Chug-a-Lug

"Drink it."

"Swallow it down."

But how could she?

It was vile.

Soldier One had told her that she had to eat ten tickets and swallow them down with water. That didn't seem as bad as some of the other things that he'd ordered her to do before.

In fact it seemed way too easy.

So she took the string of tickets, tore off two of them and placed them in her mouth. They were not as easy to chew as she thought they would be. The heavy paper poked and ripped at her gums as she tried to soften it with her saliva. She bit her tongue as she tried to gnaw the unwilling shreds down to a digestible mush.

It wasn't working, but thankfully Soldier Two had placed a huge mug of water on the table. As she reached for it she wondered why so many of the soldiers and gathered to watch her. The room was filled to capacity, and this was hardly the kind of thing that warranted their presence or their glowing animal eyes. After the first swallow she knew why they were there.

The water had been fouled.

Maybe if the room hadn't been so dark she would have noticed sooner. Maybe if her nostrils weren't full of thick dry chunks of blood - souvenirs of her last beating - they would have been filled with the obscene stench that rose from the repellent cup.
Now she knew why they were there. They wanted to drink in the sight of her swilling down each and every one of their degrading contributions. She gagged on it. The mixture was thick with sticky white hate and salaciousness.

"Swallow it down now," commanded Soldier One.

A few of them chuckled and laughed as they watched her struggle. She knew why. They were thinking that they could make her gulp it down, and much more. Lastly there were those few who were furious with her because she hadn't happily gorged on the wonderful feast that they had provided. She could see it in their eyes as she took the first sip.
She almost vomited it back up, but knew they'd make her eat that too; just for spite. Nothing would ever be enough to satisfy their thirst for domination.

It slid down her throat like a thick, syrupy snake; warm and resolute in its wantonness. Unfortunately even with the added lubrication, the two chewed-up tickets refused to follow it down the narrow cleft, and remained obstinately in her mouth.

She hadn't taken enough of a gulp to ease them down. She would have to drink more; much to the delight of the crowd.

As she looked down at the mug she thought about the freedom that Soldier One had promised her, but they'd all promised her things before, only to tell her that they hadn't, and then accused of her of lying with their fists. How could she be certain that they wouldn't do it again? As long as it amused them to torture her they had no reason to let her go. What had begun as a means of retrieving information had deteriorated into the sickest of games. She was no longer a prisoner of war, now she was a bird in a cage that was occasionally prodded by invading and probing fingers that liked to pluck her as often as they wished, and she had no reason to believe that it would ever end.

She knew that their appetites would never be subdued, and their capacity for torture was only limited by their imagination, which knew no bounds. Their avarice was as unrelenting a droplet of snot dangling from an old man's nose. They'd already gotten so much joy from her. The endless rapes and beatings, or the time they'd put electrodes on her thumbs and filled her with a different kind of juice. They had all become addicted to hell, and like all addicts they needed their daily fix.

They were driven by some strange need to break her, and had been fairly successful. Her body had been easy to wear down, but clearly they wanted more than just her flesh. Bodies are easy to dominate, but the mind and the soul have to be worked on constantly. Their goal was to poke and prod her until nothing was left but a creature that breathed in and out without comprehension; and she'd become all too aware that this was what lay in store for her as she looked into the cup, and closed her eyes.

Her mind was shredded. Even the ability to pray had ceased. Yet somehow the answer had come to her, and it had come as clearly and as sharply as a dagger. She wouldn't let them break her. No matter what they did, she must find some way to stop them from taking away the last bit of herself that they'd been unable to touch.

The crowd was beginning to get impatient. She was taking too long to take the second sip. Soldier One slapped her out of the chair. The room turned red as the blood poured down from the reopened cut above her eye. She crawled back up in the chair without the need of anymore persuasion.

She knew their routine by heart.

A voice in the back started chanting "chug-a-lug," and soon the room throbbed with the thunder of their combined fever. The blood from the cut dripped down into the cup. Somehow it remained intact, and even though it was ensnared in contamination it remained a solitary thing, unspoiled by the evil around it.

She tore off the remaining eight tickets and slowly began to gnaw at them. The first two had finally resigned themselves to their fate, and now lay in her mouth in a befouled clot of paste. She reached for the mug, but before bringing it to her lips she looked around the room, and slowly drank in all of their faces. To her they no longer resembled human beings as much as some lower, baser form of life which she couldn't readily name because of the shadows that darkened her brain.

"Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug!"

The sound of them shook the room, making the floor feel like a living thing with a beating and pulsing heart that mimicked the carnality of the chanters whose hot poker eyes burned into her as they screamed, spit, and convulsed.

"Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug!"

When she closed her hands around the mug some of them sprung from their chairs as if they'd been catapulted into the air. They encircled her as her hands encircled the mug. Soldiers Two and Three ordered them to back up, but it was too late. They were lost in this moment, and had abandoned themselves to the exquisite anticipation of her imbibing what they’ve given her to drink.

"Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug!"

Some of them tried to touch her in their need to become one with her in this moment of liquid ecstasy, but they were kept from their pleasure by the threat of Soldiers Two and Three, and the guns they threatened to use on them if they did.

"Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug!"

As she lifted the mug from the table, their chanting became even louder. So much so that she could hear nothing else, not the voices of Soldiers Two and Three ordering them to be quiet, nor Soldier One commanding her to hurry up and swallow the damn things down. Even the constant stream of fear and apprehension that-this-would-be-the-end-of-her which ebbed and circled through her mind was silenced by the ferocious chanting of the mug contributors.

"Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug!"

A great breath of air escaped her as she brought it to her lips. It was as if even her breath wanted no part in the perversion, so it retreated from her and disappeared leaving her alone with more breaths to follow. But even that failed as her escaping breaths became foul, since all that was around them was foul.

"Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug!"

She closed her eyes, and slowly began to take it all in. There was too much for her to hold, so some ran out of the corners of her mouth, and down the sides of her upturned face. The pleasure of watching her drink made many of them want to fill the mug for her again, and they rubbed themselves without notice of their commanding officers. However Soldiers Two and Three had their hands on their guns to make sure that all of them got the message that there would no calls of one-more-for-the-road this night.

The game was getting out of hand.

"Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug!"

They began waving their guns in the air as they tried to get the throng of contributors under control, but they were outnumbered. The soldiers had lost all authority over them as the swarm of madmen continued pressing inward to get as close to her as they could.

"Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug!"

Fights began to start up and spread amongst them. Those in the back were trying to push themselves up front so that they could get a better look, while those in front fought to keep their cherished view. They had become so engrossed in their struggle to see her that they had failed to notice that she hadn't swallowed any of it, but instead sat stock still in the chair with her face puffed up like an animal that hoards nuts in its cheeks so that it's always insured of having a ready meal.

Yet still, they continued chanting. Now it came as naturally to them as breathing. They had lost themselves to it, and willingly paid obeisance to the spirit of abandon which permeated the room like a thick, funky fog.

"Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug!"

Soldier One fired his pistol into the air, and the room became silent. He was about ready to give the order for them to leave and return to their barracks when one of them yelled out, "hey, she hasn't swallowed it yet!"

She felt every one of their eyes blaze into her as of them realized that she had defied them. Some yelled and screamed obscenities at her, while others resumed their unholy chant. They had been cheated of their evening's entertainment, and even the combination of Soldiers Two and Three's pistols weren't going to be enough to quiet them now.


Soldier One turned around, and placed both of his hands on the table in front of her. She could feel his breath against her skin as he came closer to her. She knew that he would make her pay when all was quiet during the night. She had upset the men, which was a punishable offense; but then again, everything was. No freedom now, not that there ever would have been anyway.

As he opened his mouth to command her to swallow, she instead opened hers, and then quickly pounded both of her hands against her cheeks so that all of the contents of her mouth spewed out onto his face, into his mouth, and down his throat. He would've lunged at her, and torn her in two with his hands if he hadn't been so disgusted by the brew which he'd been forced to consume. He gagged on it, spit what he could out, and tried to wipe the rest off of his face.

It seemed as if all of the men gasped at once. They had gotten a show after all, just not the one that they had expected. Many who had been smiling and groaning with pleasure as they had watched her drink were now grimacing, and making different kinds of groans as they looked disgustingly at Soldier One. From the back a few voices could be heard repeating their chant, only this time they said it quietly, with reverence.

"Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug!"

Soldier Two prepared to shoot his pistol into the air, but the room had already become still.

She remained seated and stared blankly before her not taking notice of any of them, not even Soldier One who was behaving like a person who believes they'll never be clean again. The sight of this seemingly helpless creature had silenced them, and for that moment it was she who was in command. So even when she had been returned to her box, and Soldier One had come to her as she knew that he would; to kick her to death or to hell or just into tomorrow with his thick, black boots; she knew that she had won.

Momma Dee

From the day she was born Momma Dee had rarely been alone. At first she was one of a crowd of howling babies hanging from her mother’s breasts and hips. When barely old enough to tie her shoes, she’d been given most of the responsibility of raising brothers and sisters; children born beyond the time their mother had the will or the energy to care for.

