The White Ghost

Well and Guinevere is sly enough to steal a little taste
And her laughter it peals into the night
Oh but forbidden fruit always stays sticky on your face
And without virtue I’m worthless in a fight
~Edwin McCain

St. Petersburg, 438

She stared at her reflection in the frosty crust that clung to the river Neva and cringed. Anya hated life, hated the way she looked and hated Russia. She’d run away again, knowing that she had no choice but to go back. Glowering at her reflection, she wished she had an actual choice. Her husband would simply laugh as he waited for her return, and then would punish her for insubordination. Why had her father betrothed her to Ivan?
She knelt down and felt the emotional pain take over again. How many times had she wished she could escape? How many times had she realized she had no choice but to return?
No choice. Her face scrunched in a pained grimace and she lay her forehead down on the thin layer of ice that coated Neva’s banks. This was her only solace.
The voice came from the darkness and startled her. “Don’t stick your tongue to the ice, it’ll freeze there and that would be quite uncomfortable.” The tone had a chuckle in it.
She swung her body around and looked up at the pale, but ridiculously handsome, stranger that stood a mere three feet from her. His eyes were amber, his lips soft, his hair long and flowing with a breeze she’d not noticed until that moment. She realized she was still sitting; quickly and ungracefully, Anya pulled herself up and stood before the man.
“I didn’t know anyone else was out here.” She stuck out her chin, trying to intimate that she was already claimed like a good wife would. She didn’t really mean it though and it seemed that he understood. His grin was condescending.
“Just be careful. With your tongue, I mean.” He walked away but she suddenly knew she didn’t want him to.
“What’s your name?” She hurried the question and even though he had his back to her, she knew that he’d smiled.
He turned to her. The breeze picked up and tossed his hair. “Vladimir.”
She moved toward him, mesmerized, her dark hair coating the sides of her face like a protective shield. Her deep brown eyes searched his face, hoping to find some sort of salvation there. She touched his cheeks, angling him down toward her, looking for the one action that might make her husband banish her.
Her lips touched the stranger’s and she found herself pushing herself against him, passionately opening her mouth and searching for his tongue. He responded as if these things happened to him everyday and gripped one hand on her back, while the other tangled in her hair. They were breathless, pulling each other and then he dipped his head fluidly to her neck, bit quickly and sucked her life away.

Britain, 538

She edged upon the city, trying to remember Vladimir’s instructions.. Her need for independence, to not be controlled by someone, had finally kicked in. Vladimir had thought it was unwise. His plan would’ve worked better if they’d stayed together.
Now she stood on the border of Camelot with everything to lose. This place was beautiful. She, like anyone else in Europe, had heard of King Arthur’s rise to power. Anya and Vladimir both had speculated on how he’d been physically able to pull the sword from the stone … both had decided it must’ve been with the mysterious help of Merlyn, the wizard.
She teetered, not sure if she wanted to cross into a world of assumed magic. She took a deep breath and finally crossed into Camelot. The air was crisp and clean. She strolled through the quiet moonlit town, listening to the wind stroke the leaves of a tree, causing them to rustle lightly but otherwise there was nothing, no one stirring about. She headed toward the castle boldly, still unsure how to proceed. A virgin vampire, in a new town, without her mentor, Anya should’ve been scared. Yet, she still found herself victim to fear again.
She hopped easily over the large wall that protected the castle from intruders. The bridge was raised from the moat, so she simply sat on the wayside, thinking.
She’d left Vladimir in Wales, where he had been schooling her over the years, helping her perfect a Welsh accent, helping her learn their customs, their mannerisms. It was a far cry from her homeland of Russia but she paid attention and she’d slowly let her new identity claim her. Now she sat in front of this enchanting castle, clad in a beautiful dress, and looking down into the sparkling moss-green water. Her reflection was far different from that fateful night on the river where she’d been born.
She was now a stunning woman. Her long glossy hair fell in waves to her slender waist, which was accentuated by a crimson corset. Her eyes were so dark that they appeared black. Her white skin was so smooth it could’ve been porcelain. She stopped herself from admiring her brutish beauty and decided to wait until morning to see the king. Somewhere a wolf howled mournfully and she wondered if it had caught her scent on the playful breeze.
Eventually, the sun peeked over the horizon, and even though daylight couldn’t harm her, it did make her uncomfortable because it could reveal things about her that couldn’t be easily identified in the shadows. Her uncanny smooth skin. Her coal black eyes. Her quickness. In the dimness, most people just thought that their eyes were playing tricks on them.
Finally, as the village awakened and first light spilled over the horizon, the bridge lowered over the moat, opening up access into the castle. She strode onto it confidently.
Two sentries guarded the gate, crossing their spears in front of her, denying her entrance. They wore Camelot’s colors; purple tunics with gold sashes, but the only weapons they held were the spears. She flashed them a brilliant smile and asked to see the king. She didn’t give them a reason, trusting that the magical lilt of her voice would mesmerize them. She was not disappointed.
One of the dazzled guards left his post and led her through the castle and toward Arthur as if he hadn’t a care in the world. They passed some of the royal court in the corridors but no one questioned them, no one stood in their way. After a few moments, he led her into a great hall. It was dark in there, much to her liking, with small bits of sunlight cutting in from small windows at the top of the massive gray-stoned walls. She stared upward at the large purple and gold banners hanging from the rafters and suddenly felt eyes burning into her. Shifting her gaze, she looked directly into the eyes of King Arthur.
He was older with graying hair at the temples and kind gray eyes. His face was wrinkled, showing him to be perhaps in his late 40’s. There was a modest gold crown that sat on the table by his left hand and he was clad in casual clothing, certainly not expecting to entertain. Around him sat the Knights of the Round Table, all glaring at her suspiciously. The sentry that had gained her access acted as if there was nothing strange about her arrival.
“A lady to see you, my Lord,” he said clearly in a youthful voice and dropped to a revered genuflect. “I’ll just be outside if needed.” He left her standing in front of the greatest king England had ever seen. The wifeless king.
The hall was deafening silent. No one moved, no one breathed. Finally, it was Arthur who spoke, his voice veiled and quiet.
“What may I do for you, lady?” Even as he spoke to her, her eyes flitted around the table and realized that the knights were all tense, ready to protect their king if need be. She did not see Merlyn. That put her a bit at ease.
Her voice came out soft and light as her eyes finally rested back on Arthur’s. Black on gray.
“I’ve come from Wales to ask for your assistance, your protection.” Keep it simple, she told herself..
His brow rose at the declaration. “Are you in danger?”
She nodded, not breaking eye contact.
He stood, towering over the table. “From whom?”
Anya feigned fright when she spoke. “Melwas, the King of the Summer Country. He has claimed me as his own. I do not wish to be another of his wives.”
She bowed demurely as Vladimir had carefully taught. That had been the most difficult mannerism to master simply because she hated even the concept of timid reservation never mind forcing herself to suffer the feeling. That was her old life. She was bold now, yet in that moment, she couldn’t show that strength.
King Arthur relaxed and several of his knights chuckled. “You want me to save you from a betrothal?” The table erupted in light chittering, all at her horrified expense.
“No,” she urged with a bit of sting in the intonation, “not a betrothal. An abduction! He takes me against my will!”
Arthur sat down again, sure that the danger she was speaking of was not danger at all. She was just a silly girl, scared of marrying her betrothed.
“There is nothing I can do for you, no action I can take. If he has asked for your hand, you could choose not to give it, however.” Arthur’s eyes softened again and seemed to be smiling at her.
She stood, unable to move, incapable of uttering the words that Vladimir had insisted she say. It was as if her tongue was stone and wouldn’t allow the formulation of words.
They all started eating again, the noise level rising considerably. She refused to be dismissed. “You could ask for my hand.”
One of the knights dropped his turkey leg in surprise and it clattered to the floor. All eyes were focused on her again, including the king’s. His eyes were now shocked.
“Did you just intimate that you want me to marry you?”
She nodded curtly. One of the knights howled with glee, slapping his hand on his knee and laughing heartily. “Arthur, I believe you’ve just received your first ever proposal! You never cease to amaze me!”
Arthur stood and approached her, reaching out his hands and she placed her cold palms into his warm ones. “My dear, I don’t even know your name and you’ve stormed my castle, demanding I make you my queen. Surely, this Melwas cannot be that horrific. If you married him, you would still be a queen.” His voice had taken the tone of a parent soothing a child. She was offended.
She leaned up on her tiptoes, her hands still clutching his, and even though she could only reach his shoulders, his face was leaning a bit toward hers seemingly without his knowing. “Guinevere,” she murmured softly. “My name is Guinevere.”
Vladimir was the one who’d come up with the name, once he realized it meant “white ghost” in Welsh.
“Guinevere,” Arthur whispered in return, clearly spellbound suddenly by her presence.
“Arthur and Guinevere,” she smiled, letting the brilliance of her face penetrate through any remaining reservations he may have harbored. He found himself smiling giddily and suddenly full of thoughts of a splendid royal wedding. How many times had he been advised by Merlyn to take a wife? Why not this eager, beautiful woman who would bear him strong heirs to his throne? Why not this woman who stood in front of him pleading for his generous assistance, thus saving her from a lifetime as a second-rate queen?
As if on cue, the sentry that had escorted her in earlier, returned with a white-haired Vladimir dressed in brilliant kingly clothes. Vladimir allowed his eyes to glower as they fell on Arthur, the king’s hands still wrapped about hers. She gasped.
“Melwas?” Her voice was artfully horrified.
The Knights of the Round Table all stood, their swords swiftly picked up from the floor and out in front of them ready to protect their king and his … lady friend.


