Tribulations

by Richard Thomas

  And then it’s cold. She is gone. And I am left to wither in the dirt, clinging to her promises, her barter. A stench of rotten milk and rancid grease fills the room. In my diseased state, I flicker and pass out.

  ****

  I throw the rope down and descend into the night. The moon is high and full, but it offers little comfort. I must get rid of her stench, so I limp to a spring that sputters nearby and wash away her dirty work, rubbing my stinging flesh with jasmine flowers and orange rinds. The water is warm, and stinks of sulfur, but it’s the best I can do.

  I sit in the warm water, and wait for her offerings to materialize. Soon, a small brown rabbit bounds up to me, and stops—its red eyes glowing in the dark. It twitches a pink nose and eases forward, uncertain and shaking, but it keeps moving nonetheless. When it lays its trembling head in my lap, I pass my gnarled hands over the soft fur, petting the beast, remembering a time when domesticated animals would offer up waves of unconditional love. And then I snap its neck. I will eat today.

  ****

  In the early grey hours of morning, the smell of cooking rabbit meat makes my stomach roll. The fire spits and cracks, my mouth wet and eager. I wait for her other gift to arrive, taking the sticks off of the flame, chewing on the moist haunches of the first bit of life I’ve seen up close in months. Shame. I gnaw the meat down to the bone, trying hard not to picture it gazing up at me, the surrender that filled its simple eyes.

  When the raven lands next to me, I am not surprised. It pecks at the bones, glassy orbs darting here and there, stepping from one black shriveled claw to the other. It bobs its head and inches closer to me, unhappy with my meager offerings. When it is close enough, I shoot my right arm out and grab it around the neck, its beak bending back, picking at my hand, my arm, tearing up strips of flesh. I reach beside me for a battered old screwdriver, the handle worn smooth by my sweat. I jab it into the belly of the squirming black bird and it stops moving. A metal door flips open from beneath its ruffled feathers, batteries spilling to the dirt floor, with an assortment of springs and sprockets.

  I prop the quiet machine in my lap and go to work. It will take some time, but she has whispered into my ears on many a night, so the task is not impossible. Screws are turned, and wires re-routed, a lever pulled, a switch flipped, and when I push the metal opening shut with a barely audible click, I whisper my name into the raven’s microphone, and command it to obey my every wish. We spend several hours executing orders and testing out the newly wired upgrade, and the raven is eager to do what I ask. When I notice the sun withering in the sky, I place the bird on my shoulder, pick up my rifle, and head down the rope to the dirt floor below. He’ll be here soon.

  I don’t know what he is, exactly—some combination of gigantism and steroids, no doubt. But he is human, I know that much. Or I’ve been told. So I sit on an outcropping of half-buried boulders at the edge of the burning pit and wait for the beast to arrive.

  It doesn’t take long.

  The ground vibrates under his heavy feet, and I can soon enough see him approaching, the heavy carved bowl filling his arms, the whisper of a thousand voices babbling and screaming, the cries of the living to be buried among the dead. I’ve held on to my dreams, out here in the desert, but many are not as fortunate as me. False gods and empty rhetoric fill the streets, the airwaves, the masses stumbling forward with little hope remaining. I can’t save them all. But I can resurrect my own, I think. That is all that I ask.

  When the beast is within my line of sight I stand up and turn my head to the bird. It takes off in a straight line for the lumbering golem, circling his head, cawing and flapping its wings, landing on his shoulder. He turns his swollen head to the tiny bird and eyes it with delight. He takes two steps towards the crack in the earth and dumps the shriveled black bowl of insanity into the fires and casts the ton of wood aside like a boy skipping rocks.

  “Birdie,” he says, holding out his arm, and the raven hops out and alights on his extended index finger. A misshapen grin destroys his face—teeth like tombstones, dented and gray.

  “Hey, buddy,” I yell.

  The giant looks down, noticing me for the first time. A scowl dims his face and I can see where this is headed. The hand without the bird resting on it turns into a tight fist.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “He’s yours. It’s a present from me to you.”

