24
The gods ask me to give them a head on a silver platter. They would like it to be like the wild man, Jacob. Sawed off at the neck and missing the bottom part of his chin. Perhaps with the hair cut off so clumsily that the ends split up to the scalp.
No, no, I tell the gods. I try not to participate in violence.
The gods will not take no for an answer. But we want a head on a silver platter. This is something we have always dreamed of. It is the one thing we truly desire. We can't get it for ourself. That would ruin the surprise. There would be no sanctity, the gods say.
The gods kick my shins until they bleed. I wash the blood off to reveal the bruises beneath. They are a deep purple color. As the wounds heal, they become yellow. The husband pokes the bruises to see how the colors fade from one to the other. When the wounds are nearly gone, the gods kick me again. We want our head, they say.
What if it were on a gold platter, the husband asks.
The gods throw potted plants out the window. No, they say. We demand a silver platter. That is the type of platter that the stories speak of and so we want a silver platter. Are you so cruel as to deny us that?
I grow tired of the gods crying. The husband comes into the room and carries me out. I will give them the platter, the husband says and wraps me up in an angora scarf. I sneeze on the fur and squirm out. The husband pulls a silver platter out from beneath the bed. He carries it to the gods. They stare at the empty platter and pull coffee cups out of the cabinets. They throw the mugs onto the floor. The porcelain shatters. The gods move in a circle, stomping their feet and grinding the porcelain into the floor.
I crawl out of the bedroom. We want a head on the platter, the gods shout. They bend the platter in half. The husband growls and takes the platter from them. He straightens the silver out and carries it into the living room. I follow the husband. He seats me on the couch. He pulls wax from my nose and sets to work molding a head. He uses me as a model. He makes my eyes and nose, my mouth and forehead.
When the head is done, he sticks it on the platter. I examine the jagged neck. It needs blood, I say. The husband cuts his hands with broken rocks and smears the blood over the bottom of the head. He pushes the neck into the platter. It doesn't look very real, I say.
Do you think that the gods will notice, the husband asks.
They always notice. That's what the gods do. They like to complain. You know that? They complain about everything. The weather. What we wear. What I cook for them. They get bored. They want everything done their way, I say. The husband sniffles.
He carries the platter to the gods. They stare at the wax. They poke its head. They touch the blood. This is immortal blood, the gods say. Where is the fun in that? We want a human head. We want something that can die. We want something that can truly know what it means to bleed. Waxen heads. What are we supposed to do with this? Receiving a waxen head is far from being an honor, the gods say. The gods throw the platter at the husband's feet. He steps back. The wax head trembles and melts.
I look at the husband knowingly. I told you, I say. The husband picks his platter up and wipes the melted wax free. He works the wax into a ball and stuffs it into his mouth. Eating wax won't help you, I say. I bend over and take a handful of dirt. I swallow it without chewing. The husband narrows his eyes. What, I ask. I was hungry. The husband finishes swallowing the wax.
Why can't they be happy with a wax head, he asks. I shrug. The husband goes back into the living room and takes a stack of newspapers out of the ceilings. He mixes flour with water until it is a semi-thick paste. Dropping strips of paper into the mixture, he begins a sculpture of a head. I bring the husband a pack of broad-tipped markers. He doesn't wait for the paper to dry before making a face. He gives the face blue eyes and bright red lips. He places the completed sculpture on the silver platter and carries it back into the kitchen. The gods knock the platter out of the husband's hands.
We want a real head, they scream. A real head with blood. We want it to be on the verge of rotting. We want it to signify death. Why can't you do anything right?
The husband groans in disbelief. I lead him back into the living room. They will not be happy until there is flesh, I say. I kiss his cheek and go into the street. I wait patiently for an old friend to walk past. She is an old woman now. I take her by the hand and lead her into the house. The husband has cut a hole into the platter. We fit her head through and drape a silky cloth around her body. We lead her into the kitchen for the gods to see. Bits of metal cut her neck so that she bleeds naturally. The gods stare at her in awe.
She is so beautiful, they say. They fall to their knees before her. They kiss her feet. She smiles and blesses them. Thank you, they say to us. The husband exhales sharply. My friend sits beside the gods. She touches their faces. She allows them to kiss her. When they do, she bleeds harder. Her blood collects on the platter. She turns this way and that and rivulets run free of the silver and onto the floor.
Thank you for everything, she says to me. She lies down and dies.