Camelot, 542

She lay next to him, staring at the full moon that cast its whiteness across the village. She had succeeded in her plan to bring vampires to power, at least some type of power, as her and Vladimir, now masquerading as Melwas, had planned all those years ago. Her husband lay snoring unattractively next to her. She’d failed to give him an heir and the royal court was beginning to get worried.
She looked at his neck, exposed and soft, and wondered if she should kill him now. Arthur’s bloodline was non-existent. Would she be allowed to take the throne, and a new husband? Vladimir hadn’t thought so, now admitting to the flaw in their plan. She sighed. Patience. She needed patience.
She hissed at Arthur’s still figure, revealing her sharpened teeth, wanting to display her ferociousness without him actually seeing. She knew that he’d named someone as his predecessor in his will. She would never rule, and that had been her biggest mistake. Currently, Vladimir was a king but she was a powerless queen. If she killed Arthur, she would be nothing but a widow, cast aside for whomever he’d chosen as his descendant.
Arthur was a good man. He would continue aging and suddenly, there would be the question of why she hadn’t aged.
Vladimir kept pleading with her to leave Arthur, to be his queen. He’d promised they could rule together. As tempting as it was to join another vampire who was in power, Anya needed to maintain her independence. Her control on her own life. She would never relinquish herself again.
She put on her silk robe to cover her sleeping gown and wandered out to the cold halls, barefoot, to pace about while the rest of the castle slept. She knew two things: she did not love Arthur and she needed a solution to an impossible situation.
Like a caged lioness looking for an escape, she turned suddenly and faced the still silhouette of Lancelot, one of Arthur’s most trusted knights. He leaned against a shadowed wall, his eyes steady, observant. She bit the inside of her lip at his pure gorgeousness.
His eyes suddenly moved, raking over her body in a sensual way, stopping in some places. If she could’ve blushed, she would have. He caught himself, realizing his inappropriate behavior in the presence of his queen and with a tortured look, turned to leave her alone with her thoughts.
She felt wanted and that intimation was alien. It was such an odd feeling that she wanted him to come back, wanted him to look at her that way again. She shivered at the waning scent of his lust. For once, she had instincts and as animalistic as they were, she wanted to follow them. She waited three seconds and then headed toward the sleeping quarters for the Knights of the Round Table.
Anya found his room quickly, following the remnants of his lustful scent. She stood at the door nervously, emotions overwhelming her. This was new to her. She’d never had a choice before where it concerned men, and now that she had it, she was afraid to make it. She turned the knob soundlessly and swirled into the room, which reeked of masculinity. He had his back to her, unwitting of her presence, and he was stripping his clothes off violently. She turned her head like a cat watching a human do something utterly strange, but she realized that she was merely curious about his anger. Was he mad at her?
No, her little internal voice muttered, he’s mad at his need for you. You are the queen!
“Lancelot?” Her voice came out in a whisper.
He turned quickly, surprised and shirtless. It was her turn. Her eyes washed over his rippled muscles, his strength, and his beauty; she paused for a moment at his midsection and then let her gaze fall back to his eyes. They were too blue, fiercely bright. His face was guarded, conflicted, and she understood immediately. He wanted her … but he had a loyalty to his king. Would he throw all caution to the wind and bed his king’s wife?
She stepped forward, deciding to not use any of her gifts to persuade his judgment. She wanted him to want her for who she was. She gained on him quickly but he hadn’t moved a single muscle; he simply kept his eyes trained on her. She went to his window, turning her back on him, and then suddenly murmured, “I haven’t been happy for quite a long time. I’ve never actually felt wanted, you know.”
Her fingers traced the stone sill, unfeeling of the abrasiveness.
He moved behind her. She turned and sat on the sill, looking up into his face. He was less than a foot away, still uncertain, still lustful, and full of doubt. Before he could blink, her lips were only a notch from his. “I won’t tell him,” she promised in a deep sultry voice.
Suddenly, Lancelot’s hands gripped her hair. He whirled her around and they fell to the bed, moving their bodies in aggressive rhythm. She left the room before the sun rose, leaving him looking pensive and concerned, but kept her word. She never told her husband. She returned to Lancelot’s room every single night at the same hour for a full year, and Anya, relenting to her alter ego Guinevere, realized she never felt more alive despite the ridiculous fact that she was dead.

