around me did not even stir. My arms lay useless and flaccid against my sides.

  A jolt of panic clutched at my throat. I struggled to breathe, before realising I could not hear the sound of my breath or the heavy thud of my heart.

  Plink.

  The only sound in the room was the dripping of the tap as the water at its orifice grew pregnant and heavy, before joining the tub.

  It’s okay. Your body is still asleep. It’s been in the cold water for so long, the muscles are just a little slow—give it a minute to catch up to you.

  Concentrating on staying calm, I continued to stare at the ceiling. I tried to move my head to look down, but again, nothing happened. Now I was terrified, petrified that for some inexplicable reason I was suddenly paralysed from the neck down.

  Thank God, my eyes worked. I glanced down at the body refusing to obey me.

  It wasn’t my own.

  And that wasn’t all. The water I lay in was the colour of a burnt sunset.

  Oh my God oh my God oh my God...

  I stared at the body, my consciousness rapidly processing everything I saw. Ten perfectly painted toenails poked out of the tainted water. They were painted coral pink—not a colour I would ever choose for myself. On one of the toes was a tiny silver band; a turquoise-blue jewel nestled in the centre.

  Plink.

  Something in my memory jogged. Those weren’t my feet, but they weren’t those of a stranger either. I knew those toes. My gaze continued up the body. My mind clenched down, determined not to lose control and lose my sanity in this waking nightmare. The skin was white. If I hadn’t had known better, I would have thought the body lay in a bath of bleach instead of your regular, bloodied H2O.

  The knees were too wrinkled to be my own; the skin looked older, despite being shrivelled from exposure to the water and the cold. Beneath the red water, I could make out a triangle of pubic hair. The hair was a light brown, maybe even blond, a stark contrast to my dark colouring. I could even see the faint line of a scar running, horizontally, just above the pubic bone. I knew enough about scaring to recognise this as being the result of a caesarean.

  Plink.

  The angle of my head did not allow me to see much above this point. This in itself was wrong to me. I should be able to see my breasts from this angle; I had never been deprived in that area.

  Using the only tool I had left—my sight—I studied the cold body further, desperate to find a clue, something that would explain to me what was happening. I wanted to convince myself that I was still asleep—the typical ending to something unexplainable—but I had never felt more awake in my life.

  Plink.

  Hands rested upon the body’s thighs. The right hand lay facing upwards, the fingers curling slightly inwards, like a dead crab lying on its back. This hand caught my attention—or rather the wrist did.

  Plink

  A jagged red crucifix ran across the wrist and up the length of the arm, opening all of the major veins and arteries. Because of the hand’s position, resting upon the thigh and out of the water, blood smeared, thick and dark, across the skin. Blood tipped the fingers, probably caused while trying to open up the other wrist.

  Plink

  My gaze flicked over to its partner. This hand rested palm down, fingers spread. The nails were painted the same coral pink as the toes and the fingers were longer, more elegant than my own. But there was one similarity. No, it wasn’t just a similarity. The ring on the second finger was mine. I would have known that diamond setting anywhere, the two emeralds mirroring each side. It was my ring—the ring my mother had left me, the ring my father had presented to her when he had asked for her hand in marriage.

  Realisation dawned.

  And panic took hold for good. I wanted to scream and in my head, I did. The sound of the dripping tap was completely lost in my insane, internal shrieking, eradicating all other thought or feeling. Desperately, I tried to move—fighting with my mind to move limbs that did not belong to me. In my imagination, I fought and thrashed and flailed. My arms and legs were a torrent of motion, as red water slopped from the tub, splashing against the floor and the walls. But on the outside there was nothing. Just a silent stillness.

  Plink.

  No, no, no. This was impossible, this couldn’t be happening. What had I done to deserve this?

  But I knew. I knew what I had done and I did deserve this. It was punishment for my weakness. I was being shown exactly what I deserved and a kind of sad acceptance seemed to wash away the panic. So my punishment was this: to be trapped inside the body of my dead mother until I had realised my sins.

  I realise them! I screamed in my head, though I knew not to whom I was directing my words. I realise them and I’m sorry, I’m…

  Punctuated with unsounded sobs, my words broke down inside of me.

  Please, let me out. I’ll do anything, just let me out.

  I willed for sleep to return to me, longing for the oblivion it brought. But I was wide-awake. My overactive imagination ran wild. I could picture the wide, dead eyes I stared through. The glassy gaze, staring into the world beyond. Was I wearing her face? Was it attached to my own like the world’s most realistic Halloween mask? Or did I no longer have a face? Did I even exist at all, anymore?

  Another horrific thought struck me.

  Maybe I was already dead? In a moment of intense depression, I had blacked out and climbed into the bath and, instead of relaxing and allowing my sins to wash away, I had picked up the blade. The cutting had finally gone too far. I had slit my wrists without even realising it and this was my hell?

  No. I didn’t believe in hell. I don’t believe in hell. After my mother died, I had eradicated all possibility of such a place existing. People were only people, despite the mistakes they made and horrors they committed.

  Hell was a place created by man in order to control man. It was nothing more than a fable; a Grimm Brothers’ fairytale.