  “Present?” he asks.

  His fist unclenches and he looks at the bird.

  “Long time,” he says. “Long time from presents.”

  He turns back to me, eyes squinting.

  “You? You want?” he asks.

  “Just a ride,” I say. “Back to the city. Beyond the gates.”

  “Gates?”

  “Inside,” I say.

  “Inside,” he echoes.

  His massive head nods up and down. He shrugs his shoulders.

  Bending over he says, “Get on.”

  I hop up onto his shoulders and he rises back up, my stomach clenching.

  “Mine?” he asks. “Forever?”

  “Forever.”

  He moves forward, the raven flying out and back, landing on his finger. Out and back, out and back, like a dog fetching an imaginary stick—and the mountain of a man chuckles to himself.

  I can hear the voice of my wife, her lips on my ear, my neck. She is nuzzling me, her hand on my back, and at my side I feel small fingers, grasping at my hand, taking my fingers in theirs.

  ****

  Truth and lies, they are the same. Police state, chaos, or only the inevitable—the gap has been growing, the separation expanding, the outside influence of foreign nations penetrating, until nothing remains of what was once a flourishing land of opportunity.

  The narrow black towers that stand quiet in the desert crackle to life when the beast approaches the gate.

  “Where’s your bowl?” a speaker booms.

  The spotlights track back and forth on the ground at his feet. The raven rests in his tangled hair, as I hide on the other side of his head.

  “Where’s your bowl, you invalid,” the voice shouts. He bows his head slightly and responds to the guard.

  “Lost it.”

  A muttering seeps over the airwaves.

  “He lost another one. Idiot.”

  The gates buzz and he lumbers through the opening, and into the city, grumbling to himself. He holds out his hand and the raven obliges, flying out and back, landing on his finger. He grins and bends over, and I hop off of his shoulders, scamper into the darkness and disappear.

  ****

  I hold the rifle to the doctor’s throat and hand him the handful of teeth, hair and dried bits of flesh that I’ve kept in a canvas bag, tied to my waist, for these many lonely years. Surrounding us are tables of pale flesh, some covered with cloth, others connected to tubes, the sharp bite of chemicals, embalming fluids and formaldehyde.

  It was a mistake, I realize. Whatever horrors await us, we will face them together—I was wrong.

  “How long?” I ask him.

  “Nine months, maybe a little less.”

  “And they’ll be okay, they’ll be normal?”

  “Yes,” he says, “We’ve come a long way from Dolly. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

  I can only remember them the way they were, and that’s the way they will return to me. Not younger, not lying in their own blood, but the way they were before that—happy.

  ****

  When the bombing starts, I think I’ve been discovered, that somehow the doctor has figured out where I am. But they miss me. They only succeed in widening the gap, the great bowels filled with fire widening to spread the heat and destruction. When he stops coming, the simple giant who has become my only friend, I fear the worst. And on those nights when she comes for me, the harpy with her dirty talons, her teeth nipping at my greasy flesh, I can hardly push her away.

  What does it matter now, I wonder?

  But he shows himself eventually, the only excuse, the only reas
on for his absence a shiny new bowl with which to carry the dead dreams of the masses. The raven flits about his head like a gnat in the shimmering heat, landing on the lip of the bowl, cawing and bobbing its head.

  This time, however, the bowl is silent. He bends down onto one knee and places the polished wood in the dirt, setting it gently on the ground, tipping it over with the grace and patience of a saint. I stand before the turning wood, staring into the darkness, my throat clenched shut.

  When my family runs to me and wraps their arms around my tattered frame, I hold them to me. The only words that can escape my lips are the same pleas for mercy and understanding that I will offer to the bent gods for the rest of my life.

  “Please forgive me.”

