Primrose & Brimstone

by Mueller, Jason

  Her appearance grew even more gaunt as the voice continued its nightly visits and whispered in her ear constantly throughout the day and night. Once, she had gotten flustered at work and had messed up an order and was given a reprimand. In frustration, she had told the voice to go away and, to her horror, it did for three days.

  Three days without the voice, without its loving touch, nearly drove her mad as she lay in the bed frantically calling for it. It never dawned on Miranda that the voice was killing her slowly, that the emotional abuse that she had suffered throughout her life was now being perpetrated with words of love. She didn't realize that her need for love was like a drug and she was addicted worse than the most rancid crack whore on the street. Every thought of self-preservation was now gone in Miranda, and her only driving compulsion was for her next fix.

  Jerry tried, in a rare moment of concern, talking to her. He was no longer able to speak without his Electro-Larynx, a small device that he held against his throat that allowed him to speak in a monotone, robotic sound. Miranda had just laughed at him when he began and he had vowed to never speak to her again. It had never occurred to him that his years of abuse had left her jaded to anything he might say.

  So, Jerry gave up talking at all. His Electro-Larynx was left forgotten on the end table amongst the endless supply of cigarette butts and crumpled packages. Jerry had always suffered from depression and anxiety. Now he felt fear watching Miranda die before him and there was nothing he could really do about it.

  Miranda soon lost her job. She was too weak to work anymore and she had called off too many times.

  They were evicted, leaving them homeless. Miranda disappeared to the street. The voice in her head soon had her addicted to heroin and turning tricks for her next fix while Jerry moved back in with his mother.

  Jerry's mother was bed ridden and didn't have much time left in the world, as cancer was laying waste to her body. Even with her afflictions, her mind and tongue were still sharp. Jerry never loved her but had tolerated her like many do “because they're family”. Now, he found himself developing a healthy hate and he was starting to miss Miranda and the life they had started. Not just the things she did for him over the years but her presence, her vivacious personality that would light up the room, everything he took for granted.

  He had no idea if she was still alive or if the streets had taken her. He still had no real understanding of what had happened to her or what the years of mental and physical abuse had done to her. He missed her, but did he love her? Yes, in his own way but Jerry was pretty much incapable of emotion on a day to day basis. Of course, anger and hatred were the exceptions to his rule he was good at those.

  He sat and daydreamed of his mother’s last day on this side of eternity, waiting to be free of her. With his disability check and the house, he would survive. Jerry was simple at heart, he never needed much.

  Miranda, for her part, lay on a filth encrusted mattress three blocks away from her husband. She was in the same neighborhood they had grown up in, as a man who was faceless in the dark rutted on top of her. The voice had succeeded in destroying her and she was hooked on multiple drugs and prostituting herself. The whole time, the voice enticed her, telling her that she was so beautiful in her skeletal frame and, of course, there was always the moments when the voice would make love to her. This didn’t happen as much now that it was keeping her in a constant state of “needing a fix” as the drugs did. But, the end was coming for her. She knew it.

  She could feel her body dying and the voice had confirmed that she would die soon. She wanted death, to escape a life that had gone very wrong from a young age when momma would sell her to men to use, the cycle of abuse coming full circle, the memories still haunted her all these years later. The years of living with Jerry had added to her misery.

  Her thoughts escaped her grasp as she died underneath an unknown stranger. She could feel her heart slowing and pressure building as the man’s thrusting quickened. She was dead before he finished. He didn’t know or care. She was a piece of ass to him and nothing more. She wouldn’t have been the first whore to pass out or OD under him. He wiped himself off on her shirt, dressed and left, leaving her laying there dead.

  Jerry got the news two days later. He was as devastated as he could ever be over Miranda’s death. Upon hearing the news, his mother had laughed and mocked his pain. He tried to stand up to the old woman for once but she had only mocked his inability to speak without the Electro-Larnyx.