25
The creatures tell me they fear the abyss. They are afraid of falling over the edge and plummeting forever. They sit at my feet and sigh over cliffs and precipices. I understand this fear. I tell them of the many nightmares I have had of falling. In my dreams, I was walking along the same beach that I met the husband at. The sand shifted beneath my weight and began to give way. Everything was falling all of a sudden. I turned to run but the sand pulled my feet in. My legs were weighed down. Even the ocean was falling. The sinkhole sucked me down. Then I was falling. The sand was all around me. It was like Alice falling down the rabbit hole only I was left alone with the sand. I sobbed as I fell. I could not see the bottom. Time did not slow down but sped up. When I could take the falling no longer, when my stomach would not stop plummeting and churning, I woke up. The husband held me. He told me that I had been screaming in my sleep. I touched his face. I touched the floor. Everything was solid. When the floorboards creak, I screamed again, frantic that the world would fall away.
There are beams, the husband said. Concrete and steel foundations. Nails and reinforcements. Nothing is going to fall. It is all solid. It would not just simply fall apart and rush towards the center of the earth. It just does not happen. You're fine. Settling is natural. It assures us that the building is safe.
The creatures nod understandingly. They have heard similar speeches in their lives. Mostly from the dead before they were eaten. The dead should know of things falling apart. But even they can make mistakes.
The creatures pull hourglasses out of their ears. They grimace as the sand falls. Whenever the grains begin their downward flow, the creatures flip the hourglass over, trying to keep the sand suspended. Their hands and wrists grow tired and so I take over. The husband enters the room. What are you doing, he asks as I turn the hourglass over and over.
I do not look up at him. The creatures and I are trying to deny gravity. We do not want to fall through any weaknesses in the earth's crust. And so we are trying to see if we would be able to keep from falling by turning the glass over before the sand can fall, I say.
The husband takes the hourglass away. Smiling at me, he breaks it with one hand. The sand spills out onto the floor. Your obsessions are becoming debilitating, he says. The creatures squeal and run around us. Every three laps, they pause and scratch the husband's back. He swats them away and glares at me. I touch the sand and it turns to glass.
Look at what you've done, I scream. I bring my hand down upon the glass and cut my palm open. When the husband shifts his gaze to examine my wounds, I bring my hand back and slap him across the cheek. He touches his face. It is bright red from my blood. The creatures stop running and stare. Their mouths hang open, revealing their dull teeth.
She hit the husband, the creatures whisper to one another. The husband stands up. He goes to the shelf of hourglasses I keep in the dining room. The creatures and I follow him. My wounds heal as I walk. The husband smashes the hourglasses. The sand rains onto the floor. The grains harden into glass shards when they hit. I shriek and run towards the husband. I pounce on his back and bite the back of his neck.
How could you, I scream. You are ruining everything. The world will fall apart. The sand will kill us. We will all fall through. I fall to the floor and sob. The creatures surround me and hang their heads. The husband breathe erratically as he watches us.
I fear for your sanity, he says.
Will you lock me away again, I ask.
My wife, the husband says. The sands will not kill you. You are fearing a death you will never have. You cannot die. Why do you always forget these things? You have spent too long with the humans. Even these creatures. They make you think of things you ordinarily wouldn't. You cannot die. You are immortal. There is a reason that you exist because of the cemetery dirt Death strengthens you. Why are you forgetting?
I cut my hands again and again. The creatures wag their tails. They crawl beneath the dining room table and chew on the table legs. When the table falls, they move to the chairs. The room is loud with the sound of dropping wood. The creatures run from the falling pieces. I turn to watch them. But I was human once, I say.
The husband shakes his head. You were never human, he says. You only spent time with humans. You are as far from human as you could ever be. That is why you spend time with cemetery creatures. You enjoy them. They are your friends. Because you are not human.
I touch the sand. It does not make me bleed. I look up at the husbands. The creatures mouths hang open again. They look for the marks on my palms. They whisper to one another, She does not bleed. She cannot bleed. Look, the wounds are not forming. She really isn't human. There is no blood.
The husband holds my hands in his. The world will not crumble, he says. I look past him and see a widening crack in the corner of the room. The wood turns to dust and falls through, followed by the weakening walls. I whimper. Looking at the husband, I force a smile.
I believe you, I say. But I cannot forget the crack. The creatures follow my gaze and cover their mouths with their hands.
We believe you, too, they chorus. But none of us truly do.
26
We take part in a fire-breathing ceremony. The priests try to ward off evil. They say it is everywhere. It takes the form of a dark shadow with light at its core. The fire keeps the evil away. When the priests' eyes roll around in their heads, the husband eats their torches in a single bite. The priests scream as the darkness surrounds them. I take this opportunity to eat some dirt. The husband stands in front of me, blocking the priests' line of sight. I eat until my stomach aches and then I straighten up. The husband rubs my shoulders.
