Flesh Failure

by Sèphera Girón

  As the leech travelled towards my stomach, I realized how hungry I was. Now that my neurological system was synced up with the rest of me, I was able to recognize some of my pains. Hunger was a growing pain. I’d not eaten since my rebirth.

  More leeches attempted to feast on me and each one met with the same fate as the first.

  I lay in the creek until I was too cold to take it anymore and waded back to shore.

  The crisp winds of fall were dreadfully apparent after my cold bath. There wasn’t much I could do but attempt to take shelter in the trees. Perhaps the mud caking me hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

  With much of the mud loosened, I was able to see myself for the first time. My body was covered in wounds. The pain was coming from patches and a strip of skin, angry raised red welts and stitches. So many stitches. My wrists, my feet, my legs. My breasts were large, jutting out with a hardness that I didn’t recognize, and more stitches around the nipples and underneath.

  As memory flashes burst and fizzled in weird kaleidoscopes of colours, I wondered what had happened to me. What kind of accident had I been in that needed so many stitches?

  The birds twittered at me. One small yellow one perched on my shoulder as I studied my hands. I was too engrossed in the flashes of memories pouring out that I didn’t care about the bird.

  “Wake up, dammit,” an angry male voice commanded. My mind spun and in the vision, I attempted to open my eyes but they hurt so much.

  “More electricity!” shouted another voice.

  A jolt. More pain.

  The memory flipped to another one.

  White flashes. White noise. Electrical buzzing. Another attempt to open eyes. Very painful squinting only brought more blinding white light.

  Another voice.

  “She’s dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “There’s nothing to be done. That’s all I can offer. My condolences.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Rueben. You won’t speak of this to anyone?”

  “Of course not. We both have our secrets.”

  Voices, more voices, with colours fading in and out.

  I shook my head as the bird pinched my naked shoulder tightly. With a reflex as a cat, I clawed it and squeezed it, its little body limp before I registered what I had done. The birds that had been watching from the nearby treetops flew away in droves, screaming in horror as big black wings flapped through the air.

  I stared at the broken bird as I opened my hand. Its head hung loosely, its wings limp, eyes rolled back. A bit of blood leaked from its neck where I had crushed it. I twisted the head off with my other hand and a bit of blood spilled onto my wrist. I closed my eyes as I popped the bird into my mouth. It was hard work chewing him but not impossible. I tore another piece from him with my teeth. It was easier and allowed for a more manageable bite. Slowly, steadily, my jaws grew used to moving again. Each bite was easier to tear and chew.

  Smeared with bird blood, I had to make my way back to the creek. This time, the forest was still. No one whistled or cawed while I washed my meal from my mouth.

  It filled my stomach and this time, I drank but a handful of water and was able to keep it down.

  I slowly returned to the woods and found a large tree to sit under. There were so many fallen leaves around that I realized that I could gather them up to make myself a blanket.

  It was painstaking work that took the rest of the day to scoop up the leaves. Although I was more flexible than before, I still wasn’t performing at my peak.

  The flashes of light that permeated my memories may have been electricity. There was some in parts of London these days. A memory of me reading by one of the new lights came into focus briefly. It was almost like I was looking at a photograph. A young girl with hair wound up into a bun, fashionably dressed in a rose-coloured brocade dress with burgundy bodice and burgundy flowers woven into her hair.

  I was looking at a book of medicine; sketch drawings of human anatomy making me feel shameful yet awed at the same time. Drawings of organs such as the heart and the stomach and the fallopian tubes held me with queasy fascination.

  The memory was gone and I stared at the trees before me. What happened to me?

  Again, I looked at my arms and studied the stitches. Yellow pus oozed from the puncture marks where the thread was pushed through my flesh.

  The needle pushing and pulling, the agony of the thread pulling through my face. My head seemed on the verge of splitting right open with the throbbing pain that pressed against my skull.

  “She’s flinching,” a male voice said.

  “Nonsense, Dr. Rueben. She’s dead. I’ve not animated her yet.”

  “Her brain is in there now, perhaps memory twitches.”

  “Perhaps. I’m almost finished anyway.”

  “I could swear I saw her hand clench.”

  “No. She’s dead.”

  Another memory and powerful anger suddenly filled me. It was the first raw emotion I had experienced to this extreme since I woke.

  My mind replayed an instance. I was fighting; pushing and screaming as I fought against a solid, shorter-than-me man. He was faceless in my reverie but I saw him fall back as I leaped upon him. I had punched him, then grabbed him by the throat and knocked his head against the floor. The sound was loud, each thump echoing through my bones in my flash of memory.

  I jerked awake and saw the buck staring at me from several trees away. I looked over at him and he continued to stare at me.

  He walked away.

  Exhaustion from my bath overwhelmed me as I gathered up the leaves around me. They did help somewhat to keep me warm. They also stuck to my weeping wounds but that couldn’t be helped.