Untitled

"My first attempt at the challenge between Allen and I. See the post below this one for the end result of the challenge."

Alys groaned as her toddler sister again tossed the ball into the street. Living in the middle of nowhere Maine, she was used to the road being inactive and quiet; yet she still did as her parents asked and looked both ways before venturing out to fetch the ball for the fourth time in an hour.

She bent to pick it up and the last thing she heard the horrifying shriek of brakes before her lights went out.

2 Months Later

The voices were hushed. She could see the brightness of the overhead lights through her closed eyelids and although she tried to flutter them open, they wouldn’t yield.

She smelled soap and rubbing alcohol; somewhere in the background a TV was airing Bugs Bunny at a low volume.

A man’s polite voice was audible but Alys could only catch a few words. Coma. No evidence of brain trauma.

Her mother started sobbing. Why was she so sad? Alys tried to lift her hand to reach out for her mom but it remained immobile, frozen, like a heavy sodden leaf.

As if by some miracle, her eyes opened and blinked rapidly a few times to adjust to the fluorescent overhead. Her parents’ blurred figures came into view. They were talking to a doctor.

Alys was in a hospital bed. She looked down at her body, covered by a thin sheet, her hands splayed palms down on top of the coverlet. She couldn’t feel her body. What was wrong with her body?

The next moments, along with he rest of her day, were hazy. Her parents rushing to her bedside. Learning that she’d broken her neck and had been in a coma for months. Trying to move her hands again without success. Being told she was a quadriplegic. Being given a sedative. Not wanting to sleep, but not wanting to be awake.

The next day, the nurse came in to bathe her. Afterward, the woman changed her bedding, laid Alys back down on fresh linens and placed her limp hands on her stomach. Leaving to find a clean blanket, the nurse vanished, forcing Alys to be alone with her hopelessness.

She would never walk again. She would never wave at a friend, drive a car, dance or even wash dishes. She was convinced she would never smile again.

She felt a strange warmth in her lap and through her self-pity tears, she saw a white glow emitting from her hands and within seconds, this strange white light engulfed her entire body.

Then pain shot up her back and made her grimace. Her entire spine felt as if she’d lain on a bed of glass shards. Finally the pain slowly fizzled away and her fingertips could feel the warm skin of her stomach hit her. If she could feel…

She sat up slowly and scooted to the side. She would have to hop down but she was fearful that she might crumple to the floor. Eyes closed, she jumped. Her legs wavered a bit from not being used in months and her muscles felt like overcooked spaghetti but other than that, she was standing.

The nurse came back into the room and as she went to put the new blanket on the bed, her eyes fell on Alys standing off to the side like a baby deer learning to use her sticklike legs. She dropped the covers to the floor and clapped her hands to her mouth.

Alys was released that day.

Being only 10 years old, she was innocent enough to believe that the doctors had been wrong and that her body had healed itself. The moment where she realized that the accident had made her abnormal was when she’d dropped a glass on the kitchen floor, only a few days after she returned home.

Instead of reaching for a broom and dustpan, she foolishly reached for the larger piece of glass. As she touched it, her hand glowed white again and the chunk fused to her hand. Quick as a flash, shards flew off of the floor, hovered around the chunk and moved themselves into different positions until the glass was reconstructed. Then, the glass just … healed.

Alys was so shocked she dropped the glass again. It did not break.

She secretly spent nights in her room cutting and healing herself. No matter what she did, everything mended. Herself. Furniture. Even a sheaf of paper she’d ripped. A bedspread she’d shredded.

One Saturday, as she sat at the kitchen table, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Alys decided that she needed to tell someone. She needed some sort of guidance, some sort of direction for her inexplicable ability. While her mother was walking through the kitchen, mutter about the now-brown lawn that refused to turn green despite her efforts, Alys asked her solemnly if they could talk.

“Yes, dear,” her mother said in an attentive voice. “What is it?”

“The accident,” she began but then stopped.

Her mother was relieved. She’d been so concerned because Alys had refused to speak of the accident. Perhaps she would confide something; perhaps they’d be able to help her heal.

“Yes,” she prompted. “What about the accident, dear?”

She felt uncomfortable. How do you say something unbelievable? “It gave me something,” she muttered but continued before she lost her nerve. “I have the power to mend things.”
To Alys’ horror, her mother looked somewhat amused.

“I don’t know how it happened,” she uttered, trying to convince her mother, “but I healed myself in the hospital. Other things too.”

Her mother smiled lightly. “Al-Pal, it’s a miracle that you’re OK, but it’s impossible to heal things by just touching them. I know it’s hard for you to understand why you healed, but accept it as a miracle.”

Alys jumped from the table and ran out to the piteous front lawn, thrusting her hands into the dried, cracked soil. Her mother followed at a jog, concern etched on her face.

Alys looked up at her with a big smile on her face. The grass, blade by blade, turned from its dead brown to a brilliant kelly green.

Dying Girl

"As a result of the writing challenge between my friend Allen and I, this is what was born. The rules: no more than 1000 words, subject was an accident that resulted in some sort of power. Enjoy!"

My name is Alys Scott. I will probably be ten years old forever.

What happened to me was no accident, not in the figurative sense anyway. Technically, he hadn’t meant to kill me but I got in the way.

My stepfather was straddling my mother and beating her senseless when he went to deliver the final blow. He must’ve thought I was asleep, but who wouldn’t wake up with terrified screams echoing throughout the small apartment? I dove over her and his fist barreled into my head, killing me instantly.

I am destined to die again and again, each time a new horrifying experience. With my unjustified death, I became a symbol of vengeance. I was given one single power: to ease the passing of the dead. People that died silently in their sleep did not need me.

The ones that were murdered, the ones that would not feel validation, they needed my help. Make no mistake, however: I am never there to save them, just to help them pass over. To comfort them and release them to the afterlife.

I’ve never actually seen the afterlife. I will not see it until I relinquish my need for the vengeance that I know I am unable to enact.

A guardian came to me minutes ago, a messenger from beyond, and assigned me my newest death. A young pregnant woman has been buried alive. It doesn’t matter who buried her, but I asked anyway. I always ask but the guardians never answer me. They just dissipate.

I descended upon the filthy grave and waited. I could feel her fighting below, trying to push her fingers through the garbage bag that encased her. She tried to take small breaths but her panic made that impossible. She passed out and within seconds, her spirit was floating above the site.

The ghost woman dropped to her knees and began digging. Her desperation at saving herself was horrifying. Knowing that in order for her to pass over, I would need to suffer her fate was horrifying.

I put my hand on her shoulder but she didn’t notice. Instantly, I was sucked down into that grave and I became her. I too pushed my arm against the plastic to no avail. I felt the panic surging in my throat and I willed myself to find a way to save her, to change her fate. I gasped at air that was non-existent for about a minute, passed out and died.