One of them, a brother named Bill, was the first to call her Momma Dee. Too young to pronounce her given name he’d given her another one. Soon her original name was forgotten, even as her own mother began to call her Momma Dee. Now that she was old, there were only a few of that original generation who remembered she’d ever been called anything else. Though to tell the truth, none of them remembered what that original name was, that she had ever been young, had dreams, or had wanted more out of life than what had been given her.

With her salt and pepper hair in two great braids which hug down her shoulders Indian-style, and hands strong and firm like knotty pines that smelled of Ivory soap, cooking grease and honey brown baked biscuits, she was as busy and bountiful as she’d been when she was young. While others cut themselves in pieces, trying desperately to conform to whatever current trend was in vogue, like a forgotten leaf lost in a forest of the same, Momma Dee was wonderfully unique. She was beautiful, but not in the way that those whose opinions of beauty were formed in magazines or in movies. Her skin, the color of morning coffee with just enough cream to give it a silky delicious warmth, was firm and soft like a stone worn smooth by rushing water. Barrels of bulbous brown fat held and had held generations of children, who happily nestled in the warm, musky softness of her.

Her arms, house and heart were still full of children. Some of them had come to her through own blood, body, passion and sweat, but most had journeyed from other bodies and other beds and, except for Momma Dee’s kindness, would have been either homeless, lost in the mire of bureaucracy or dead.

“Not as long as I’m livin’,” Momma Dee would say when such thoughts crept into her mind. “As long as the good Lord gives me the strength whatever child needs a home has got one.”

The shadow of the once carefree gingham smiling child that she was sometimes still peeked through the lines that life had left on her round and welcoming face. But years passed quickly, too quickly for Momma Dee, who knew that for most of her ever-growing brood the world was going to be an especially hard place to feel at home in. But beyond giving them a home there was little she could do. She’d learned long ago that where children were concerned there were no guarantees. After years of watching and hoping, luck was all she could wish them as they grew and left her one by one. But as soon as these got it into their heads to leave, why there were new ones, some only a few hours old for her to care for.

Most of her “babies” were given to her by their own mothers. This majority being the offspring of her generosity as many of the girls she’d raised would leave; have a “time,” then return to deposit their children at her door. Some came back to reclaim their children, but most had disappeared back to the streets which now claimed them. The boys, except for a few who occasionally came to help her around her place, simply pushed themselves away from her table one day and walked out of her door. Generations had marched in and out of her life in that same way since her mother had first given her the mantle of mothering so many years ago.

The house she lived in was not fine, had not been painted in years, held the heat in summer, and was abandoned by it in winter. Its floors were lined with buckets when it rained, and its windows were sealed shut with plastic when it snowed. But beyond its obvious inadequacies it was a haven; for Momma Dee’s house, run down as it was, smelling of soap, shitty diapers, vomit and plates full of masterfully prepared food, with a tin roof that beat out the rhythm of the songs that God sent with the rain, was filled with love.

“That oil hot yet, Lila?” she called to a girl of about ten years old who had come to her, not like any of the others, but on her own after being through something she wasn’t able to speak about.

“Yes ma’am, Momma Dee. It’s good and hot.”

Momma Dee’s feet, swollen from a diet of salt-pork, and hours standing over a stove, ballooned all the way up to where her tightly rolled and knotted stockings left permanent red indentations around her knees. She’d spent her life on her feet. Walking. Endlessly walking across a floor, a field, to church meetings and back, through hospital corridors, and to the grocery store where those who looked like her, were tolerated, but never welcome. She did not step lightly. Weight and arthritis forced her to move in an ungraceful weaving gait, as her whole body shifted from side to painful side, while she dragged herself uneasily, yet with a pride born from knowing that each step she took and, each breath that escaped her, crowned her as conqueror.

She only owned one pair of good shoes; black patent leather Oxfords that her feet were usually too swollen to even think of fitting into. So instead she either put on moccasins that she’d worn so much that the deerskin had become tattered torn up fringe, or a pair of faded beyond pink flip-flop slippers (a gift one of her “babies” had given her several Christmases ago) that she wore around the house, for short trips to the market and anywhere she had the strength to travel to.

Momma Dee tried to rise from her chair so that she could better supervise Lila, but this was one time that age and aching bones were too much for even her to do battle with. So she sighed, temporarily gave up the battle, and remained seated. “Well I guess today’s the day you’re gonna learn how to make frybread,” she saying waving Lila towards the table. “Come get this dough, child, and place the pieces in that hot oil carefully. You don’t want none to splash out and burn you.”