  I slept deeply, nightmares dancing in and out of my mind.

  It was cold in the hole. Shovelful after shovelful of dirt scattered on top of me. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t. I wanted to climb out and throttle whoever was throwing the dirt on me but I couldn’t move.

  “We have to hurry,” a male voice said.

  “I am. Help me,” he urged.

  The dirt covered me more rapidly and though they bickered under their breath, I soon could hear them no more.

  Spinning from dream to dream, the white light, the voices echoing, “She’s dead,” sudden painful jolts through my body accompanied by excruciating pain.

  “You knew her.”

  “She was brilliant, a scientist before her time.”

  “How did you know her?”

  “She was to be my wife.”

  Another dream, another layer peeling back the life of a privileged child wearing fancy frocks on hobby ponies. A child sheltered from the ravaging poor pocket of London, who had private governesses all of her life. Bright lights and white lace decorated the idea of the child who wanted to read and seemingly was encouraged.

  Sweat poured down my face causing dirt to get into my eyes and waking me up. It was so dark.

  There wasn’t much of a moon, which created a terrible darkness in the woods. Fear slipped through me, no doubt fueled by nightmares. Why be afraid now when I could move, than when I was immobile for days?

  Many sets of glowing eyes peered at me from the trees. Some were up high, some were down low, even passing right by me. Foxes, perhaps, or even fawn.

  Glowing in the darkness much like many lanterns were dozens of eyes and then there were rustlings. Something swooped above my head and then swooped away. There was a scuffling of flapping wings and squealing of prey.

  I dozed off again and slept until the morning sun woke me.

  On the seventh day, I spoke.

  The dew was moist and more leaves clung to me as I stood. My stomach rumbled. Hunger was becoming an overpowering urge. I looked up at the two birds chattering above me. They noticed me looking at them and flew off. None of the black
birds had returned. The flies remained around me, buzzing and whirring. Sometimes the swarm would leave for a while but they usually returned.

  It was time to walk some more. Time to leave the woods and see what lay beyond.

  Slowly I lumbered through the woods, my long, clumsy limbs stumbling over tree roots, slipping on leaves and snapping fallen branches.

  I came upon what appeared to be a path. At the time, I didn’t know what a path was, I just knew it was enticing because the way appeared free of trees and weeds and was a bit cleared out. It was so much easier to navigate once I was out of the winding maze of bushes and trees. There weren’t trunks or leaves to slip on and hop over. At least, not as much as my unseen traps.

  I heard a sound that wasn’t the birds.

  A high, sweet, lilting sound floated over the trees.

  There was a clearing ahead and several caravans. They had colourful paintings on the sides, carnival signs boasting fortune telling and the like. There were several horses fastened with ropes, grazing. The horses looked up at me. I looked at them They looked at each other and then resumed their feasting.

  The sound was louder now and it was clear that this wasn’t a bird. It was definitely an instrument of some sort and I wondered what it was and who might be playing. It was a soothing melody, mournfully beckoning me closer.

  The leaves that were stuck to my wounds rustled as I walked over to the circle of caravans.

  I approached the first caravan. This one appeared in dire shape. The wooden frame was sagging and the canvas mural was half stripped off by the elements. It was difficult to judge what the original art might have boasted at one time. I walked up the little stairs and drew back the curtain that separated the inside from the outer world. It was very dark but as my eyes adjusted, I was able to make out various shapes. The room was stuffed with clothes and pots and pans and dozens of trinkets hanging from the ceiling. There was a bed against one side and in it lay a man. He was sound asleep, his snores whistling softly. He snuffled and rolled over.

  There was nothing for me in this cabin.

  The music was coming from the next caravan. I entered and this time, the room was more organized but still packed with decades of life. There were two chairs and a small table as well as a large bed against the wall. In one of the chairs sat an old man. His beard was long and grey, his eyebrows thick, grey and bushy, and his long shaggy grey hair reached past his shoulders. He wore a scarf around his head to hold his hair back. His clothes were colourful although well worn.

  He lowered the flute to his lap, his eyes seeming to look around the room, but he didn’t focus on me.

  He coughed, holding his hand to his face.

  “Who’s there?” he asked. I didn’t say anything.

  “Hello? I know someone’s in here as I can hear you and…smell you.”

  I opened my mouth but only mud and feathers dropped out.

  “Can’t you speak?”

  Again, a muddy moan emerged from me.

  “Poor thing.” He stood up and approached me with his hands out. Before I knew it, he was running his hands on my face, my hair, my body. He pulled some of the leaves from me, feeling them in puzzlement.

  “Why young lady, why are you running around all filthy and naked? Has something terrible happened to you?”

  “I—” the word squeaked out painfully but at last it seemed I had cleared the remainder of the mud from my throat.

  “Were you beaten?” he touched my head as I nodded. His fingers grazed against my stitches, returning again and again to caress them.

  “What is all this?”