The priests relight the torches. There is something evil here, they say and whirl around in a tight circle, holding the fire above their heads. The husband sticks his tongue out and licks the torches. The fires go out one by one. The priests duck their heads and whisper. The evil is everywhere, they say. It comes to get us. It seeks to destroy our holiness. We cannot see it but it is there. We can smell it. It smells like rancid meat.
The husband raises an arm to sniff himself. I shrug. The evil smells, I whisper to him. He smiles. I bend over and gather rocks into a pile. I make a pinching gesture and a stem emerges from the stones. The husband watches as the stem lengthens and develops a bud on one end. The bud blooms. We stare into a circle of tightly packed red petals. The flower is still for a moment. The pollen shimmers. It catches the light and reflects it back. Soon, the entire plant looks as thought is has caught on fire. I pluck the flower and hold it in the air.
It illuminates the night. The priests raise their heads and gasp. It is a miracle, they say and come to the flower. They touch its petals and look at their fingertips. We are not burned, they say. Look how it glows. It cannot be extinguished. It is a true sign of God's love for us.
The gods look up over the hedges and glance at one another. Love? It has nothing to do with love. In fact, it has nothing to do with us at all, they say to one another. The gods throw rocks at the flower. I hold my hand up to stop the stones. They fall harmlessly to the ground. The priests fall to their knees and bow to the flower.
The gods hang themselves from the adjacent tree. The husband licks his lips. He growls deep in his throat and takes the flower from my hand. The priests scream as the husband swallows the flower, petal by petal. I glare at him. Why did you have to ruin it, I hiss at him.
The priests beat their drums. They surround the husband. They shoot him with poison dart guns. They feed him the liquid taken from a poison dart frog's back. The husband's face becomes red and blistered. I whimper. I touch the blisters with the tips of my fingers. They burst. Clear fluid drips down the sides of the husband's face. The droplets fall to the ground and burn through the dirt. I frown. You're ruining the earth, I hiss at the husband. Now what am I going to eat?
The husband hangs his head. I am so sorry, he says.
I slam my foot onto his toes. He yelps and hops up and down for a moment. The priests press their hands together and raise their hands plaintively. Please protect us from the darkness, oh gods, they pray aloud. The gods pop their heads out again and spit at the priests. The priests shriek and cover their heads.
Stop asking things of us, they command. Several gods toss throw shuriken at the priests. The steel stars embed themselves in the tree trunks. The priests zig and zag. They tuck and roll. They drop down and jump back up. The gods chuckle at this display. They congratulate one another by sharing high fives. They pluck ragweed and milk the stems by mashing their tongues up against the roofs of their mouths. It is so bitter, the gods say, gritting and gnashing their teeth.
Where is the fire, the gods ask. Why won't the fire come?
The gods laugh. This is fun, they say. They clap their hands. They call to the husband, Won't you eat the fire again? They hoot and holler. The husband turns a tree into an inferno. He opens his mouth until his bottom lip touches the floor. The husband consumes the tree. The gods shout and laugh. He is amazing, they say.
The husband looks pleased. I throw a rock at his throat. He winces and turns away from me. The priests turn to me. Can you bring the fire back? Do you know how, they ask.
I feel bad for them. They try to cling desperately to their religious books and pyramids. I pat their heads and spread my arms. The dirt bursts into flames. The husband looks up. The priests leap into the flames. It is a miracle, they say. You a god in female flesh. How are you able to do these things? Where did you learn such magic?
I place fire onto the tops of their heads. The priests inhale sharply and touch the flames. The heat does not burn, they marvel. The husband tries to lick the flames off of them. I grasp his tongue in one hand and twist it around.
It isn't funny anymore, I snap at the husband.
I'm sorry, the husband says.
I always forgive him. The priests whimper and lift the fire off their heads. They place it in their mouths and the fire comes out of their eyes. They sing loudly and whip around in circles. They remind me of a saint I once knew. She came through town strapped to a flaming wooden wheel. She thought the fire kept the evil away, too.
I never said anything. Just as I don't know. They'll learn. The evil they fear is already breeding within them.
27
The husband and I come to a long rope bridge. The wooden planks are unequally spaced. When the husband and I try to walk, our feet crash through the wood and come out the other side. I pull the husband's legs out and he pulls at mine. The bridge sways this way and that. The husband and I cling to the rope sides. The bridge dips and sags. The planks fall quickly. The husband and I fall off the bridge and hang onto the opposite side. I do not enjoy this trip, I say. The husband pulls himself back up. He takes my hand and pulls me up as well.