  Misty

  I didn’t ask where she went at night. Although, in hindsight, I suppose that I should have. It had been hard enough to lure her home, long black hair, bruised lips, curves that made my head spin, and eyes that tracked me like a cat. Not a housecat, for sure, but something long and slinky, always on the prowl, hiding in the shadows where the green slits sparkled and danced. Misty. That’s what she told me anyway, and I went with it. Wasn’t going to ask her for any ID. I had her digits, and she answered now and then, but it wasn’t my place to tell her anything. I took what I could get.

  “Bobby, you’re all out of toilet paper,” she screamed from the bathroom.

  “Under the sink, baby, should be a couple rolls left.”

  “Thanks, hon,” she said, sticking her head out of the steamy doorway, nothing but a fluffy white towel between her slick, warm flesh and my own scattered heartbeat. The room filled with the sweet scent of currant, the candle burning on the nightstand, the only thing she ever left behind.

  It wasn’t much of an apartment, but I wasn’t much of a man. A long series of tragedies and failures trailed me like oily exhaust. I’d given up my hopes and dreams a long time ago. Scars and tattoos dotted my flesh, a series of jobs keeping me in the dark—bouncer and doorman, shipping and delivery—anything that required a bit of muscle and little thought. It was one bedroom that opened into a living room where a beat up green couch sat facing a scarred and worn out table, the flat screen the only bit of technology in the place. A drafty kitchen with dark tile held an ancient stove and refrigerator that were utilitarian at best. Salvation Army, Goodwill, these were the places I looked for jeans and sweatshirts, thick wool sweaters and faded leather jackets—it didn’t matter much to me. I saved whatever cash I had for the bottle.

  Propped up on my elbows, I watched her get dressed. The black lace panties and push up bra were what I expected, her pale skin like alabaster, her eyes always darting to me, her tongue licking lips that I ached to bite. But I couldn’t show her any weakness. She didn’t respond well to need. It was the nights she wore the plain white cotton panties, the soft T-shirt with no bra on at all, the hints at a previous life, something domestic and safe, those were the moments when I thought I stood a chance of keeping her.

  “I won’t be back tonight, Bobby, got things to do,” she said.

  I nodded, still under the covers, naked, worn out from bourbon, pool and the aerobics her flesh required. I wanted her to go, but I wanted her to stay.

  “Okay, Misty. Do what you gotta do,” I said, a treble of whine under the detachment that got me a set of squinting eyes. “No worries, babe. I understand.”

  She exhaled and nodded, pulling on a pair of black combat boots, standing up as she buttoned her skintight jeans, already gone. I thought maybe she stripped; that wouldn’t be out of the question. She didn’t seem like a dealer, but you never know—a handful of pills, some powders and liquids, it wouldn’t be hard for her to slip in and out of whatever clubs or bars she haunted. She was pretty enough to get away with murder, but rough enough around the edges to keep the predators at a distance.

  She walked over to the bed and leaned down, her hands on my chest, her tongue sliding into my mouth. She turned to go without saying a word.

  “Be good,” I said.

  “Why start now?” she laughed, closing the door behind her with a click.

  ****

  It didn’t bother me to see her sucking dick in a back alley. The guy looked loaded, and the pile of green he shoved in her pocket was probably her rent for the month. When he went inside, she spit on the ground and pulled a pint out of her pocket, swigging down a few gulps of amber, shoving her boot into a trashcan, the glass shattering on the brick wall. It was a reaction I could understand—respect even. The only way I’d want to see her act.

  It didn’t bother me to see her on stage, writhing around, pushing her hips into the air, shoving her crotch into the faces of bearded strangers, working the stage lights, her body electric, arousing me against all rhyme and reason. She wasn’t my girl, that’s for sure, and the scattered bills that covered the ground, she didn’t even stop to pick them up. The frat boys and fading suburban fathers, they crowded around the center stage, AC/DC blasting, the flashing lights making my heart shudder, as she pinched her nipples with an angry scowl, running her black tipped fingers between her legs—really putting on a show. The troll that scampered around after she left, he picked up the bills into a nice stack and was off behind the curtain and into the darkness before her scent could even fade.