  Always a man with a temper and a lifetime of pain to fuel him, he placed the pillow over her face, careful to leave no signs. As the life left her body, he could feel years of emotional abuse leave him. Afterward, he wept for Miranda. His quiet sobs echoed in the shabby house and he screamed out in anguish to the rise of pain he felt now that she was gone.

  Jerry sat in the dark replaying scenes and images over and over in his mind; so many times, he could have, should have said something different. He should have complimented her instead of the constant abuse he dished out to her. He should have helped her instead of holding her down and back. Jerry sat there all night reliving countless times he failed her.

  As the sun forced the darkness of the ghetto back into the shadows, he made the call.

  No one asked anything about the death of his mother. The feeble old quack who had delivered Jerry when he was born signed off on the death certificate, and shambled off as the funeral home picked up the body.

  Because they were poor, like many old people, Jerry’s mother had bought funeral arrangements years ago, so there was little to do. He straightened up the house a little, trying to keep his mind busy. He didn’t feel much remorse over his mother, but the thoughts of Miranda were killing him emotionally. Why had he treated her like that? Why hadn’t he shown her the love and respect she deserved? She was good, not bad like his mother had convinced him. He was the bad one, not her. She worked hard and took care of him and he had left her to ruin.

  The next day Jerry left the house and went to the bank. He had a plan and a lot to do and most of it was not going to be pleasant. He took out a loan so he could finally do what he could to make things right for Miranda. He would show her love in death that he had never been able to in life.

  After finishing at the bank, walking out with an envelope full of cash, Jerry went to the city morgue to identify Miranda’s body. He was not looking forward to this. Always a hard, brusque man, he shook and shuffled feebly as he made his way to the stone monstrosity that held the bodies of yesterday’s souls.

  Jerry stood behind the glass waiting, heart pounding, palms sweating and his mouth as dry as the desert at high noon. The curtain on the other side of the glass was slowly and respectfully pulled back and there she was. Jerry sank to the floor in a heap. When he was helped upright, they asked him if it was his wife. He could do nothing but nod his head, all thoughts of the appliance that allowed him to speak forgotten.

  After all the paper work was signed, Jerry made his way to the funeral home. The bus ride was spent gazing out into the city streets that now seemed so much darker, so much more decayed than ever without his Miranda.

  He picked out the best of everything that he could afford. After he made the arrangements for Miranda’s body to be picked up from the morgue, he went shopping. He had the foresight the night before to write down what he needed so he didn’t have to try and talk any more than he had to. Hopefully, he wouldn’t make a scene in the store.

  Jerry walked into the store with a heavy heart. It was the store that Miranda had always dreamed of shopping at, but finances and Jerry’s choices had cost her even this small joy in her life. He walked out with a simple yet elegant dress wrapped in tissue paper in a plain white box under his arm. She would have loved it. He chastised himself over and over on the bus ride back to the house.

  That night, he sat in the dark again hating himself while crying silent tears. He would take the dress to the mortuary in the morning and then have a viewing in the afternoon wi
th a burial following. There would be no one there; it would just be him and Miranda. There was no one left, and after she had disappeared, she was all but a forgotten memory to everyone else.

  He tried to sleep, but couldn’t. He eventually gave up and just sat in his chair watching the sun come up. He showered and dressed. Putting the dress box back under his arm, he left the house, forgetting the artificial voice box on the end table beside his chair once again.

  After what seemed an eternity, Jerry staggered back into the house. He was tired, hungry, exhausted, and emotionally gutted. It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to go through, and of course without his appliance, he wasn’t able to speak to anyone. You never knew how many people and times you spoke in a day until you couldn’t speak anymore.

  She was buried, and all that remained was a love that he never realized he felt for her until it was too late. He made himself a can of soup and a sandwich, but both sat on the end table half eaten. Tomorrow was his mother's wake. He really didn’t want to go, but he felt obligated to. He was angry with her for the way she had treated him and Miranda, but mostly for poisoning him against Miranda all of those years. She was an evil bitch and Jerry hoped she paid for eternity for the pain she had caused him.