  A rational part of me still existed. Somewhere deep down, beyond the frantic screaming child, beyond the burdened and miserable woman, was the girl who had coped most of her life with the knowledge that her mother had abandoned her in the worst possible way. It was that part I clung to now.

  I knew I had two choices; find my strength or descend into madness, and that madness would be my Hell. Whether I was alive or dead, if I lost my mind, I would be lost for good.

  Unable to close the eyes I looked through, I found a mark on the wall and concentrated on it. It was just a small spot of mould, but I made its shape, colour and texture all I could see, distracting myself from the dead white skin and the cold, red water it floated in.

  I had to think clearly about what was happening to me. I had too many questions and not enough answers. I had to put the pieces together.

  What I was experiencing now was unexplainable. The only thing I could think of was that for some reason my body had gone into shock and my brain was experiencing some intense type of nightmare, but a nightmare so vivid it felt completely real.

  The dappled greens and greys of the furry moss filling my vision blurred slightly, in that way that things do after staring at them for too long. Unconsciously, I readjusted my gaze to refocus the pattern of mould. I was terrified of trying to move and experiencing again the claustrophobia and panic from earlier. But I had to do something.

  Cold red water encased what was now my body like a coffin. The blue-white skin looked almost transparent—as though it were trying to imitate the consistency of water—the two fluids swapping places.

  My consciousness was trapped inside the dead body of my mother—a body that had been cremated ten years ago—and I had no way of explaining it. I had so many questions they seemed to run into one another until I was unable to think in an organised sentence, to place the correct words in order. The result was a drunken mind; the words stumbling like footsteps.

  Had I travelled back in time? Or wa
s this simply a huge short-circuiting of my brain and I was in some kind of delusion? I had heard of post-traumatic stress disorder, where people who had suffered from huge traumas and did not grieve properly, saved everything up to explode in a complete mental breakdown.

  Why hadn’t she been there for me?

  The question stirred pain that had been held deep inside for almost ten years. I wanted to forget it, but it clutched and pulled at my heart like a person drowning.

  And with the pain came anger.

  When you have a child you give up your right to your own life. You make the decision for a commitment that will never be overridden.

  But her commitment to me had been overridden. The one person on earth, who lived life primarily for me, had taken her own life. She had left me for something else, for somewhere else.

  Why had she done such a thing? I knew I wasn’t the perfect daughter, but did I really deserve that? That final punishment.

  Somehow, my life had been set on a pathway directed only by despair. But I had coped, as the billions of people around the world cope with what they have lost, who they have lost. What was happening to me now felt like the ultimate injustice. To force me to inhabit my mother’s death; what could be more horrific?

  And I hated her for it.

  I hated her for being so fucking selfish; for putting her own needs and feelings above everything else. I couldn’t understand how someone could make a decision so final without any thought of the people around her, the people who loved her. How could anything be more important than her family?

  I lay there, the hurt and rage, the loss and betrayal building up inside me like an inferno threatening to burst out and take control.

  But there was nowhere to burst and nothing to take control of, for I was merely a ghost behind my mother’s dead eyes and I had no way of releasing the lava of emotions flowing within my heart.

  Suddenly, I heard the door open; the metallic sound of the door handle being worked and the soft swish as the wooden bottom of the door brushed against the cheap linoleum.

  Mentally my heart leapt, adrenaline still firing through my emotions. Had someone come to save me?

  In my peripheral vision, I saw the shape of someone, a woman, and renewed fear and confusion gripped my heart.

  Within moments, she stood in front of me at the bathroom sink, looking as alive as I once had. How young she appeared struck me; not much older than I was now. Her dark blond hair hung in waves down her back, her skin smooth and unblemished. She had married young and, when she killed herself, had only been thirty-seven. How old I thought she’d been then; how insanely young she looked to me now.

  My mother opened the cabinet and took out two objects; the razor and the shaving foam. Exactly as I had done, she used the bottom of the canister to crack open the cheap women’s blade.

  My mind jolted.

  Was I watching my mother or myself? The actions mirrored so closely what I had done earlier, preparing for my bath.

  I watched in horror as she turned on the taps and then sat on the side of the bath.

  Could she not see me? How could she not see the abomination lying before her?

  The world seemed to slow down to a snail’s pace and I stared in revulsion as my mother casually lowered her left hand into the putrid red water and gently swirled it around, causing mini whirlpools to spin around my (her) legs.

  The blood, the blood…

  I tried to scream at her, but she continued her lazy pattern, swishing the bloodied water around the pale, blue body.

  MOM!

  Again, I tried to get her attention, tried screaming her name, but, even in my head, all it sounded like was an imploring whimper.

  She turned slightly, as though hearing something, but then gave a gentle shake of her head. As she rose from the side of the tub, she lifted her hand from the water. Her hand was coated in blood, as though no water had diluted it.

  She stood in front of the mirror and allowed her own cream robe to drop. Her hand rested at her throat, leaving bloodied fingerprints. She lifted a hand to her face and rubbed her mouth, smearing her lips with her own blood.

  In my head, I cried in fear and revulsion. I’d seen all of this before. I’d done exactly the same thing only an hour or so earlier.