  It was the other place she went. The drive north out of the city and towards the cornfields, the metal and glass fading into oblivion as the concrete stretched out into the night. I told myself to go back, to turn around, to keep what we had—our little secret—keep it going, don’t ask for more than what you have. When she pulled off the highway and stopped at a grocery store, I started to get sick to my stomach, the thin plastic bags full of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, a jug of orange juice, and a gallon of milk. I could see the transformation, the way her eyes softened as she flipped the radio dial, her head bobbing along to pop music, hair pulled back into a ponytail, turning into a subdivision of blue siding and white siding and yellow siding, one after another after another.

  When she turned into the garage, there was movement behind the curtains, lights blocked by shadows, and then full again, a dull thud of a car door closing, while another opened, the screams and laughter drifting to my open window as I idled in the street by her mailbox, my left eye twitching, stomach contorted into knots.

  “Mommy, mommy, she’s home. Mommy’s home.”

  Flowers for Jessica

  The doctors had no answer for me, something wrong with her heart—that’s all that I heard, all they could hint at with their stone faces and cold hands, constantly checking their watches, places they needed to be. Except, now that Jessica was gone, there was nowhere I needed to be and nowhere I wanted to go. She liked the woods, embraced nature with every fiber of her constantly distracted mind. She wandered off every chance she got—communing and dancing, her silhouette spinning in many a field of wild flowers. It gave me great pleasure to share that joy with her.

  When I found her body in the deep grasses—weeds and vines bent over from the edge of the forest, she looked peaceful, asleep, hands resting on her chest. We’d been hiding from each other, playing a little game. The reward was supposed to be her soft kisses, my hands traversing her ivory skin, a stolen moment away from the city, away from the smoke and noise and drudgery of work and broken dreams. It only took a short drive north, away from our home and the echoes of lost children, the bloody rags that lined our garbage cans, the dusty crib that lay barren and quiet. I didn’t bring it up any more, didn’t dare ask where we were, what the plan was, or how to move forward.

  Too many nights I’d find her at the kitchen table, empty glass of wine, empty bottle, her eyes a million miles away, her hands torn and bleeding, wads of paper in her mouth as she chewed, broken glass littering the table. It was a room filled with anger, a thick layer of frustration, sadness and an undying urge to hurt someone, to strike out in vengeance for the random pain that surrounded us. I’d carry her upstairs, a bundle of sticks, and place her on our bed.
When she’d reach for me, catatonic, dead behind the eyes, I’d push her away. It wasn’t her. Her body called to me, begged me fill her with life, but her eyes, her diminished mind, was anywhere but here.

  Fractured. That’s the word that comes to mind. I can see myself in my car, drifting down the highway. I can see her at the table, a ghost. I can picture the forest, her lying in the damp green blanket of grass, and I can see what I did next in excruciating detail.

  It started as a way to honor her, to hold on to her shape, her shadow, the outline of her body flattening the greenery, the death of the grasses, the weeds withering and turning brown, flower buds that had borne witness to her heartbreak, shriveled and lying on the ground. I simply lay down in her outline, lay there in the woods, the grass, and tried to imagine what she had been thinking, tried to embrace her pain and longing. Insects buzzed at the periphery of my body heat, the sun above cooking the forest, the fields, a shimmer washing over me. My body glistened with sweat, the droplets running off of my bare skin and into the earth below me. Soon my tears joined the trickle of sweat, running down the sides of my face, as I bellowed and wailed, alone in the world. Things were just beginning.

  Days later, unable to focus on life in the real world, unable to be anywhere else, I returned to the forest to find the dark outline of my body, overlapping the space where she expired, filled with tiny flowers, buds of yellow and pink and lavender, pushing up from the shadows. Wildflowers. I didn’t dare lie down on them, these slivers of sweetness and light. I had no water with me, no creek nearby—nothing but blue sky and a shiver in my bones.