The husband and I have heard of many different bridges. We have heard of bridges made of bones and others constructed of ivory. We have been told stories about bridges made of twined grass and others made of blueberries, bridges of velvet and others of fake leather. A rope bridge almost seems cliché.
What is on the other side of this bridge, the husband asks as we sway from side to side.
I have no idea. The gods have told me stories about the treasures that might be on the other side. There could be gold or silver. There could be monsters and death. There might even be nothing. There could be an unadulterated white that we cannot pull ourselves through. It might hurt us. It might not. We might bleed or we might not. We do not know. The gods do not know although they have been there. They said only that we must go and see for ourselves, I say.
The husband and I reach the middle of the bridge. The husband looks over the sides. There is a great abyss beneath us. It begins with a light gray and fades into a plummeting black. The husband leans back. If we fall, who knows what we will find at the bottom, he says.
The gods have spoken of a bottom that could not be reached even after several lifetimes, I say.
The husband and I continue on. As we walk, we notice that the planks are beginning to change from wood to concrete. The concrete planks crumble and crack. The husband and I race over them. We reach the other side and throw ourselves onto the ground. The dirt is warm. I have never felt dirt that was so temperate. I roll around in it. I kiss the earth. I eat several handfuls before sitting back up. The husband lifts a handful of the dirt and blows it off his palm. The dirt slips away like sand. He cocks his head to one side. This is a new species, he says. I nod my head. The dirt tastes of bananas and old pasta. I lick my lips. I touch my tongue to my nose. The husband helps me to my feet. We walk on.
We enter a forest. The trees are all shades of pink and purple. The air smells like salt water. The husband sniffs and wipes the salt from the back of his hands. His hands are crusted in white minerals. I get on my knees and eat the salt from him. When I cannot eat dirt, salt is the only other alternative. I can keep it down. I do not have a need to vomit it. In some ways, it is more of a proper meal because it has a more digestive permanence. But I grow tired of the salt. It is too pungent of a flavor. It makes me sick if I eat too much. The husband knows this and when he feels that I have had enough, he takes his hands away from me.
I wipe the salt from my lips and nose. It sticks to my forehead and the husband chips the crystals away. They fall to the ground in large pieces. Several strike my feet so that I begin to bleed. The husband lifts me into his arms and places me on his back. I shrink in size and cling to him. He moves across the forest, taking care not to step on man-eating plants. They rear up and arrange their petals to appear larger than they are. Several sink their teeth into the backs of my thighs. I kick them away and climb higher up on the husband's back.
The husband grunts as he stumbles and catches himself. He tries to keep me from falling by reaching back and cupping a hand beneath me. He snaps snake-like vines dripping poison in half with one hand. He sings me to sleep. I curl up in the small of his back and dream of deserted landscapes blanketed in black. There might even be a white sky. Or vice versa. The husband stops walking. He helps me down. I rise up and hold onto his hand.
What is this, I whisper. The husband cannot speak.
We are faced with a landscape comprised of glass. It comes in shards, balls, and sheets. There are glass grains and glass stars. Glass mountains, glass oceans, glass deserts. The glass catches the light and reflects back at us in brilliant shades of blue, purple, pink, yellow, and green. We walk forward and the glass cuts us. We must always remember that even the most beautiful landscapes can be dangerous, the husband says as glass vines whip across his face, slicing his cheek open.
I wince as my feet sink into the glass dirt. There are glass cemeteries. I can see the caskets beneath the clear dirt. I touch the tombstone. Despite it looking smooth to the touch, it is jagged. My blood drips everywhere. I should not eat but I cannot control my hunger. I sink to my knees and inhale screams of pain. The husband watches as I shovel the glass dirt into my mouth. The glass shrieks and squeaks. I do not care. I chew some pieces and swallow others whole. The glass cuts as it moves down my throat but it is delicious. It is the best dirt I have ever tasted. The husband does not try to keep me away.
28
I am allergic to the husband. This happens suddenly. We make love and I begin itching. Blood pours from my mouth. The husband places his fist against my lips to try to plug the blood up. This does not work. The blood simply spurts past his fingers and wets his face. Hives form on my eyelids. The husband pops them with their fingernails. The bursting blisters release a light pink fluid. It is sticky. It coats my face. I gasp for breath. Everything tightens within me. My chest. My throat. My abdomen. My genitals. The husband and I are still naked as I suffer. He does not pull out of me. It takes several more minutes before we realize that the reaction is caused by his flesh. The husband pulls away and dresses. My fever goes down. I stop sweating. I stare at the husband and whimper.