  Jerry finally dozed after what seemed like weeks of little to no sleep even though it had only been a few sleepless nights. His dreams were of Miranda and things that might have been, that should have been. In his dreams, she was smiling, happy, and wearing the dress he had bought for her in death and she loved him and he loved her.

  “Jerry,” he could hear her speak his name and it touched his heart to hear her voice again.

  “Yes baby, I’m here,” Jerry sobbed mentally in his sleep. “I’m so sorry, Miranda!”

  “Jerry, I’m here for you. Wake up, my love.”

  “What?” Jerry was starting to wake up, realizing the voice was not Miranda’s.

  “Come with me, Jerry. I forgive you. I see that you did love me. Thank you for what you did for me.”

  Jerry sat stunned at the robotic voice speaking through his artificial voice box sitting on the end table next to the half-eaten sandwich.

  “Miranda?”

  “Yes, Jerry. It’s me,” the mechanical voice spoke into the darkness.

  “I can’t see you Miranda!”

  "I’m here, Jerry and I’m free! Come with me and we can be free together.”

  “Am I still alive?” he asked, suddenly realizing that he was speaking in his own voice and yet Miranda was using the mechanical larynx.

  “For now, my love. For now.”

  “What do I have to do for us to be together? Do I have to die?”

  “Yes”

  “But I’m afraid, honey!” he sobbed.

  “Take a bath with me," the voice spoke again. Jerry could feel a warm, almost electric touch on his arm and caress his face lovingly.

  “Come,” the voice insisted and led him to the bathroom.

  Jerry stood in the dark bathroom as the unseen Miranda turned the water on to fill the tub and then sensually undressed him. Once in the tub, the presence covered his naked flesh from head to toe, making slow passionate love to him, so tender and sweet compared to the callous rutting they had done at his insistence. Tears flowed freely as he lamented about the love they should have always had.

  Jerry smiled as the unseen hands pushed him under the water….

  SHOWER TIME

  Sandy Turner walked the midway by herself; she was feeling down tonight. What should have been a happy place just seemed to make her depression worse than it already was.

  So much for this bright idea.

  She was missing Jack, her husband, who was overseas doing a second tour in the sand box of Afghanistan this time. He had been gone a long while and she was missing him dearly.

  She stopped amid the throng of people. It felt like someone was watching her. She looked around, sure that she was just imagining it. Then she saw him, a clown standing near an alleyway between two tents. Tall, with blue hair and a red mouth that, though shaped like a smile, failed to give the impression of joy.

  His eyes were black against the clown make up.

  She shuddered and started walking, wanting to put some distance between her and the creepy clown. She took off walking, stopping to get an elephant ear and lemonade. Why can’t I make lemonade this good at home? she wondered as she sipped and blew on the still too hot pastry. She continued through the midway with the carnies barking their games of chance for cheap prizes.

  Off to the side was a small trailer with a few old Christmas lights and gaudy plastic lanterns, with a battered and faded sign for palm reading, séances, and fortune telling.

  “Why not?” she thought as she made her way to the decrepit trailer. She was about to knock when an old woman answered the door.

  “I’ve been expecting you, Sandy,” she said with a feeble voice.

  Now that’s weird, Sandy thought, how in the hell did she know my name?

  Sandy almost turned around then, thinking that it was a little creepy that this woman would know her name. She didn’t grow up here, as she and Jack had been stationed here at Fort Hood.

  “Don’t fret child, the spirits told me you were coming. They must have something important for you. Come in.”

  Sandy stepped into the little trailer. It was dimly lit; the front part had a very small kitchen and a small table with a black cloth with various symbols embroidered on it. Sandy noticed it was frayed. On the table was the stereotypical crystal ball, a golden chalice, crystals, tarot cards and a goat skull.