Momma Dee’s eyes followed and savored every step that Lila made across the floor. Apprehension and pride rose and fell like disturbed cakes in a noisy kitchen. This child, who followed her like a weary shadow, had become especially dear to her.

She closed her eyes listening to the hiss-gurgle the oil made. The sounds of good food being prepared were something she’d loved since the womb. There was something magical about it. This simple sound could fill a room full of children without her uttering one word. Of course she knew that the anticipation of savoring this bread had been born in that bubbling oil, still she felt a sense of something beyond all that.

She smiled.

“Whose turn is it to set the table?” she said, as one of the girls raised her hand. “Then get to it, child. The foods almost ready!

“The rest of you best get washed and ready right quick!” she said to the remaining children before returning her attention to Lila. “Be careful now. Turn that heat down a bit, you don’t wanna get burned.”

While gripping the arms of the chair and hoisting herself up enough to watch Lila take a fork and carefully flip the dough as the agitated oil sizzled, revealing the wonderful brown color of it, Momma Dee couldn’t help remembering the countless faces and names of all those who had also come to claim a special place in her heart. Though she loved all of her babies, there had been those throughout the years who, for some reason or another, had come to mean more to her than the rest. Whether it was that they, like Lila, had come from a particularly bad situation, or whether it was the way their faces lit up when Momma Dee entered the room, these children were the ones who bade her tired body to keep living. These were the children who’d helped her understand the language of little souls, and it was for them that she’d begun a certain ritual long ago.

Every evening she’d look around the table carefully scanning each face for mischief or lack of seriousness.

“Hold hands,” she commanded, watching as each child reached out, grasped their neighbor’s hand, and continued to do so until a circle of tiny hands and round faces surrounded the table.

“Who are you?” she asked, scanning each face.

“I am a precious gift of God!” all of the little voices cried out in unison.

“And what else?” she said, now peering into each pair of eyes.

“I am wonderfully and fearfully made!” they all cried.

Then she’d sit back and sigh as hopes impossible and not looked back at her from around the table.

“And who, besides God and Momma Dee, do you believe in most in this world?”

“Myself!” they all shouted.

“Amen,” said Momma Dee, praying that they were saying more than words. That they believed and that what she was teaching really meant something to them.

“Amen,” they repeated.

“Now eat.”

She knew it wouldn’t be enough for most; the deep furrows on her face told that story. Looking at Lila as she forked the last of the frybread onto a large wooden plate, Momma Dee remarked to herself how the journeys her life had traveled were told and retold in the lumps and valleys of kneaded dough, as if she, pressed hard and flat, had somehow still found the determination to rise.

“How’s this Momma Dee?” Lila asked as she proudly held the platter.

“You done good, child. You done real good.”

Ashes of Roses

She had such beautiful hair. He couldn't stop thinking about it. Silky and black, it cascaded down her shoulders and between her breasts, teasing him to think of what other treasures she had yet to reveal to him.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

This had become his nightly pleasure. His ritual; watching her sit before the art deco vanity he'd recently purchased, as she brushed her hair.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

After she finished, he always wished he'd taken the brush from her hand and stroked her wondrous raven locks himself. But he'd always been so dazzled by the sight of her that he'd never considered doing it until after she'd put the brush down, and begun examining her features in the great oblong mirror that crept up more than the half the length of the wall.

He'd given special instructions to the movers to make sure they'd take care of it when they brought it in and reassembled it, with the rest of the vanity. The glass was original, and he'd prided himself on being able to get it for quite a reasonable price. Of course none of that mattered to him now when he saw how much she enjoyed sitting in front of it. She had made it all her own.

It was as if it had always been hers.

As she sat looking into the mirror, he wondered what was going on inside her. What things was she considering besides herself?

Did she ever think of him?

She washed her face with rose water, something he'd heard women used in earlier times to help purify their complexions, and moisturize their skin. No matter to him what it did, the smell of the petals in the lukewarm water filled the room with a tender perfume which made him forget everything except the beauty of the woman before him.

At such moments he felt completely intoxicated. The room swirled around him in a feverish mirage of color, scent and sound. Her nightly visitations affected him like a drug; one which he was happy to be addicted to.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

She wore a pale pink gown, which was almost the same color as her skin. "Ashes of Roses," was what he thought it was called. It was some long-forgotten color which was popular years ago, but had fallen out of fashion. The material barely concealed the darkness of her nipples which protruded from her perfectly formed breasts, or the other darkness that was part shadowy dream, part delicious reality which lay warm and wanton, just a few steps away from him.