I appeared next to her: a child with white blonde hair and ethereal green eyes. She looked at me, frightened, and I simply held out my hand to her. I was empathetic. I understood her horrors. She took my hand and vanished.

So it went. Every day, a new death. Each day scared me but I’d died a fair amount of times that I was starting to accept dying. I refused to let go of my hatred for the man who’d murdered me. The only thing that gave me hope was that my death could’ve mean something.
The guardians came again and again. A man was beaten to death. A woman was drowned. A baby wrapped in a blanket, left in subzero temperatures. All of these deaths were painful, some more terrifying than others, but when I was assigned the young girl, perhaps a year older than myself, who was raped and strangled, I swore that I would find a way to harness my odd power for the better good.

I was not summoned again for a week, which was disconcerting.

When the guardian finally arrived, I was on edge. I had been beckoned every night since my power was given to me. I’d never had a rest from death.

Another woman. Beaten, stabbed and about to be burned alive.

I went to the scene immediately, but I dreaded it beyond anything. My one fear was dying by fire. It was the only death I’d yet to experience and to say I was petrified isn’t enough. I went to her because I had to, yet knowing that I would need to understand her death for her to pass, made me shake uncontrollably.

She was quite conscious, aware of the pain the flames wrought on her body. She sounded like a guttural animal, groaning into the charred dirt surrounding her burning self.

I did not want to die like that. I did not want to help this woman. Please, I begged, do not make me do this. Do not ask me to die like that.

Inevitably, the woman’s ghost popped up. My trembling hand neared the woman who was bowed over, trying to pat out the flames on her own corpse. My fingertips brushed her shoulder and instantly I was in agony.

The fists battered my face and I tried to defend myself but they just kept coming until I was on my knees, spitting out teeth and blood. The knife gouged my torso multiple times, but somehow I was still breathing.

I did not want to experience being burned alive. It didn’t matter what I wanted, the fire still came and it was more agonizing than I thought. The pain seared through my body and as I melted away, I looked upward for a brief moment. My eyelids bubbled but for one second, I saw him. My stepfather. The one who gave me death. Now, he was killing me again.

I was floating beside her; she was still trying to put herself out. Little pieces of her body still crackled. I held out my hand to her; she turned, not wanting to accept it, not wanting my understanding. Her eyes widened and so did mine as we stared at each other. My mother.

She grasped my hand happily, thinking we were finally reunited but then she vanished and dissolved to the underworld. Her charred body was still smoking on the ground. I knew then that I would be the one that eases death for a long, long time.

Feeling a little poetic

This poem was written in December 1998 and it had a mind of its own. I wanted it to tell its own story and it really just created itself. It was started on a long plane ride .... I picked up a pen and this is what was born:

"The Wine Goblet"

The wine goblet topples over
and the sweet redness stains,
It sets
It marks its spot.
There it is, dry
Still crimson
Still there
The same as it was,
Left alone since it occurred.

I forgot, mother.
I forgot how to smile.
My face is frozen, white, ashen, pale
It stays the same since the day it happened.
I wonder if you noticed.
I couldn't remember, father.
I couldn't remember how to laugh.
The sounds of happiness are frozen solid, buried under layers of ice,
And all that can escape these lips are sounds of fury, anger, and infinite sadness.
It remains the same since the day I died.
I wonder if you could see it in my eyes.

The wine goblet now empty
Gradually rolls off the table
Leaving the tragic scene
And falling
falling out of space
defying the hourglass
it falls forever
until it can't fall anymore
and it shatters
into so many complicated pieces
that it could never be the same
goblet again.

I broke.
I, too, shattered.
I fell for so long that all I can remember is not the pain of breaking apart
but the anticipation of shattering
Like fragile glass on cold marble
The sip of wine bleeding out and staining deep into the polished stone.

I screamed so loud that night, mother, that I became silent.
I cried so hard that night, father, that I couldn't remember how to stop.
I quietly shouted
But maybe I was too far gone for you to hear
When I finally landed
When every part of me broke
My shattering soul broke through my silence
Since it occurred.
And I know you heard it then.

Once innocence is invaded
Once it falls
Once it shatters
like the wine goblet, it is too complex
to piece back together again.
It will forever remain like the moment it finally stopped falling:
A bitter pile of sharp, biting dust
never to fall again.

From My Book

Appropriately titled "Wicked", simply from the beginning.....