  I could only moan but it wasn’t as painful that time.

  He lay the flute on the chair, slowly and carefully, feeling that it was safe before he released it. He walked over to the area where there was a little table and several cupboards.

  “Are you hungry? Let me get you something.” I watched him fumble around until he had arranged a hunk of bread and preserves. He also scooped water out of a jug into a cup and set the cup on the table.

  “Eat and drink. Perhaps you’ll regain your voice. Or maybe you don’t have one.”

  I slowly and painfully sat in the chair. It was wonderful to sit in a chair once more. The days in the woods could be but a memory now. I wondered what I should do next.

  “You might be a mute, I don’t wonder. God is terribly ironic, don’t you think? A blind man and a mute. How monstrous.”

  The food fuelled me and I stared at the flickering lantern hanging above me. The light spread its soft rays along the small wooden table and across the first mound of materials. I cleared my throat and drank deeply of the water.

  “I…”

  Again, the word faltered but it had emerged from my throat more easily that time.

  “I-I-I-I…”

  The old man laughed.

  “Maybe you should try singing. Let me play something you might know.”

  He made his way back around the room, his hunched-over back impeding his already slow progress as he painstakingly placed one foot in front of the other.

  The sight of him made me smirk. While he began to play, I returned to the jug of water and scooped out some more. I drank it quickly and it stayed. I cleared my throat again. The mournful wail of “Greensleeves” filled the air. I remembered this song. At the time I didn’t remember what it was named but the familiar notes danced inside my bones and I ached to sing along.

  “Greennn…” I managed to squeak out a bit of the chorus and as he launched into another verse, I began to hum along. At first, it hurt and it seemed like I had to push through a wall of spit or mud or perhaps something more dire. Once my throat finally cleared and I spit the refuse of phlegm, dirt and maggots onto my plate, my throat opened at last.

  I managed to sing the chorus of “Greensleeves” the third time he played it. With great joy and laughter, I clapped when he put down the flute.

  “You can speak. I’m so relieved,” he said.

  “I— I.” Again, talking was painful but there was a strong urge to keep pushing through whatever the next block was.

  “I can speak.” I said firmly. I laughed and the sound flew from me as musical as the birds that had watched over me in the forest.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  I stammered. In all the memories, did I know my name? I struggled to recall and a word came from my lips.

  “Agatha,” I said. “I’m Agatha.”

  “Agatha. Lovely. Now tell me, Miss Agatha. Where are you from?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m having memory problems.”

  He put the flute down again and sat back at the table. He sighed heavily.

  “Why are you naked, Agatha?”

  “I don’t know. I think I was in some kind of trouble or accident. When I woke, I was this way.”

  “You need clothes, my dear.”

  He made his way over to a creaky old wooden wardrobe. The doors groaned in protest as he pulled them open.

  “My daughter collects costumes for the shows. We all do, in fact. I’ll pull out some dresses and you can decide.”

  He pulled out several dresses after he’d touched them thoroughly to identify them by texture and size.

  He was quite accurate with one, the biggest one he claimed to have. I pulled the brilliant blue dress on.

  “I think it would be fine but I can’t fasten the buttons,” I said as I struggled to reach the buttons that fastened at the back of my dress.

  “Let me,” he said. Somehow, that blind old man deftly buttoned up the back of my dress.

  “You need shawls and scarves. The weather is changing rapidly. Winter approaches.”

  He shuffled over to a pile of material by the bed and again determined which ones he wanted to give me by the way he fingered the fabric.

  By the
time I had all the shawls and scarves draped around the dress, I was as colourful as any gypsy. Not terribly discrete but at least I wasn’t naked.

  “Where are you going to go?” he asked, swatting at the flies that buzzed near his ears.

  “I’m not sure but I need to leave.”

  “You can stay with us. The others likely won’t mind.”

  “No. I need to leave. I have to find out what happened and make it right.”

  “I can understand that.”

  I turned to leave and as I shuffled towards the door, he called out to me.

  “Wait. Before you go.” He went over to a cupboard and pulled out a perfume bottle.

  “It’s my daughter’s favourite cologne. You should try it.”

  I pressed the button and a lovely waft of flowers and spices filled my nostrils. The lavender was the most overpowering.

  I pressed the button several times.

  “I hope that this pleases your senses,” I said to him.

  “It does, for now. Remember, perfume doesn’t last forever.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Good on ya.” He returned to the wardrobe and rummaged through it once more.

  “Where are you going?” he asked again.

  “I don’t know where I am.”

  He emerged from the wardrobe with several pairs of shoes. “Right now we’re in Regent’s Park. The coppers won’t be long to find us camping here and we’ll be forced along our way once more. Usually we can get away with it for about a fortnight.”

  I coughed. My throat was irritated from speaking.

  “So we’re in London.”

  “Yes.”

  He put the shoes down near me. I picked the biggest pair possible and attempted to squeeze my feet into them.