Are you alright, the husband asks. He cradles me in his arms. I touch his face. The swelling in my hands goes down. I touch his lower body and my fingers itch uncontrollably.
It is your penis, I say and the husband looks down at himself as if expecting to see some sort of powder or poison covering him. There is only flesh. He pokes his own body and examines his hands. I find it amusing to see him consider the possibility of being allergic to himself.
I don't know what I did, the husband says, looking back up. He washes his hands before touching me again. His eyes are wide. He looks frantic. He kisses my forehead as though that might make the allergy go away. I smile up at him.
It's not your fault. These things happen, I say.
But this has never happened before. How did it just begin? We have always been able to make love without you feeling any pain. I just can't understand what went wrong, the husband says. He lowers me to the bed and pulls the blankets up to my chin. I shift against the sheets. They are cool and smooth. They smell like the husband. He sits at the edge of the bed. He tapes his fingers against his thigh. He looks around the room. Did I touch something beforehand? Or maybe you ate something and it started the reaction? Could something be happening within your body? Do your cells despise me? The husband covers his face with his hands and bends over. I pat the small of his back lightly.
It wasn't your fault. How were we to know something like this would happen, I ask. It is very strange. I have never had such allergies before. Not to the point that my body has nearly failed. In fact, I never thought that I would be capable of reacting in such a way to anything. Those are characteristics of a mortal. I will live forever. How can I have allergies if I can barely draw in a breath because my body has decided that the action is completely unnecessary?
I sit up. It's okay, I say. I kiss the husband's shoulder. The creatures burst into the room. They run around the bed until the husband steps on their backs to stop them from moving any more. They shriek.
We have heard that the Grave Eater is allergic to the husband, the creatures say. They cackle loudly. How can it be? The immortal couple can no longer make love. That is something for poetry, for the great dramas of mankind. The star-crossed lovers can never be together again. The creatures slip away from the husband's feet and move to the windows. They eat the curtains. I turn away from the slurping sound.
The husband glares at the creatures. They finish eating the curtains and rush to the dresser. They open the drawers and slip inside. We watch as they dart from drawer to drawer, laughing maniacally. The husband and the wife cannot be together, they sing. How does it feel, husband? To know that she can feign death when you touch her, to know that your hands bring her pain? The creatures laugh again. The husband flicks them in their rears and they fly across the room, slamming into the wall.
I lean forward. I am not allergic to the husband, I say. I am allergic to his genitals. We cannot have sex. But there are more important things in the world. And the pain is temporary. Just as you are, I say. The creatures pause by the closet door and cock their heads in my direction.
Why must you make jokes of our mortality, they ask.
Because you mock the husband and me, I say.
Only because we love you! You are our favorite couple. What would we do without you and the husband? You protect us and feed us. We have always been such good friends, the creatures say. They look up at my innocently. Their bottom lips quiver. The husband shakes his head.
Wouldn't it be nice if we felt similarly, the husband asks. The creatures pout more. They push their lips out as far as they can go, reveal their snaggle-teeth. The husband grimaces at the sight. I reach over to pat their heads.
The husband is simply upset, I say.
The creatures scream. We see something shiny within you, they say and point at the husband. He looks down at himself.
Where, he asks.
The creatures poke at his groin. There, they say and run back out the window. The husband removes his pants. I lean over and stare at his skin. I see nothing. He shifts this way and that. Suddenly, the light catches his flesh. Something sparkles. Gritting my teeth, I touch the sparkling thing. It falls. The husband bends down to pick it up. He holds it on his fingertip.
It is glass, he says.
It is from the glass landscape, I say. Amazing. The dirt must have fallen onto you when we were traveling. It lodged into your flesh. It was not you I was allergic to but the glass. To prove our theory, the husband and I make love again. This time, my body stays together.
29
The husband and I decide to take an acid bath. We would like to come apart and commingle at the bottom of a glass jar. It would be interesting to see how our bodies would react chemically to one another. I would like to know what it would look like for our bodies to grow together to create one unified creature. It would be like the birth of our child, only without the precision that is conception and childbirth.
We ask the gods for their assistance. They bring vats of acid in various colors. We take our time choosing between the powder yellow and neon yellow. After that, we decide between carnation pink and magenta, navy blue and cerulean. Your disintegration would be most interesting and effective if we move you from vat to vat of varying strengths, the gods say. You will begin in the weakest variant so that your flesh can begin to soften. From there, we will dunk you in the subsequent strengths, until we have succeeded in milking your flesh from your bones. All this, we will collect in a container of saline solution, so that the elements of your body are preserved until you are ready to be reborn, the gods say.