  Had her actions before her death been so similar to mine, or was I now watching myself? Had her ghost been in this bathtub watching me getting ready, only now we had switched places?

  She stepped into the bath, her foot between my (her) legs, and pulled the other leg in. Slowly, she lowered herself down, her slim back and the back of her head coming towards me; a ghost reclaiming her body.

  I wanted to recoil, to react. In my head, I frantically pushed myself with my feet, trying to get to the furthest end of the bath, as far away from her as possible. I was desperate not to have her touch me, terrified of what was happening.

  Had I been able to move, I would have been crouching in a corner, tearing at my hair, foaming at the mouth and screaming till my vocal cords burst. Instead, this all happened in my head and the only word that seemed to form internally was…

  NO…!

  NO! NO! NO! NO…

  And she sank into me.

  I burst from the bath, wet, naked and terrified. My foot caught on the side of the tub and I tripped, slopping water out with me as I hit the linoleum floor, hard. But the relief at being able to move was so great, I could only crumple on the ground and sob. I must have been dreaming. I had heard of sleep paralysis before, but that had been insane. Never had I experienced a nightmare so vivid or so god-damned awful before. I was just thankful it was over.

  Shivering from the cold and shock, I put my arm out to pull my towel from the rail...

  And something moved in the water behind me.

  I froze, my heart beating in frantic, trippy beats, every muscle tensed in terror. Had I imagined it? Had my overwrought mind conjured the sound? But then I heard it again; the unmistakable pull and rush of water as someone, or something, lifted itself out.

  I turned to see my mother’s body, pale and dead, rising from the bloodied water.

  Now I screamed. I screamed and leapt for the bathroom door, wrenching at the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. My fists pounded on the door, hammering against the solid wood.

  “Help!” I screamed, though I knew there was no one who could.

  Instead, I spun back round to face her and slid back down the door.

  Slowly, she stood, water and blood dripping from her naked body. The left hand hung useless, having severed most of the nerves and tendons during the cutting, but the right hand reached out towards me. I could now see the more superficial cuts on this wrist, how, even as she was dying, with her right hand all but useless, she had still tried to cut.

  “Oh please, no,” I whimpered. “Please, please...”

  Her hair, wet and lank, hung down either side of her face, its tips tinged with red where it had lain in the water. Her cheeks were sunken and bruised, her mouth slack. The blue eyes I had once adored were milky and unfocused; though I knew without question that she could see me.

  It’s not really her, I told myself. Whatever this is, it is not my mother.

  Her mouth opened.

  “Anna...” she breathed.

  Her leg lifted out of the bath, water dripping from her cold, dead skin. I scrabbled further away, my back pressing up against the door. Her foot touched the ground and then the other leg pulled out of the water to join it.

  She was coming for me.

  “Leave me alone,” I screamed. “Leave me alone!”

  “Anna...” she said again, with that weird slack jaw, as though it was broken and she couldn’t move it to speak.

  She leant over me, her weird, slack mouth coming down, as though about to kiss me.

  I reached out and grabbed either side of her face, trying to stop the horrific thing trying to swallow my sanity.

  Her skin felt like cold rubber beneath my fingertips, and, thou
gh I was desperate to let go, I couldn’t. I couldn’t let her near me. I couldn’t let that horrible mouth touch my skin.

  But even as I held her away from me, her face began to change.

  The skin around her eyes crumpled and folded like crepe paper. Her eyelids began to sag, transforming the shape of her eyes. The blonde lashes melted away until they were little more than flecks.

  My fingertips dug gouges into her skin. I had an awful sensation of her skin losing its elasticity and becoming too soft—squishy even—beneath my touch. I wanted to pull away, the feeling unnerving me, but putting up with a little discomfort was nothing compared with what may happen if I lost this fight.

  The sensation grew worse and my fingers now lay flat into her skin; tongue and groove. Her skin now had the composition of rotting moss, spongy and slick. My stomach turned and bile rushed into my mouth. I fought against the nausea, but the grip on my mother’s face was slowly slipping. Only, it was not my grip sliding from her face, but her skin.

  I screamed again and snatched my hands away.

  Bone, white as porcelain, flashed at me like a winking eye. I anticipated the flow of blood I was sure would follow, but the bone stayed white and clean. The pink layer of skin pulled away from the tissue beneath and the flesh it exposed was dark and rotten; like raw steak left in the sun.

  The stench of festering rubbish bins, thick and decaying, attacked my senses, and I choked and gagged at this new onslaught.

  In blind panic, I flailed at her hands; a poor imitation of a catfight. The relief at creating space between her rotting face and the choking stench was immediately replaced with panic. I screamed in her horrendous face and my pathetic paddling went on far too long before she grabbed my wrists in a stone cold grip. She was playing with me.

  Desperately, I pulled away but I was trapped. I had nowhere to go.

  My nakedness made me more vulnerable than ever. My eyeballs bulged from my head and my breath rasped painfully in my ears. The smell of rotting meat was thick enough to choke on and I could taste the bile rushing to the back of my throat. Swallowing hard, I tried to quell the gag reflex threatening to follow.