Hindered Souls: Dark Tales for Dark Nights, page 4
“You want it?” she asked, getting down to business.
“I uh—“
“$10.”
“Oh, well…” I paused, thinking that was actually pretty reasonable. “And it works?”
“Of course,” she replied with an arrogant toss of her hair. She stood no more than 3 ½ feet tall, but she seemed to tower above me. “Why would we sell a broken microwave?”
My eyes darted across the pile to a mirror with a crack in the bottom left corner. As if reading my mind she said, “Some of these things are from Esme.” She pointed in a vague direction, back down the street.
I shot a look over my shoulder, and she sighed.
“Do you live around here?”
“I do.”
“Esme,” she pointed again, repeating the name. “Esme?”
I shook my head stupidly.
“Her shop is right back there.”
I looked behind me again; I could see the buzzing red from the sign as it splashed haphazardly onto the pale lawn. I realized she must’ve been talking about the palm reader, so that’s what I said: “Oh, the palm reader?”
She rolled her eyes at me. And looked down at the assortment of items that inhabited the wiry grass. “Pick one,” she instructed.
“Huh?”
“Pick something, and take the microwave. $10.”
“But I…”
“It’s a good deal,” she assured me. “It will work.”
“OK, I guess.” I reached into my pocket to fish out some crumpled bills. I did need a microwave, but mostly I wanted to get away from the kid. And $10 wasn’t that bad, I rationalized while feeling increasingly uncomfortable.
“Pick something else,” she said, tucking the bills in the big front pocket of her sundress.
“This is fine. I’m fine with—“
“That wasn’t the deal. Pick something.”
Goosebumps crawled across my back and settled on my greasy arms. The sun was slipping behind the highway overpass. The light suddenly felt as important as air, and it was retreating fast.
I scanned the ground quickly: a small, wooden doll with a messy paint job; a deck of cards with a cigarette company logo covering their backs; a tarnished candle snuffer; a glittery snow globe; a stuffed bear with only one eye.
My hand reached toward the snuffer, but hesitated over a framed picture. It was a simple thing, both in image and construction: a yellowed slip of glass over an equally yellowed photo. The frame itself was cheap metal, painted to look like gold.
I picked it up because my fingers reached and danced for it.
“Good choice,” the girl chirped.
I had forgotten she was there. I looked at her blankly.
“Good choice,” she repeated. “That’s one of Esme’s.” A smiled stretched across her face, round cheeks shrinking her eyes to slits. “Okay! Bye!” she announced suddenly, turning to enter the salon.
Dumbstruck, I lifted the microwave, the dangling cord swinging between my legs. I placed the framed photo on top, and carried the bundle in front of me like I had just been told to clean out my desk. I forgot to check the time, forgot to take inventory of my usual landmarks. I navigated the sidewalk, my gaze repeatedly sliding down to the picture.
At first I thought it might have been wrong, that it was a drawing and not an actual photo; the paper looked torn from an old sketch pad. But as I continued to gaze downwards, the bleached light bouncing off the faux frame, it revealed itself as an aged photograph on thick and musty paper. Sepia toned, like someone had applied an old-timey filter, it looked like it had a smell. The stained paper surely carried with it mold, dust, and mildew. I held in a sneeze while pondering what lived behind that cloudy pane of glass.
I tripped once or twice as I rounded the bend and turned into my apartment complex. The concrete was uneven, and I was preoccupied by the woman in the photo.
It was really a picture of nothing.
A woman stood, alone, her long dark hair swept over one shoulder. She was looking down, her head tilted and eyes heavy-lidded. She had on a dress made of some light colored cloth and it bled into the background, causing a haze.
That was it.
She was in a field of nothing, surrounded by nothing. No crop loomed behind her; no varsity jacket wearing sweetie snuggled up beside her. But, for seemingly no reason, she stood to the far right, completely off-center. And to the left there was nothing.
I couldn’t stop thinking about all the things that should have occupied that spot: a prize pig, a new car, children, hay bales, her sisters. Of course she had sisters.
I hung the photo across from my bed, by the light switch. I left the microwave on the corner of the kitchen counter.
She was the first thing I saw the next morning, and I bid her hello. I also named her Mirabelle.
I said goodbye before I hurried off to work, nearly forgetting my visor on the coffee table.
I spent my whole shift thinking about that picture of absolutely nothing. A yellowed, flat landscape with a blurry, un-centered girl. I wondered what it smelled like there, beside Mirabelle, as I scooped fries into a paper sleeve. I wondered why she needed so much open space to herself. What was absent stood out more than what was actually there. The lone woman lingered, committed to the sheath of card stock forever. It was a pointless snap of an unremarkable person, and yet I couldn’t get her out of my mind.
I filled greasy containers and handed them to faceless forms with greedy fingers; I handed them into a void of nothingness. It was an echo back—I was faceless. I was nothing. And my Mirabelle… She seemed so at peace with the nothingness that enveloped her. I was envious of her serenity. Behind my thoughts, the fryer beeped more than I cared for; the scene nailed up on my wall was surely much quieter.