He wanted her more than any woman he had ever known, and someday he was going to forget foolish fancy, give in to his desire to touch the wonderful silkiness that cascaded down her shoulders like an inky waterfall, and brush her hair. Whatever came after that didn't matter, though he hoped that she would grace him with a night of pleasure that would keep him dreamy-eyed and smiling for days.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

He was apprehensive about approaching her. There had always been an unspoken agreement between them that she was to be left alone when sitting at the vanity. He could do whatever he liked elsewhere in the room, but this space and this time were hers to occupy. Alone.

She didn't mind him staring at her with a rapt intensity which bordered on obsession, as long as he kept his distance. Even those moments when he'd accidentally knocked something over; she hadn't stopped to judge or berate him, but continued as if he wasn't there.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

This enticed him more, making him want to forget their agreement so that he could break through the unseen barrier which hung between them, and touch her. He bit his lip as he considered the possibility. He didn't want to upset her or worse, lose what was becoming to him the most important part of his life. All day long as he worked at the same job he'd had since he was young and full of dreams, until now when those youthful dreams had died, he thought of the moment when he'd sit on the edge of his bed and wait for her to appear.

Though he knew she must have done something during the day, he never considered it. To him she existed only at night, when they could be alone together.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

Sometimes it seemed as if he'd waited forever by the time she sat down and picked up the sterling silver brush which lay in wait for her delicate hand. Of course he knew he hadn't. She always came at the same time each night, but the anticipation of seeing her again made time move as if it were stuck in quick sand.

Every night was the same as the night before. He'd sit on the bed and cross his hands over his lap and wait for the blessed moment when the light which shone underneath the bathroom door went off. His heart pounded, and his hands moistened, because he knew that soon the door would open and she would come through it. Then she would sit down on the padded stool that lay ready for her to mount, and look at herself in the great mirror.

He had no idea what it was, but there had always been something wonderful about watching women. He had always enjoyed watching them, especially when he could do it without them suspecting. Now that he had grown to be the sort of person who faded into the wallpaper as soon as he entered a room, it was easy. The world could pass him by. Yet, that was what he relished. Now he could sit and watch tables of women laughing carelessly. Brushing aside a strand of hair. Gossiping. Crossing and uncrossing their legs. Licking their lips.

But sooner or later they'd see him. Feel his eyes. His attention. His desire. Then he was forced to stop.

Of course it was different now. This woman didn't care that he watched her. Didn't care whether he desired her or not. Her lack of concern was one of the things which drew him to her. It also made those rare moments when she'd look over her porcelain shoulder at him, all the more enticing.

The touch of her gaze sent electric shocks through his body. The warmth of her emerald eyes made him alive in a way he hadn't thought possible. It didn't matter that she seemed to look through him. In fact that only excited him more. Her eyes not only bored through his skin, muscle, bone, blood and marrow. But beyond him. Past the walls to the bare architecture and form of the room which they shared.

He never questioned her about what it was she was looking at. It didn't matter if she was thinking about someone or someplace else. That she might be dreaming of some former lover or some better time. The idea that whatever it was occupied the same space as him, was enough.

Someday perhaps, she might notice him. Just once. Then perhaps she might not look any further than where he sat, with his hands clasped and his eyes feverishly adoring her.

She had a way about her like no other, and he knew he would be content to watch her for the rest of his life.

But he wanted more.

His dreams could barely contain all the possibilities of endless sunny days spent picnicking or holding hands as they walked through some enchanted wood. He wanted to share every beautiful place and every beautiful moment he'd ever had in his life with her. These thoughts filled the parts of his dreams that the image of her brushing her hair didn't. Though he knew that what they shared was probably all they would ever have, he couldn't help himself. She'd made him greedy for more.

If watching her brush her hair sent brought him such ecstasy, then what would it like to watch her put on her stockings, or better yet, take them off?

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

Dreamily licking his lips, he felt his manhood being resurrected from the vampire coffin of his pajama bottoms. He'd given up on love longer ago than he cared to remember, and had settled for a life alone. It had come too easily to him, and at too early an age. He'd let career come first. Had made it his mistress and told himself that it was all he needed. Happily he'd found out that he was wrong, and that he wasn't too old to enjoy it.

It had all come so easily to him. All he had to do was wait for her to come each night, and the dreams of love he'd abandoned were not only reawakened, but reborn.
The brush glided through her black hair.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

Then she'd flip it over, and brush it from the base of her neck up, until every strand was smooth on both sides.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

"Mmmmmm....," he unconsciously sighed, hoping she would notice him. But as usual she continued preening herself as if that was what she'd been born to do.