“She’s ugly.” Cora stared coldly at the ruddy baby in her arms. She couldn’t stand to look at her. She wanted to give her back.
Jasper looked at his wife with pointed sadness. “She’s our daughter, Cora. She’s the newest princess.”
“We cannot have an ugly child, never mind an ugly princess, in this castle, Jasper. I won’t have it!” Cora dismissively passed the silent child to Milo, the court’s officially recognized sage. He looked down at the child’s red wiry hair and dull rheumy eyes; they were just like her father’s. Her skin was blotchy and red, her mouth nearly non-existent lines, and her nose was pointy and small. She looked like a sick bird, thin, pale and without energy.
At first sight, she was repulsive and outlandishly freakish. Her chin was too sharp and her arms were much too long for her emaciated body. Her neck was paper thin, her body ill proportioned. She was not the beauty that her older sister was.
Milo was drawn to the ugly child. He felt something special emanating from her observant eyes and was overwhelmed by the feeling that she understood she was being rejected. Cora drew his attention from the child’s face as she began to weep into her golden silk pillow.
“Let’s give her away,” she whispered. Her voice picked up intensity as she continued, “We cannot have such an ugly daughter representing this kingdom!!! There hasn’t been an unattractive baby in this lineage and we cannot start now, so she needs to go elsewhere. Give her to a loving home, where her appearance is not going to be a factor in her upbringing. She should go to a barren, childless woman…. someone who will appreciate her despite her homeliness.” Cora wailed desperately. She was quick to be rid of her new, less comely daughter.
Milo looked away and then down at the squirmy baby in his arms.
Jasper would have none of it. “I refuse to give away this child, Cora. Our child.” He took the infant from Milo and cradled the little redhead in his gray-downed arms. She wasn’t fussy or noisy. She just seemed attentive and quite aware of her surroundings.
Cora’s head snapped up cruelly, her desperate and teary demeanor instantly gone, as if about to say something unthinkable but she stopped when another woman entered the room, cradling a sleeping toddler in her arms. Mona, Milo’s wife and the palace nanny, held the future queen tightly to her breast. At Mona’s prodding, the girl rubbed her eyes tiredly and peeked over Jasper’s arm to look at her new little sister. The toddler was breathtaking, with glowing emerald eyes and soft pink cheeks. Little bouncy curls sprung from atop her head and wrapped perfectly behind her ears. She was lively, sweet and loving. Every single maid, slave, nanny, villager and palace guard adored her. After she had been born, Cora had been so taken by her beauty that she decided to name her just that. Beauty was anointed the future queen, for in their hierarchy, only the women ascended the throne. The fathers would serve as kings until the Queen chose a husband. If the father died before the princess was crowned, she would rule the kingdom herself, with the aid of a small, carefully chosen group of advisors.
Now only two years later, Queen Cora held yet another daughter in her arms, but this one was waifish, spindly and ugly. The unnamed child yawned, and her mouth stretched open to unnatural proportions. Jasper and Milo laughed and cooed at her; Cora scoffed. “She looks like a baby bird begging its mother for worms.” She glared disdainfully into the face of the girl.
Milo smiled graciously at Cora. “Surely, you don’t mean to feed her insects.” The company laughed heartily, but Cora was not amused. Milo handed her the child, but she grimaced, and as if to sense her mother’s displeasure, the newborn girl stiffened in her arms.
“I cannot present her to the people as the newest princess, Jasper, I simply cannot!! Our village prides itself on being beautiful, of aesthetic perfection. This child is not a proper representation of her parents! We will be perceived as weak rulers, who create common offspring. I will not allow her to be a member of nobility.” Cora hissed at her husband.
Milo looked down sadly as he waited for Jasper to defend the tiny, defenseless baby, but he did not.
It had been tradition to proudly introduce the royal children to the village. What Cora was suggesting was unprecedented and inexplicable.
Jasper always seemed to fall to Cora’s will. Milo was afraid that this child would be abandoned, perhaps banished and sent to the caves to be brought up on the outskirts of the town by criminals and bandits, or even worse, the gypsies. He shuddered at the thought. His mind started to fade into a long buried memory, but he shook it out quickly and looked sternly at the queen.
“We will consult the oracle. It is wise. It will tell us which direction to follow,” Milo’s voice seemed deafening in the silent room. He knew that Cora’s biggest weakness was her belief in the supernatural, in prophecies. For the sake of the child’s future and welfare, he hoped that the oracle would deliver good tidings.
Beauty suddenly stirred in Mona’s arms and looked over toward her mother’s arms, glared down at her little sister.
“Sparrow,” Cora muttered mockingly. “You look like a bird, so you will have a bird’s name.”
The baby was immediately resentful of her newly acquired appellation and spit up gray phlegm onto her mother’s chin.
Jasper looked at his wife and then at their newborn daughter. Addressing the room, he quietly asked that he be left alone with his family. Everyone obliged and single-filed out the door, and as Mona bent to release Beauty so she could join her parents and sister, Jasper asked that Beauty be taken outside too. Mona’s brow furrowed but she did as the king asked and closed the door softly behind her.
The others stood outside the door awkwardly, waiting to be allowed back inside. Minutes ticked past but it felt like days. No one uttered one single word. Milo wondered if it was because they didn’t know what to say or if they were hoping to catch bits of the conversation in the other room. After what seemed like eternity, the door opened and everyone ushered back into the room. The difference in the air was palpable. Cora sat with her mouth slightly ajar, looking pale and shocked. Jasper smiled and put his arm around his wife and their baby, who sat uncomfortable in her mother’s less than welcoming arms.
Milo couldn’t help but feel a bit of relief. Perhaps Jasper had scolded his wife after all, but after a few moments of observing Cora handle little Sparrow, he knew that whatever Jasper had said to his wife hadn’t changed her feelings toward the baby. He stepped outside for a moment and sent a messenger to call for the oracle.
Beauty, a healthy two years old, was becoming heavy so Mona put her down and she shot over to Cora’s bedside and with a little support from Milo, climbed up to where her mother lay, looking tired and unusually subdued. Beauty leaned her face forward and kissed her mother’s cheek.
The lovely child glowered upon Sparrow, who looked upward as if she sensed the animosity, directly into the emerald eyes of Beauty, and upon just a glance, Beauty was screeching and trying to retreat from her fire-haired sister.
The difference in the two girls was blatant. Beauty was like a shimmering ray of sunshine, her eyes sparkling like stained glass, her lips like a ruby heart, her hair cascading in sweet brown waves. On the contrary, Sparrow was reminiscent of a fading star, like a shadowy murk; her blue eyes were listless, her mouth thin and straight, and her fiery hair wiry and wild. Her eyes were watery, and her skin pallid. Beauty’s skin was like pale pink porcelain.
Jasper looked at them both, sizing them up in his fatherly eye, trying to determine the definition of beauty. He knew that Beauty was certainly more accepting to the eye, but Sparrow had something…he could feel it. It made him uneasy.
Oddly enough, she captivated the attention of the room with her banality. He flicked her nose with his fingertip. She glared at him, as if to figure out if he was friend or foe.
“Oh Cora, they are different, but they each offer a special spark.” In response, the queen bent her head. She felt shamed by this child.
“We’d have to hide her away, Jasper. I don’t want to hear the whispers or the taunts! I don’t want to be ridiculed. I’ve reigned as a prosperous queen, and I don’t want to be the only one in our lineage who produced the most repulsive princess known in our history.” It was as if the queen was bargaining with her husband. They could keep the child, but she could never be in the limelight.
Cora eventually agreed to raise their daughter, but she insisted that Sparrow not be presented to the congregation as a princess. She hoped the village would accept Sparrow eventually, she’d uttered, without pomp or circumstance.
Only an hour after Milo had sent a messenger to summon the old woman that protected and housed the oracle, the sound of hooves echoed outside the castle and through the front gate.
It was not long ago that the royal family, as well as the villagers, looked down upon the power of the oracle, considering it to be a form of witchcraft. Cora, however, believed in magic and the advantage it could present to a kingdom and its ruler. Her father, once the general of their army, believed in using all of the tools presented to them in a beneficial way.
As they all waited tensely for the arrival of the prophetic seer, Jasper tried to coax Cora into feeding her infant daughter, but the Queen refused. Instead, she handed the baby to Mona who gave Sparrow her bottle, and pulled Beauty up next to her in the bed. The message did not go unnoticed. Beauty was the real princess, and Sparrow would never be considered Cora’s daughter.
“Move aside! Outta the way! Coming through!” An obese elderly woman with a steely gray bun elbowed her way through the cluster of humans. The woman looked quite common despite her honored occupation, like one of the old crones selling their goods in the marketplace. Although she didn’t look powerful, she was a mystical sage bestowed with intense gifts. She clutched a small black velvet drawstring bag to her chest protectively.
The bodies parted the way respectfully, bowing their heads to the old lady and her bag. She made a showy display of clearing off the dolly that had held Cora’s dinner and then, in an equally flashy presentation, she untied the strings of the bag, and stuck her wrinkled hands inside the illuminated purse, and pulled out a marble statue of two intertwined figures: one male, the other female. They shone together in flawless magical brilliance and pulsated like a heartbeat. Everyone in the room with the exception of the bedridden Cora dropped to their knees in reverence. The old lady looked about ominously, and then declared, “Who claims responsibility for this family?
Milo, as an elder and a scholar, was the only one present that could. The oracle knighted very few men or women to stand before them and communicate. Milo had automatically been given the honor upon being named the oldest of their village. Sometimes, he blended the idea of being the oldest with also being the wisest. He stepped forward.
“I am Milo. I am the oldest living man of this tribe. I speak for the royal family, if the oracle deems me suitable.” He bowed his head as he awaited the oracle’s reply.
The statue flickered with light. The old lady kept still, listening to the deafening silence. After a few moments, she looked up.
To Milo, she said, “The oracle will grant you two questions. Make your inquisitions important, Milo, for the oracle has graciously granted your search for guidance.”
No one, including Milo, knew how the oracle had come into existence. Several thousand years ago, the royal family had been granted, as a gift from a gypsy whose life had been saved by the Queen, the ability to ask the oracle for advice. Since that moment, whenever the realm was uncertain, they would summon the guide that cared for the oracle. No one actually knew the guide’s name, and she eventually gained the nickname Old Woman Who Cares for the Oracle. Like most legacies, the oracle was passed down to the strongest descendants in the family that protected visionary effigy. No other person had the gift to hear the oracle speak.
“What will be the purpose of the two daughters?” Milo bellowed loudly, unsure if the oracle could hear him. The oracle pulsated in brilliant colors. The old lady nodded and then, once the oracle had dulled, told Milo and the family the answer to the question.
“They say this: One shall be light as day and the other as dark as night. One shall be gracious and pure, and the other wicked and spiteful. One will face danger and difficulty, and shall walk a difficult course faced with many choices. These choices will darken her, and bring out a very compelling force from within. The other faces a much simpler road, but she shall be the one that succumbs to a very different power. The law of balances deems that opposites must exist in order for the polar to exist until itself. What is proven true will be a cryptic lie. Do you know beauty without ugliness? These girls fulfill two very different, but necessary, destinies.”
Cora sucked in her breath harshly, inwardly convinced that Sparrow would be the bane of her kingdom. She’d set her hearing into selective mode, so the only words she’d actually heard were dark, wicked, spiteful, power and ugliness. She gnawed on her lower lip, wondering how bad a mistake it was to keep Sparrow as her daughter. She saw Jasper looking at her sharply, as if to read her thoughts.
“What if she is evil?” She murmured quietly to her husband.
He gave his wife’s hand a squeeze and murmured confidently, “A child is the product of her parents, dear. We teach evil; the child does not acquire it from innocence, but from the influences that surround her.”
The old lady cleared her throat as if to remind them that there was another matter at hand. She then looked at Milo, who appeared immersed in deep thought. He rubbed his chin and then asked the oracle, “What shall be their destinies?” Unlike the first question, his voice had lowered to almost a whisper. Everyone leaned forward to try to catch his question, except for the old lady. Her hearing was unaffected by her age.
Cora grimaced. She’d hoped that Milo would’ve asked something different, something more definitive, like should she keep Sparrow or send her off to another family that could care for her. Now the questions were all used up.
The oracle again flashed with purpose.
The old lady looked up. “The eyes are closed underwater. Beware the legacy. Fire under the crown.”
The statue darkened upon the delivery of the prophecy. She tenderly lifted the oracle and placed it back inside the protective shroud, and left as quickly as she’d come, leaving them all to deliberate the meaning of the oracle’s words.
“What did it mean?” They asked each other with confused tones. “Fire under the crown?”
Milo stood silent, trying to make sense of the foretelling. The words hung in the air, and played on everyone’s tongue. The eyes are closed underwater. Beware the legacy. Fire under the crown.
Jasper and Cora also tried to make sense of it. They looked down at the future queen, who smiled brilliantly as if to assure them that all would be well. Sparrow, in turn, sneezed and miserably squirmed in her Mona’s arms. She tried to find comfort where there was none.