On my walk home that evening, there was no pile of bric-a-brac on the lawn of the hair salon. And there was no wise-beyond-her-years little girl skulking about. The sky was a dirty yellow, but I made it home in record time. Without changing clothes, I sat on my bed until the alarm went off for work the next morning.
It beeped incessantly until it stopped, but I barely heard it. I was distracted by the sweet breeze that rustled the grass and tossed Mirabelle’s hair. Delicate, velvety brown tendrils covered her eyes. I watched the clouds roll by and cast nasty shadows across her white dress.
It seemed it was always that time of day in the picture—magic hour. It was always perfectly warm, like honey dripping from the sky. It was yellow there, but golden. Rich. Luscious.
Mirabelle waved to me from where she stood. Her long, elegant fingers beckoned as amber rays of light cascaded off the glass and spilled into my room. She called to me with a voiceless whisper. Her eyes never met mine, but I knew she saw me, sat on my bed, lust and hunger staining my face.
I stayed with her, and twice a day the light in my room matched Mirabelle’s. Twice a day she spoke to me in her hushed and murmured tones, lips unmoving. She was still and serene like etched marble, and I begged her to let me breathe the innocence trapped behind her brittle sheet of glass. On hands and knees I pleaded. She was wealthy, and I was drowning. There were weights pulling me under and away from her, and I needed to taste what she swallowed. One gulp of her air would give me life. I asked forgiveness for thinking what she breathed was stale and old—the winds of death.
She was benevolent, and the air that seeped from the unsecured edges of Mirabelle’s frame, well, I had never smelled anything sweeter. A cleaner breeze had never brushed my skin. Mirabelle’s sun wasn’t my sun, and her air was sugar-water turned vaporous. I sat silently, thinking of words to describe it. None existed.
Jealousy burned within me.
It wasn’t crowded there. Not at all. Mirabelle stood to the far right; to the left was vast emptiness.
I could stand beside her.
I sat vigilant, and twice a day when the light was amber and thick with possibility, Mirabelle nodded in agreement.
There was plenty of room, and yes, of course, I could stand beside her.
My heart nearly exploded. The offer was extended and accepted with a series of glances. I would be her right hand. But I had to wait—until the next magic hour—and remove the little slip of glass that kept Mirabelle covered.
That’s what she told me.
So that’s what I did.
I unfastened the small clips that kept the layers of cardboard, photo, and glass sandwiched together. I was afraid to remove the frame from my wall, to disrupt it and make it all disappear. But I did, because Mirabelle had told me to.
I clasped the photo by its edges, and eased it into place without the barricade of glass. I was so terrified I’d hurt her, my fingers trembled.
It hung on my wall, above the light switch, naked and open. And I waited. I knew it wouldn’t be long, although time had little meaning in the room with the picture of a silent woman surrounded by emptiness. Mirabelle and I saw the same things.
And in due time, rays of light reached out from the photo and stretched towards the warmth filtering through my window. They danced. It was beautiful and blinding, and I had to shield my gaze because I was staring into the sun. I wanted to watch, but nausea flooded my body and made my eyes slide to the back of my head.
That evening, when I peeled my eyelids open again, I saw my bed looming in front of me. If I strained, I was able to see my whole room, though the angle was certainly foreign. It was nothing like I had imagined, and yet, it had always been what was coming. There were angry parts of me, hidden deep, and molded by desperation. There were parts that blamed Mirabelle. If there was any fault to be had, it was as much hers—or Esme’s for that matter—as it was mine. And what’s done is done. Anger won’t change the tilt of my chin.
I think about the future that’s stretched out before me. (I once had none.) Maybe someone will take me off this wall, out of this neighborhood, away from this life. Maybe I’ll see the world! I can find a silver lining almost anywhere, and it can be so beautiful behind the glass.
I’m a watcher now, left to sit and stare. But twice a day I’m able to move about and address Mirabelle properly, which is nice. I must say, I look lovely, all dressed in white. And there’s this large open space beside me. Perhaps in our travels we can pick up a new sister.
We have lots of time to find her.
Baby Bird
by Craig Bullock
“I swear I heard you whimper that time!”
René laughed as she drew the blade across the leg for the third time. The cuts only left a small mark on the perfect fibreglass skin but it made René laugh all the same.
A tear formed below its eye. “Now, let’s sort out those breasts. Can't have you being bigger than me now, can we?” René reached into the bra and pulled out a handful of tissue. “Perfect!” And with that she straightened the vintage cream wedding dress and stepped back to admire her art.
The mannequin was a gift for John and René’s wooden anniversary. Apparently five years was quite a big deal according to their friends and her chief bridesmaid, Vicky. Between the group of friends they had bestowed upon the happy couple a top of the range, life-like mannequin.
Initially René had felt a little disturbed by its realistic qualities but after her bout of Pediophobia (an irrational fear of mannequins) had passed—thanks mainly to her councilor—her husband John had finally retrieved it from the loft and she let it reside in their bedroom. At first, René disliked the mannequin and only used it to throw her dirty clothes over prior to wash day, but more recently her interest in it had begun to grow.
****
“I know he loves me! He is my soulmate after all. He would never hurt me, I’m his angel. But I can't blame him for looking elsewhere, I can be a right bitch at times,” hissed René. She picked up the camera and took a picture. “There you go my darling. Beautiful.”