He stopped looking at her for a moment, putting his head down and staring at the Oriental rug which had been there almost longer than he'd been alive. This had once been his parent's room. It had been their haven. The place where secret things happen that you had to grow up to find out about, but could sometimes hear wisps of through the vents that breathed more than air throughout the house. Now it was his. He hadn't looked at the rug in years. Long ago it had become one of those things taken for granted as always being there. As if it had been there since the beginning of time. Now he tried to find something in its weave to distract him from the growing frustration which was growing inside him.

If only she'd pay me some attention. That's all I want. See me! Look at me! Notice me! Is that too much to ask for? You will see me! You will notice me! He nodded an affirmation to himself. Then lifted his head.

She remained as always, transfixed by the image of herself in the mirror, and didn't see that he'd gotten up from the bed and was approaching her.

The palms of his hands became clammy as he grew closer to her. His legs, thick and heavy, weighed down by the task at hand, moved unsteadily across the floor.

Foolishness! All I'm doing is walking from one side of the room to another. How is it possible that I'm finding something as simple as this to be such a strain? He thought, as he drew ever closer to her.

The scent of the rose water became stronger, almost heady. There was something almost unpleasant to its sweetness now. Something which grew stronger and more unbearable the closer he got.

She put her brush back in its place on the vanity table, and began her regimen of examining every unseen flaw on her face. She didn't see him standing behind her. Didn't feel his hot breath as it grazed the top of her head. Didn't notice that he was as close as he'd ever been in his life to passing out. Nor did she notice when he bent over and picked up the sterling silver brush from off its place, then stood back, half afraid to begin, and half afraid not to, brush her hair.

He stood above her for what felt like an eternity. Though in fact, only a few seconds had transpired since he'd gotten up from his place on the bed to where he now stood, brush in hand, ready to touch the magnificence of her ebony hair with his hungry, quivering hands.

He brought the brush up, and as if in a trance, set it lightly upon her head, before sliding it down and through the silken strands which had become more valuable to him than anything else in the world.

He looked at her reflection, hoping to see her smiling. She wasn't. But he continued, hoping that it would reassure her that this was alright. True, he had broken one of their mutually agreed upon rules, but he hoped that since he was doing it in such a simple and gentle way, that she would take pity on him, and his feeble attempts at intimacy.
But being unsure of himself, and afraid that she would use his impulsiveness as an excuse never to let him watch her again, he dragged the brush too quickly through her hair, and tangled it into a great black coil.

He tried circling the brush in the opposite direction, but only succeeded in wrapping even more of her hair into an unholy snarl. She sat frozen before him. Still not seeing him. Not noticing him.

Just the same he knew he'd better fix the situation or risk losing everything that was important to him.

"Please be patient with me, my darling. I honestly meant you no harm. Just give me a minute and everything will be as right as rain." He looked at the ceiling as if he could see through it into heaven, and pleaded with his tired, beady eyes for whatever kind of miracle it would take to not only free the brush from her hair, but make her not punish him for his foolishness.

"Please," he murmured partly to God, but mostly to her, "have mercy."
But the great coil grew, now covering not only the brush, but also overtaking his arm so that it looked like he was being caught in a long, black web.

He began to panic, feeling that he was losing more than his hand to the netting which ensnared it. He tried to pull free.

Her head snapped back, but before he could apologize for his roughness, he saw her gazing at him. There was something cold and unfeeling in her expression. Something far worse than anything he'd imagined. He shivered.

"Please dearest, I promise...right as rain, right as rain...you'll see," but nothing in her countenance changed.

Not even a blink.

The situation was quickly becoming unbearable for him, while the irony of it stared back at him from her cold green eyes. What he'd wanted, yearned for, hoped for, had become the very thing that he wanted to be free of. Now she noticed him, and he wished to God that he could turn back time and return to the sweetness of being happily ignored.

What was worse, he had no idea what to do. He was trapped, and saw no way of freeing himself outside of cutting the hair that enshrouded him. He pulled at the brush again, at first more gently than he had the first time.

Nothing.

He looked down to see the coldness of her eyes becoming even colder, and he knew he had to quickly remedy the situation or else risk her condemnation.

He felt looseness in the coil around his arm and began to steadily untangle himself. He didn't bother to question why what had once held him tightly now seemed to be letting go. He was just grateful to be set free. Then, somehow, he was inexplicably ensnared again.