We agree with this plan. It makes sense to slowly fall apart. The husband and I take baths and wait for the gods to fill a series of tubs with the acid. They help us into the first bath. The husband and I huddle together and breathe slowly. The gods guide us beneath the surface. They wear gloves to protect their hands. The husband and I are naked. We breathe the acid. It tickles our noses. We rub our upper lips. The husband looks at his hand and marvels at how his flesh is already beginning to slide away from the structure of his face. I touch the slipping skin. It is no longer a flesh color but develops a tint of yellow. I wave my hands in front of me. My fingernails fall off. They float in front of me and then disappear. The gods dip mesh nets into the solution and pull the impurities out. They drop them into the bottle of saline and shake the bottle around.
The timer goes off. The husband and I step out of the bath. We shiver. The gods lead us to the blue tub. We take our time placing our toes into the acid. Instead of tickling us, the acid feels more like a burn. The husband grumbles while slipping inside the bath. He takes my hand and escorts me in. We lie down together. The gods set the timer again.
The husband and I keep our eyes open. Everything looks blue. We smile at one another. The husband pats my stomach. When he lifts his hand, my skin is stuck to his palm. I help him pull the skin free. This only succeeds in loosening his own flesh. Sheets of us float to the surface. The gods quickly pick them up and put them into the saline.
The husband wiggles his eyebrows at me. I open my mouth to speak. Hello, I say. My tongue floats away. The gods snatch it up and store it. The husband opens his mouth as well so that I am not the only one incapable of speech.
This is really a wonderful experiment, the gods say. It is interesting to see the body act in such a way. Fascinating really. Especially the immortal body. You have no idea what it is like to see the divine succumb to something so mortal. They shake the glass containers to keep our flesh from clumping together on the sides.
My eyes tear. The husband rubs my shoulders. My flesh lifts off, revealing the muscle beneath. The water turns purple as my blood mixes with the blue acid. It's okay, the gods assure me. This is all part of the process. I roll my eyes. I can feel them loosening in the cavity. I close my eyes to keep my sight a little longer. The husband squeezes my hand. I move my arms this way and that. Our flesh sticks to my fingers. The husband grunts and shifts close to me. I roll over so that I can place my head against his chest.
We would suggest limited motion, the gods say as they strain and save. You don't want to taint the results. That would be ill-advised. It would really make the entire experiment pointless.
The timer sounds. We rise out of the acid. The gods check the bath to make certain that they have captured everything lost from us. They shake the saline bottle and escort us to the next tub. I step in first, pulling the husband in with me. We move slowly, taking time to watch our muscles tense and relax. We are a brilliant reddish-purple, like Kobe beef. We probably taste delicious.
The husband and I lie down. We keep our eyes open. It takes only a moment for our vision to spin and swim. We look down on ourselves. We look like strangers. We roll up and see the gods peering down at us, mesh nets in hand. They poke our eyes but do not lift them out of the bath. Our muscles come away in strips. They untie and unwind. The husband tries to hold onto his arm muscles but his hands come away with them.
Finally, the muscles are gone. We are exposed bone. The gods pour in a gallon green acid, turning the mixture a sickly orange-brown. I grimace. Our bones are gone in only a few moments. We feel nothing. We are numb. The gods shake the container of saline again. They spill the contents out on the floor and work it together in a mound. When they are done, there is simply the husband and me. I look at the husband forlornly.
I thought we could create something together, I say. The husband holds me and rubs my backs. The gods drink the acid bathes and waddle away, their stomachs dragging across the floor and taking the floorboards with them.
30
The husband would like to bring me into a prison setting. This is not because he would like to see me get hurt. It is simply because he finds the idea of me behind bars amusing. He hopes that several men will try to speak to me so that I destroy them. I am a pacifist but if need be, I will take on the role of destroyer. The divine are left no choice. Unlike mortals, who can die after they have been abused, we must live forever remembering every incident that has taken place in our lives. This is not something we would like to have happen. And so we avoid as best we can.
I will take your bet, I say to the husband. I allow him to choose the prison. I know that he will choose the worst building ever.
There are two, he says, holding up the corresponding fingers.
That is fine, I say.
The husband places me on his back and carries me to the first prison. He places me inside a small cell located on the sixth story of a metal cell block. I do not like how this cell smells. It smells like old semen and orange peels. My stomach aches. The husband helps me sit on the hard metal bed. He places blankets over it and then leaves. I will be back for you in a few days, he says. He locks the cell door and walks away. I watch him go. The cell block shakes every so often. My head spins from the altitude. The bars are a rusted red. The temperature varies from too hot to freezing. I wrap myself in my blanket and then strip naked. The lights are always on. When I try to sleep, the lights shine in my eyes, distracting me. I roll over and over, trying to gain some darkness. I am tempted to call for the creatures or the gods but I do not wish to lose my bet with the husband. If I win, I will be allowed to travel the world, eating dirt native to specific countries. But the husband said nothing about growing bored of my surroundings. I wish for spray paint or some books. Sometimes, I stand at the doorway and look out, whispering to myself.