The mannequin stood a majestic 5ft 8. Its lifelike skin, perfectly matched its pale blue eyes and its contoured cheeks were to die for. The steel support connecting it to its base stood illuminated, reflecting each flash from the camera as its digital screen captured the ample 36D cup size and 24 inch waist. Even its behind was perfectly shaped.
“No need for support pants for this girl,” sneered René.
René had purchased it a gorgeous brown bobbed wig made from real human hair, reminiscent of her own style when she and John got married and had spent most of the morning styling it to perfection. Every curl and imperfection, straightened and obliterated with a gallon of hairspray.
“You will never grow old! Your skin will remain flawless. You'll never get wrinkles and crow’s feet will never grace your optimistic eyes. Your breasts will never sag and your stomach will never appear bloated… Bitch.” And with that, René grabbed the lipstick. She smiled to herself as she extended the tip and remembered how it used to be.
On the night they met, John was somewhat intoxicated. Following an argument with a well-built gentleman regarding the choice of music playing on the jukebox and ending with a large fist connecting to John’s face, he woke and found René looking down upon him, her perfect blue eyes catching his gaze, her warm smile comforting.
She picked him up, and after a cigarette or three, carried him back to her car. Once at her house, she continued filling him with copious amounts of red wine. When it finally appeared that John was more than willing to fulfill her every wicked desire, she escorted him to the bedroom and attempted to take advantage of what he had left to give, which wasn’t much, considering his intoxicated state.
In the morning René watched on with amusement as John appeared to wake, assess his surroundings, gingerly explore the large bruise on his cheek and finally, after spotting her, smile and pass out.
John later confessed to her that, whilst he had no idea where he was or how he got there, the moment he laid eyes on her, he knew she was to be his world, his sweet, gorgeous angel.
John and René’s relationship was temperamental, to say the least. Over the next few months he would regularly return to find his clothes tumbling from the upstairs open window and a suit case waiting outside for his return. However when René found out she was pregnant, John rushed out and brought the most expensive engagement ring his minimum paid job would allow. The happy couple made plans and rented a house of their own.
Several months later, however, René lost the baby and sunk deeply into depression. Three months later the sombre couple got married at St Peters Church. Friends and loved ones were in full attendance but it always felt like someone was missing.
****
René took the blood red lipstick and gently ran it over the mannequin’s plump fibreglass lips.
“I’ve checked his phone, of course… Nothing! Not even a single call or text. I've even checked his Twitter! Vicky messaged him recently, though, to ask how I was, apparently… That would make sense. No wonder she got me you. Three sizes smaller and two cup sizes bigger. Bitch knows how to put the boot in.” René looked the mannequin in the eyes, a sly grin forming on her face.
“It’s no wonder really. My job is nothing compared to hers. I can’t provide like she can. Hell, on my wage I can barely afford to go the gym. Two months of sweat and tears and these love handles are going nowhere. Bitch has even got a personal trainer! Between us girls… Is sniffing his underwear too much when he's come home late?”
With a manic laugh René crushed the lipstick hard upon the mannequin’s lips smearing it over the edges and upwards across its immaculate cheek bones, reminiscent of a clown's sinister smile.
“I thinks she's always had a thing for him! Wouldn't surprise me if they've been at it for ages. Meeting up behind my back. Laughing with all our so called friends at my expense. I've been checking his bank account too, you know? The odd withdrawal here and there but nothing incriminating. The cheap swine's never even bought me flowers since our third anniversary. I'm sure Vicky's room is showered with them by now. Necklaces, earrings, and who knows what else! At least you'll never have to feel what I feel. Never have to go through what I've been through.”
René took out her eyebrow pencil and began colouring thick lines above the mannequin’s eyes, over exaggerating them and turning them in to a mono brow. Using the most garish colour she could find, she applied the eye-shadow to its perfectly shaped eye lids. Next, she retrieved her brightest red blusher and applied it in abundance to both cheeks.
“You'll never know what it’s like to push someone you love away. Never know what it’s like to find and lose love. What it’s like to never feel the love of your unborn child; to be fixated on the flabby belly it left behind.”
She took a small step back to admire her work and laughed.
“Ha! Who's the fool now! Not me. You're the clown, bitch. You are. Not me!”
And on that last note of frustration, René struck the Mannequin hard across the cheek, so hard her perfect fibreglass nose shattered, scattering shards across the room. René collapsed onto the side of the bed sobbing hysterically remembering why she can’t do this anymore.
René had never fully recovered from losing their child. John had struggled on for several years trying to support and love her. His love grew as her love faded. He would take her out for meals and organise dates with friends to distract her from her thoughts, but as time dragged on René became more reluctant to leave the house.
John would buy her gifts and compliment her at every opportunity, but it always fell on deaf ears.
”Lights off!” became a routine mantra prior to any affection she graced him with. René knew she was pushing him away. Despite her continued feelings for him she knew she would never be able to feel the way she did on that night they met.
Eventually, when John could think of no other way to save their marriage he eventually uttered the inevitable, "Let’s try again.”