For a moment, frustration made him forget everything and he jerked his hand back with the same fierceness as a wild animal caught in a trap. But he didn't have the courage to gnaw off his hand to free himself. So he pulled back again. This time so forcibly that his movements caused her head to jerk back and forth in unison with his endeavor.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

Nor did he notice the tiny tear forming at the base of her throat which grew bigger and bigger with every pull of his arm.

She said nothing, but only continued staring at him. If she could feel the skin on her throat tear it didn't register on her face. Only the same unyielding look from her ever darkening eyes.

A small trickle of blood streamed down between her breasts as he continued to yank her head this way and that.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

He didn't hear the sound her skin made as it continued to rip, nor did he see the bloody hole growing larger at the base of her neck. His only thoughts were of freedom as he persisted in trying to release the maniacal hold of her hair, which teased him by letting him get a good distance from her, only to pull him back, to her and her upturned eyes.

Somehow he managed to pull himself away until the back of his legs grazed the bed, where he wished he'd remained. His heart pounded. Fear and heartbreak coursed through him, making him feel as if he were being seared from the inside and out, at the same time.

He didn't look at her, afraid of what he'd find staring at him. He knew he'd ruined everything. Grief, mixed with the still heady scent of rose water, made him feel dizzy, and he fell across the bed and onto the floor.

It took him a few moments to realize that he was no longer standing. He looked up at the ceiling wondering why God had played such a cruel joke on him before he noticed that he was free. He almost squealed with joy, but restrained himself, afraid of what sight would be waiting him when he got up and looked in her direction.

Would she still be there? Or would she have left him, never to return, and never to delight him as she had so many times before? Would she forgive him for breaking their unsaid rules and letting his desires overtake his reason? Would she understand that he was just a foolish old man in love with the sight, thought and idea of a woman that he had no idea how he'd ever been blessed to have in his home?

Or worse. Would she still be coldly devouring him with her eyes?

He couldn't see her from where he lay, and was tempted to forever remain on the floor rather than face the possibility of never seeing her again. Then he heard a familiar sound.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

She was still there!

And better yet, she was brushing her hair.

He tried to sit up too quickly and almost fell back down, before he grabbed hold of the footboard and caught himself. The sound of her brushing her hair made him feel giddy.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

When he was able to sit up, he inhaled deeply, noticing for the first time that the scent of the rose water had ebbed, and its fragrance had returned to being pleasant and enticing. He closed his eyes drinking in this moment of redemption. Images flooded through his mind of all the things he wanted to do to show her just how much her forgiveness had meant to him.

He would give her everything.
Even his soul.

Finally the need to see her overtook his apprehension. As he slowly opened his eyes iridescent tears trickled out. The first they'd released in ages. It felt like a pleasant sting, but then again everything was pleasant at this moment, because he hadn't lost her. He hadn't lost everything.

His vision was blurry a bit at first, but he could make out the shape of her as she sat before him. He sighed deeply and contentedly then spoke, "My darling, please..." His voice caught in his throat at what he saw staring back at him. He would have screamed except that he couldn't breathe. His face became an explosion of tremors as an earthquake erupted beneath his skin.

Yes, she was still there as she had always been, and yes, she was still brushing her hair, but there was one very special difference in the woman before him. Her head and neck no longer rested in their usual place, but were clasped in her arms. Her hands worked steadily to release the brush he'd tangled in her hair. The head jerked this way and that as she continued to try to free the brush from her clasping strands.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

Finally she got it loose. Then after returning the brush to its proper place, she did the same with her head and neck. They, like the brush were back in their proper places. Except for the dried blood between her breasts, and the reddened line at the base of her neck, there was no evidence that anything wasn't as it had always been.

Everything was as right as rain.

The only thing eschew about the whole scene was that he still remained on the floor with his mouth gaping open, and nothing coming out of it.

He couldn't move. Fear and repulsion mixed in an unholy brew in his stomach and the only thing that kept him from opening the floodgates was that he realized that she was looking at him.

This time however her gaze wasn't cold and terrible, but more matter-of-fact as if she were saying, "what kind of fool are you? Please don't tell me that you've never seen that before?" Then she picked up her brush and began to pull out all the hairs that doggedly remained upon it. After cleaned them out, she once again began to brush her hair.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

Somehow this calmed him. Happily everything was as it had been before.

He never questioned her, nor asked for an explanation. What had happened was as unexplainable to him, as why she'd come in the first place. He'd learned not to ask for more than what he'd been given. Watching her from his place on the bed was enough. He knew that this was where he belonged. Where he would always belong and where he would always be.