  “Have a seat dear,” The old lady said as she sat at the table, pointing to a chair across from her. “We must precede before the spirits get angry,”

  Sandy sat as she was directed, everything inside of her wanted to get out of there and run and leave this farce behind her.

  “The spirits are anxious we meet tonight. They have something for you girl; you have been chosen. You just had a baby recently which is a happy time, except for the sorrow in your heart from missing your husband. It’s curious, indeed, that you have been chosen.”

  “Chosen for what?” Sandy asked, sure she was being played.

  “Shhh child, all in good time. I’m just the messenger, a conduit between us and them, if you will. Now let me see your hand.”

  Sandy hesitated, not wanting to go any further but something made her want to stay. The old lady’s eyes never left her; almost hypnotizing her.

  “Let me see your hand, child. Quickly now!” the old woman said, reaching for her.

  As if against her will Sandy extended her hand. The old woman took a hold of it with a strength that both surprised and frightened Sandy. The old woman held her hand against the table palm up, and with a flick of an old jagged nail, cut Sandy’s wrist causing blood to flow freely.

  The old woman held her wrist over the goblet, letting the blood flow freely. Sandy tried to pull away but the old woman held on with a grip that seemed unnatural. Sandy began to feel herself fading; the room was spinning as consciousness left her. She struggled to remain awake, but the darkness swirled around her and blackness finally over took her.

  Sandy woke up outside propped against a fence surrounding the tilt-a-whirl. She was groggy, cold, and alone. The carnival was closed; there was no one to be seen. She struggled to her feet, attempting to stagger toward the entrance to her car, and to the safety of home. She had no idea what time it was; it was late, though. She could just sense it.

  As she stumbled groggily, she realized her throbbing wrist had been bandaged. She would call the police about the incident, but tonight was the last night of the carnival and they most likely wouldn’t bother with it. Besides, would they arrest an old lady?

  To make matters worse, Sandy was lost in the maze of trailers, booths, and tents that made up the carnival. She had been sure of the way out but now she wasn’t so sure and was getting scared, and a little frantic.

  Out of the darkness a whistlin
g sounded; a happy sounding Pop Goes the Weasel. She struggled to find the direction the tune came from.

  Finally, someone can help me get out of here!

  “Hello!” she called out desperately, hoping that someone, anyone would hear her and help her.

  She could hear the whistling get louder along with very loud footsteps that seemed to echo throughout the maze she found herself trapped in. She rounded a corner hoping she would find the person with the happy song.

  It was the clown; his black eyes shining in the moonlight, and his painted smile a mouthful of razor sharp teeth. He reached for her.

  She staggered back desperately, trying to get away from the evil looking clown, nearly falling on the littered strewn alleyway. She needed help, but not from this nightmare. She was sure that this demonic jester had nothing but harm intended for her.

  She ran. The clown continued to follow along, its steady footsteps echoing in the darkness, the whistling never faltering.

  In blind fear, she burst around a corner and there was the gate! She pumped her legs desperately to escape the macabre carnival. She risked a glance back, which only confirmed what her ears already knew. He was still there! Still coming for her!

  She hit the gravel of the parking lot only to slip and fall on the loose rocks; panic blocked the pain. She scrambled to her feet, running again. Her car was easy to find in the mostly empty lot as she raced toward it, hearing the crunch of gravel behind her and the never-ending whistle of Pop Goes the Weasel.

  The whistling and footsteps were right behind her. She was so close to the car; if only she could get away from this carnival of evil. She reached the car and jumped in, so thankful that she never locked the doors. She pushed the lock button. As she fumbled with the keys, she chanced a glance out into the darkness but couldn't see her stalking clown.

  She turned the key, feeling relieved when the motor turned over. She switched on the headlights and pulled out. She was feeling relief, when suddenly the passenger window shattered; the clown was running alongside her.