A Short Story titled "Patience"

Someone once told me that a soldier in the Philippines had a daily ritual of ridiculing a caged monkey while the man made his rounds. Eventually, the monkey escaped his prison and attacked the soldier with brutal fury, collapsing most of the man’s face.

This recollection brought me comfort as clammy hands traced across my biceps, up to my shoulders and then back down my arms to my bound, bleeding wrists.

He retracted his hand once he felt the warm liquid and looked at my dark blood that now stained his fingertips as if making me bleed was a phenomenal success. I realize now that it probably was.

He smiled slowly. I was a fighter, and he told me later in drunken moments that he loved sucking away hope, courage and spirit. He loved the conquest. He loved the challenge. That was probably why he kept me for so long.

“Suck my fingers,” he demanded and shoved his crimson digits toward my tightened mouth. I clamped my lips shut, determined not to let him win, while hot tears slowly traced a path down my cheeks and to my chin. I remember thinking that they were going to plop on the ground but they clung to my skin as if they knew that I needed their discretion.

Perhaps I could bite off his fingers in his moment of undermined perversion. He read my thoughts. His demeanor darkened fiercely and his eyes glowered a warning that let me know what would happen if I did not obey. I am no fool. I wanted to live.

I pressed my eyes together to suppress any further tears and breathed steadily through my nose to swallow whatever screams were threatening to break out.

Screams were useless here. Submission was my only chance of staying alive. I opened my gray eyes and evened out my face as I looked at him and into his dark bird eyes. Cold, greedy, evil, and childish.

My mouth opened and accepted his dirty probing fingers. He hooked them this way and that, stretching out my lips and cheeks, smearing blood onto my face, shoving his fingers deep into my throat to test my gag reflex.

“You’re not ready yet,” he grunted cruelly. “But,” he promised, “you will be.”

I was safe for that night. I watched him walk up the rotten wood stairs from the old cellar and into the main part of the house.

Day one was over. It hardly seemed possible that I was chained to a wall, my blouse ripped open, my body stained with dirt and sweat. I learned to really relish nights like those where either he felt I wasn’t ready for whatever he had in mind or he was too tired. I would learn that those kinds of nights were rare. I was so grateful for the nights where he would walk up those steps, the rotted wood bending at his weight, and the floorboards above creaking as he slowly walked up and away from me.

Day one passed. Days turned to weeks. Weeks. Months. Years. How can one keep track?

My wrists and legs remained bound always. They bled regularly and scabbed over. Sometimes when he left the house, I would endure the agony of ripping freshly scabbed wounds open by trying to pull my hands through the handcuffs. Yet, he always returned when my fervor was reaching its peak, and he’d smile at the fresh blood as if proud of himself. He was positive that one day my resolve would break and he would fully conquer me.

What he didn’t realize was I knew that would be the day he would kill me.

He underestimated my resolve and my will to live.

Days passed. I could tell you about his probing fingers, his dry cat tongue, or his flaccid cock … all of those things putting themselves into unwelcome places. I could tell you about his hands wrapping around my neck as if to strangle me and then finally releasing me when I was blue in the face. I could tell you about being his toy, about him becoming enraged when he could not break me. I could tell you about a particular night when he branded me with a curling iron. A fire to put out the fire, he’d said. Like that made sense.