It was his proper place
He was willing to give up everything for her.
Even his soul.

Flies

The pain was all encompassing: the bright agony of daylight, every smell, both pleasant and not, the horrible tapping of endless pairs of shoes echoing the floor around her. She was under attack. Whatever peace she had known was gone. Her pain had become an entity, a breathing, living thing.

Her old life had been lost in a series of hospitalizations, surgeries, and misdiagnoses. Her new one as she was steadily learning would only be escapable through death.

Tears formed but didn’t fall from her eyes. She twisted her lip, biting it until it bled, hoping that a new feeling might give her some respite from the others.

She licked the warm, redness from her mouth, and for a second pretended that he, someone, anyone was there. Looking at her. Seeing that she was still sensual and alive. Then the walls of her room became focused and clear through the blur of painkillers, desire and want.

She squeezed her nipple and smiled. Something of her past remained. That wonderful tingle of lust was still hers.

I have to do it today before I lose this, too, she thought. I have to find a way to get up from this bed.

She didn’t want to be found there. The sheets were disgusting. They were plastic, meant to save the mattress for future use. But the nurse hadn’t put them on correctly, which meant that nothing lay between her patient and the plastic, or the soup of blood, poison and sweat which puddled its surface. Now bedsores grew and spread resembling a map of the ancient world as country after country is conquered and joined with the whole in an ongoing march of destruction.

After my shot, I’ll have a little more energy. Maybe I’ll be able to get up. This thought almost proved too much as she began convulsing with pain and nausea.

Minutes became hours as the clock stubbornly refused to move according to the commands given it. She was having seizures by the time the nurse came with the needle.

Yes! Give it to me! Do it now! Oh God, I love you! Then the warmth of the medicine as it sped through her veins. So sensitive to every tick of her body she could feel even that. Thank you. Thank you. God bless you.

If I had a knife I could rip the path it’s taking through my arm, she thought smiling, proud of herself for having a special knowledge of such things. I could rip it all the way up to my brain. I wonder what they’d do when they saw me. Probably just think it was suicide. They’d never believe that little old me, who’d learned my medical skill from the wrong side of the bed, was able to do something like that.

Her senses dulled, and she closed her eyes. But the pain was still there, having only been slightly muffled by the medication. The fingers of her left hand trembled, another little gift from the ongoing war of these two enemies. She lay between them helpless, a bystander waiting for one of them to finally win and be done with it.

She tried to bring her head off the pillow, but didn’t have the strength, and fell back on hospital-issue number-whatever-it-was, exhausted and disgusted with herself.

Something jarred her from her despair. A new sensation to be catalogued with the other agonies and defeats which had been the steady diet her body had given her.

Her body arched and fell amid the IV bottles, monitors and bags containing her various bodily fluids. She looked orgasmic, yet horrified.

Gasping and panting as pain and ecstasy intermingled and spiraled themselves around, upon and deeply inside, her lips quivered equally with unutterable terror and indescribable bliss.

From the corner of her eye a shadow roused her. It was black and oozing over her skin. It would have resembled tar, if tar was able to breathe.

But there was something else, a low, continuous drone like the voices of a thousand, miniature Buddhist monks.

She fell asleep and dreamed that she had climbed out of herself and was finally able to see the undulating, black thing that pleasured and pained her.

The strange sound was still there. The monks were proving to be as implacable as her pain, as she flew down to get a closer look at the black mass.

Flies, millions of them, were crawling upon and inside of her, invading every secret place. Her nostrils were so full of them that she was certain her other self would suffocate before the shock of their presence and their feasting bore through the gelatinous pudding of medication and mire that was her brain.

She wanted to scream, but couldn’t, as her mouth, forced open by the great surge, vomited them out as others flew in. No longer a place of words or sighs, the flies had given her mouth a new use, doorway to her throat, esophagus, stomach contents and beyond. This army intended to win.

Flying within inches of her body, the sight of them feasting and laying eggs in her wounds overwhelmed her. She collapsed onto herself disappearing into an unconscious netherworld.

She was worn out. The doctors had all come at once, asking her question after question about what had happened.

“I don’t know,” was all she could say. She had no idea and didn’t care. The pain was gone and so were the sores. Somehow she’d been borne back into her previous self without even a scar.

“Look, I don’t know what you want me to say,” she said scanning the faces of the people before her. “I’m all right now. I’m okay. I made it.”

Then everything went black and she knew it had all been a lie. So she closed her eyes and submitted herself to the pain. It had won and continued to do so, even after the moment when the coroner began to open her chest with his scalpel.