This is a game, I say. This is only a game. I am okay. The husband will be back for me. This is only a game. It takes another day before the inmates realize that I am there. They are allowed out of their cells every so often to stretch their legs. They walk to my cell and peer in through the bars.
Look at her, the men say. Pretty girl. What's your name, pretty lady? Want some company? We can ask the guards to open the door. We can all be friends. They say other things. Obscene and vulgar things. I pretend I do not hear them. When one of them tries to reach through the bars to touch me, I raise my hand until it is level with my waist. The man screams. Electrical currents stream up the bars. The men run away, their limbs glowing bright blue. I look at the crumbling floor. The men continue yelling from down the hall. They try to seem as though they are not shocked at all. I would like them to remember electricity and divinity as one body and so I send snakes after them.
The men scream for many hours as the snakes devour them slowly. After that, no one bothers me. The husband returns. On to the next, the husband says and unlocks the bars. He and I walk off the cell block together. We walk out the window and to another state. There, the husband shows me a gray building. It has plywood boarding up its windows. The walls are colorful with graffiti.
This is the next, the husband says and escorts me inside. I stumble over the debris. There are boxes and wheelchairs. Overturned chairs and stacks of paper. Lights and railings. Everything is on the floor. The husband brings me up several flights of creaking stairs until we reach the top floor.
The husband shows me to a room. The door is broken down. This is where you will stay, the husband says. I sit in a corner of the room and look away form him.
This is fine, I say. The husband puts the door up and locks it. I pace around the room. Cold air rushes through the broken windows. I sing to myself. Many of the songs are religious, because that is all I can think of. And the Lord said, we'll all be fine. Let the Lord say, he's here all the time. And the Lord said, we'll all be fine. Let's tell every body his word is mine, I whisper. I wrinkle my nose and shake my head.
It grows cold. The air becomes hard. I try to breathe but ice covers my nostrils and makes it hard to draw the breath in. Invisible hands rattle the windows and bars. They knock on the doors. I walk from wall to wall, touching the peeling paint before walking on. My limbs grow heavy and useless. I drag myself along the floor. It is so cold. I gasp and moan. I put my mouth to the window and scream. At night, it becomes even colder. I shiver and feel ice forming around me like a cocoon. I do not fight it any longer. I live in this ice shelter. It is warmer there then outside. Finally, the husband comes. He cracks the ice open with a chisel and hammer. I am blue. He rubs my body until it turns pink in color . I look up at him.
I won, I whisper. Nothing was said about growing cold. Only that I must not leave.
The husband is not a sore loser. He picks me up and carries me home. I am victorious. I am very cold.
31
I would like to be Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty. Maybe even Snow White and the Little Mermaid. Any of those lovely princesses. Any of the ones who had to be saved like a man. Because in my case, I would not let the husband save me.
My hair grows out. It touches the floor and grows to the opposite wall. The house stretches up. Soon, I am in a tower. The husband circles the tower, waving a sword. I will save you, he shouts. I look down at him. Throw down your hair to me, the husband yells. I lift my hair and drop it over the side. The husband catches the end and begins climbing up. I feel a light tug on my scalp. When the husband is halfway up the tower, I take a knife and saw at my hair. The husband falls down to earth.
I wave to him. I will save myself, I say. The husband shouts and moves away. I turn to the hag who has taken me prisoner. I strike her with the knife. I cut her face in half. The top half slides off and falls to the floor. The hag bleeds. I leap from the window. I fly through the air.
I land in another castle. The spindle is waiting for me. The witch spins the wheel. She looks at me hungrily. Wouldn't you like to try, she asks. I walk over to her and watch as she feeds the string through the bobbin. Here, she says. Just try. She stands so that I can take her place at the stool. Instead of sitting, I kick the spindle over. The witch screams. You are supposed to fall asleep, the witch screams. She throws spindles at me. I run away from her. The last touches the small of my back. I sink down. The world spins. The witch smirks and walks towards me.
No one can save you now, she says and helps me to the bed. She pushes me down but I sit back up again.
I won't sleep, I say. I can hear the husband outside. He cuts through the vines of thorns. He screams as he battles the dragon and the roses. He runs up the winding stairs to the tower room. I open my eyes and step off the bed.