The one-year anniversary of my abduction arrived but I had no way of knowing that. I didn’t have a calendar so when he’d announced shyly the day before that we needed to celebrate, conveniently not mentioning the reason for a festivity, I puked in my mouth at the very thought of what his notion of “celebration” meant.

I heard him in the morning, rustling around in what must’ve been the kitchen overhead, whistling happily. I could smell the wonderful, alluring scent of cocoa. I was almost at the point where I’d be willing to die for just one cup of hot cocoa.

A few hours later he descended the stairs and I steeled myself for the worst.

He walked stiffly, proudly carrying before him a crudely frosted cake.

Was it poisoned? Did he think me stupid?

I’d been eating nothing but stale bread and peanut butter for a full fucking year. The cake smelled scorched but I’d never felt the ravenous need to rip into something like I felt toward this horrible and charred cake. I had to remain strong. Surely, it was poisoned.

What do I do? I didn’t know what was in it and I didn’t work this hard and endure this much to die from my own freaking undisciplined stupidity.

He walked closer and with each step, he grew prouder … I could tell because he puffed his chest out like he was an old victorious king carrying a decapitated head on a plate.

The freaking thing looked pathetic. One side was shrunken in and he’d tried to compensate for the mistake with extra frosting. Honestly, I didn’t care how it looked. All my thoughts went to how I could refuse eating a slice without offending him.

I played the only card I had. “What’s that for?”

I kept my voice at a soft monotone. He looked hurt that I didn’t know but recovered quickly. He turned to head back upstairs, entirely unsure of the gesture he’d put forth.

“No,” I said hastily hoping to avoid any anger. “Please stay. I just wanted to know what it was for.”

He froze uncertainly and turned to face me, his eyes bright with new pride. He thrust the cake under my nose as if I should orgasm at the smell of butter cream and cocoa. He will never know that I almost did. Orgasm, that is.

He presented this ugly, lopsided, retarded cake to me as if it were a Van Gogh baked masterpiece or some shit. I breathed in the smell and smiled with false gratitude. I was still unsure how to proceed with this baked thing.

“You shouldn’t have,” I muttered through smiling, flexed teeth.

He grinned. A stupid little boy needing a pat on the back. It then hit me that perhaps I should know what this day was but I was drawing a blank. Asking what it was for was asking to shed light on my confusion, especially with things that I probably should’ve remembered but didn’t.

I looked at the cake and saw “Happy 1st Anniversary” written on it in black letters. I held back the onslaught of tears that threatened me. Had it really been a full year? I wanted to scream and crack my head against the wall out of frustration. Instead, I decided to continue living.

“You remembered!” I exclaimed and then clapped my bound hands together in mock applause. Would he notice that I wasn’t into this whole anniversary celebration? No. He wouldn’t.

I did yield in eating that cake. In fact, I wolfed it down and inwardly advised myself that things out of my control will still happen. Death was not calling for me that night.

As those days turned to weeks, I began to doubt my own strength and seriously considered the alternative of being killed. It’s funny how you contemplate your death once you discern that it might be lurking on the horizon like a thick fog that simply will not lift. It’s strange that you actually begin to weigh out which death would be more beneficial.

I took the road less traveled.

Death is death. I wasn’t ready to die. Instead, I continued to silently fight thus pegging my hopes on the idea that he might screw up his own operation. I couldn’t understand what motive he had of taking me. Was it just criminal behavior or was there something behind it? There didn’t seem to be a reason, and that notion was not only what carried me, but also kept me scared. Men with nothing to lose are dangerous.

I must’ve pleased him. Every year, on May 10th, he would bake a cake and deliver it to me proudly. Every year, I warily ate his burned cocoa cake with the enthusiasm of a starving dog pouncing on a meaty bone. Every year, I indulged his pride and each 10th day of May that passed, I lost a little bit more of myself.

Five cakes came and went.

Watching this man was like watching two separate people. Sometimes he was so sweet, shy and insecure, like a baby duck uncertain of his newfound self-reliance. But there was a very evil side to this man, the kind of side that made him do very evil things, just so he could control something. See, what I’d learned was that I wasn’t a person to him. I was an object. But I was something that still had spirit, something that could hate and disapprove. I was something that could judge him. I was someone that did judge him.

Despite being unbalanced, he was quite intelligent. For those five long years, he’d never once unchained me. He would bathe me himself, cutting off my clothes and dipping a giant sponge into an old plastic storage vat filled with warm water and soap. If I had to go the bathroom I had enough slack on the chain to move about in a four-foot radius. There was an old squeaky cot that I slept upon and another plastic vat next to it that I used as a toilet. He would dump it out every day but it didn’t matter how much he washed it out, or laundered my sheets. My small confined area reeked horribly.

I suppose I just got used to the smell after the first year. After awhile I didn’t really notice it at all.

He would bring me tampons when my time of the month hit, and during the first few months of captivity, I’d hoped that he would be disgusted by my period and stay away for those 7 days. But no, he would not be denied his power over me. Sometimes he even watched while I inserted a tampon.

I grew used to being watched. To having no privacy. I grew used to being as affable as possible, of learning his moods and what might set him off, of reading his face. I also learned that occasionally I had to fight him, to disagree with him, just to make him angry. Just to remind him that I was not going to submerge into submission; I was not going to let him break me. I needed to remind him that he could not kill me because he had not succeeded in gaining complete control of me. I still had my will and that will was to fight him.

When the sixth cake came, I ate it without grace or decorum. I shoved the cake in my mouth and licked the frosting from my fingers despite not having had been washed by him in days. I just didn’t give a shit anymore. Food is food and you need it to live. I needed to keep living.

He never fed me well. Never once did he bring me a steak or some chicken or even some meatballs. It was always stale bread, peanut butter, crackers and sometimes some tough cuts of meat that had been kept way past their “sell by” date. To drink, there was always water. Never soda. Never milk. My body was emaciating in front of me but the only thing I could do was keep eating what was provided and continue my life.

The sixth year brought him distress, thus bringing misery to me as well. Apparently he was having financial problems and he couldn’t dig out of it. I began to have hope that the IRS would show up to repossess his house and they would find me – filthy, disgusting, animalistic me – chained to a fucking wall in a smutty cellar. I had plenty of fantasies in the sixth year, imagining being discovered or even escaping. Perhaps this would be the year that he made a monumental mistake.

There were plenty of moments that I couldn’t capitalize on. My wrists had grown so thin that I coated them in peanut butter and managed to get one arm free before he found me working the other arm loose. That was the night that he beat me senseless.

One evening, as he sat in the corner gulping cheap bourbon straight from the bottle, I wanted to ask him why he’d taken me. I couldn’t get the words out. I realized then that I didn’t really want to know. I couldn’t know why because if I did, if I understood the level of his madness, then I really would lose my resolve. My spirit would break at the seeming hopelessness of the situation.

Instead, as he sat slightly rocking with inebriation, I told him stories of my childhood that I knew he wouldn’t really remember. My goal was to get him to feel close to me so when he woke up in the morning he wouldn’t quite know why. I was hoping that I could appeal to the part of his mind that was more Dr. Jekyll than Mr. Hyde. The part of him that was still a little boy, needing approval and love, as opposed to that part of him that could cruelly turn on me, rape me and beat me.


He fell asleep listening to how my father loved to take me to baseball games and about our backyard barbecues. In his unconscious stupor, I tried to break free but after the peanut butter incident, he’d tightened my handcuffs. I tried to use things near me to toss out and encapsulate the keys. My arms ached from tossing things; my mind ached from trying to figure out some way to escape. The morning came, but I was none the wiser. The windows had been boarded over since my first day there. Six years without a sunrise or sunset.

The seventh cake came. Then the eighth. When the ninth year finally arrived and he again came down those stairs with a cake that he’d actually managed to bake well, I made a pact to myself. If I made it to see the tenth cake, I would exhaust all my energy to escape or just let him break me.

The ninth year was slow to pass. I used my time wisely, observing everything he did and looking for ways to enact my escape, but he seemed flawless as a kidnapper.

However even the best laid plans are subject to fate. Oddly enough, in early May approaching the tenth year, I realized that my arms held a slight green tinge and that they hurt from the inside. A day or two passed and their green hue intensified. So did the pain.

I sat on the floor, my back against my cot, arms palm-up in my lap and just stared at the color that was slowly creeping up my arms. Gangrene. I fucking had gangrene. I knew he would most likely not take the risk of bringing me to the hospital.

I started to cry at the significance of the moment. Almost ten years in captivity and I would die from a goddamn infection. I yelped like a wounded dog and then kneeled angrily and faced the hard-packed dirt floor. I had no weapons, nothing to deliver myself from evil, so I took one long breath and then cracked my forehead against the hard ground. The pain was of no consequence. My past was paved with pain. This was more of a release.

He must’ve heard my yelp, or maybe I was that hardheaded that he’d heard the thumps. He ran downstairs, almost tripping himself in his haste, and gripped my hair in one fist and yanked.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He was angry.

I stuck out my chin and my eyes intensified with rage. “I am ending my life.”

When you’re pissed, there is no limit to how far adrenaline alone can take you. I was more so pissed at the idea of succumbing to an infection than living with him.

His face mirrored several emotions. He didn’t get it. His eyes scanned me and then fell upon my outstretched arms. He started quickly at the sight of the green tinge and then sat down. I could see the conflict going on in his head as he tried to figure out the best way to handle the situation.

To my surprise, he took the keys from his pocket. His shaky hand gave away his nervousness and I knew then that if there was a God, He was screaming at me to take this one miraculous moment. The key slipped into the lock. I remained obedient because I wanted his guard to drop beyond his comfort level.

At that point he was still unsure on how to proceed. I then did something that was not only unexpected but began the sequence of events that would make my miracle come to fruition.

I hugged him. And then as much as it repulsed me, I planted my dirty chapped lips on his to solidify his thoughts that confinement was not necessary with me anymore.

It was not yet time. He was expecting me to be outraged. He was expecting a possible attack. I kissed his lips briefly and rubbed my sore wrists as if to advise him that the situation had not solved the gangrene.

I waited days. I even screwed him willingly so he would be star-struck by the notion that I would truly be in love with him. I said those words falsely to make him smile with the silliness of love.

My first shower by myself was heaven. He sat on the toilet to ensure I wouldn’t try to climb out the window, but the warm stream of water and the musky smell of Irish Spring soap was enough to bring tears to my eyes. A few more days, I told myself.

He brought a doctor to me. I kept mum, not because I didn’t want to escape but because I wanted to be his punisher in the end. The doctor rattled off the causes of gangrene, including diabetes and frostbite, but it was no secret to me that the wounds that I’d suffered from the handcuffs and his periodic beatings had simply become infected. Thankfully, the gangrene was in the beginning stages and treatable. He prescribed penicillin to fight the infection but warned that sometimes the contamination could accelerate. I popped the penicillin religiously and began to notice that the pain was lessening.

I could see his trust now. He’d been biting his fingernails when the doctor was there, but I didn’t utter one single word about my captivity. The doctor left, leaving his card behind in case there were complications. He began to look at me with trust and even though it disgusted me, I kept up the charade until I knew that my moment had arrived.

It was torture to wait. I wanted to crack him in the face.

He still didn’t trust me enough to use knives or any sharp objects. He didn’t leave any razors around or glass bottles. He wasn’t stupid. He was cautious in his hopes that I may have actually forgiven him.

He never could cook. So when I entered his kitchen and discovered it was loaded with equipment, I knew my moment had finally arrived.
I opened the refrigerator door and inspected his produce. Tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, bacon and eggs. I grinned. I’d just been handed a “Get Out of Hell Free” card.

“I want to cook you breakfast,” I smiled happily and began ushering the vegetables from the fridge. I put the bacon to sit in the cast iron skillet and asked if I could chop the veggies. I saw the uncertain look cross his face.

I smiled again. “OK, you chop, I’ll advise you from the side.”

He stood up unsteadily and unlocked the knife drawer. My eyes glittered like the sterling silver of the blade. He placed the onion on the block and coarsely chopped them and put them to the side. He butchered that poor tomato but I kept up my smile and egged him on. He scooted the tomatoes and onions into another skillet and added mushrooms.

“Now drizzle them with a bit of oil so they don’t stick to the bottom,” I taught him.

He did it obediently and looked at me proudly. The vegetables sautéed nicely, so when they were softened, I reduced the flame and asked him if he had some cheese.

“I will scramble the eggs, and you shred the cheese,” I said confidently. He bent into the fridge to grab a block of cheese, leaving himself entirely vulnerable.

He turned to me, holding the cheese block in one hand and the shredder in other. His smiled stretched across his entire face and his eyes never truly registered the hot iron skillet, vegetables still inside, barreling at his head.

It cracked open like a watermelon.

He still grinded around on the floor but I don’t think it was because his brain registered what happened but just because his brain still worked. This made me realize he could still feel pain.

I circled him like a starving vulture. I thought about putting him through the same torture that he’d put me through but it occurred to me that it wouldn’t be as poignant.

I plugged in the curling iron. Lord only knows where he got it. I waited until it was so hot that any water drops I flicked on it spit out angrily.

I cut off his pants. He groaned, knowing what I would do but not being able to utter anything because apparently I’d shattered his jaw. I pressed it to his ass and watched as he writhed away from me.

I did many more things to him but in the end, I swung that cast iron skillet against his head with the baseball swing that my dad had taught me when I was young.

Step into it. Use your hips for power. Never let your eyes move from the ball.

The police. I’d have to call them but first I sat myself on his table, legs dangling off, settled my face into my palms and grinned. Revenge never felt sweeter.

His phone rang but I didn’t answer it. I took a fork, speared a mushroom off the floor and took a bite. Then another. And another. Mushrooms never tasted better.