I came to save you, the husband says, coming into the room. I throw a thorn at the wall. The witch screams. She falls to the ground. The husband stares down at her. I was supposed to help you, the husband says. He sits on the ground and pouts. I stand up and pat his head.
I don't need your help, I say. I step up to the window and jump out. I land in a glass coffin. There is an apple in my throat. The husband peers down at me.
I will kiss you and bring you back to life, the husband says. I beat my fists into my throat until the apple comes up. I throw it against the glass walls. The coffin shatters. The glass rains down around me. The husband cuts his hands on the shards. I sit up and yawn.
I keep telling you that I don't need any help from you, I say.
But what else am I good for? All the stories say that I must save you. I bring you back from the dead. I save you from a life of drudgery. That is what I am meant for, the husband says. He picks up handfuls of the glass and lets the shards fall to the ground. I step away from the glass and pat my hair.
I appreciate the sentiment, I say. But, I have no desire to spend that much time with you. I would rather that you not follow me around any longer. I can save myself. I was born to do so. I would rather not be like all those other women who screamed for help just because they could.
I curtsey and leap into the nearest well. The water spins around me. I breathe in quickly. My legs become fins. I swim to the bottom of the well and push against the stone. The stones fall in, revealing a tunnel. I swim through the tunnel and touch a coral reef.
I swim to the surface. A boat is anchored. I climb aboard and see the husband with another woman. She wears a veil over her face. I narrow my eyes. Please, just kill him, several women shout. I look over the railing and see a dozen mermaids staring up at me.
Is he marrying another woman, I ask.
Yes. If he does, you'll die, they say.
I sniff. The mermaids throw me a knife made of mother-of-pearl. I touch the blade. Well, that's not a problem, I say. I walk into the bridal suite and smile at the husband and his bride. He raises his hands to me. Do you really think that I would kill myself because I love you so much, I ask. I stab the husband and the bride in the heart. I place the bloodied knife between them on the bed. The husband moans as he dies. When the woman beside him is dead, he opens his eyes to look at me. I smirk at him and he closes his eyes again and holds his breath.
The mermaids sing. Oh, our sister, they cry out. You're free of the witch's curse.
Oh, I was never cursed, I say. I toss the knife back down to them. When I look back at the deck, it has turned into a cobblestone floor. A woman hands me a broom. She points to the fireplace.
Sweep, she says. I laugh and toss the broom back at her.
No, I say. I don't do manual labor. I walk away from her. The husband runs after me, carrying a glass slipper.
Try this slipper on, he says. If it fits you, then you will be my bride. I stare at the shoe. I take it from him and shatter it on the ground. I continue on.
It was supposed to be fur, you know, I call over my shoulder. You can't even do that right.
32
I meet a wolf in a forest. It has long teeth and a pointed snout. It touches my red gown and tries to lift the skirt to see what I keep hidden beneath. I smack its paws and hiss at it. The wolf tries to grab my basket and open it. I let him take it out of my hands. He opens it eagerly and then freezes when he sees what it is inside. Dirt, he asks.
Yes, dirt, I say. The wolf hands me back my basket.
So, he says, leaning against a tree trunk. Where are you off to?
My husband's house, I say. I haven't seen him in many years. We had a fight. It was terrible. I broke over one million mirrors and then ate the shards. I was in a great deal of pain for more than three lifetimes.
The wolf whistles. That's impressive. So... would you like some company? The woods can be dangerous for such a lovely young woman to be by herself, the wolf says.
I stare at the wolf suspiciously. You are aware that I am approximately 5,000 times your own age, correct, I ask. In fact, I watched you be born. I helped deliver you. I went to your father and brought the ax against his head. I threw your brothers and sisters into a cloth sack and tossed them into the nearest river.
The wolf looks horrified. His mouth opens. That's... why would you do that, the wolf asks.
I open the basket and remove a handful of the dirt. I eat it quickly and then close the basket again. I lied, I say. I don't hurt animals. Only men. It's a hobby, really. But never animals. In fact, I do my best to avoid any interactions with flesh itself. I don't like how it feels or smells. I would never want to taste it. That's why I eat dirt. It is just the right flavor for me. Earthy. Warm. It keeps me safe. Hence why I have no fear of wolves.
The wolf looks relieved. I offer him my arm. I would be flattered to have a companion for my journey down the road, I say. The wolf stares at my arm but does not take it.
Of course, he says. He falls into step behind me. I can feel the beast examining me as we walk. My cloak falls open to reveal my chest. The wolf pants. I keep an ax strapped to my back. The cloak covers the weapon. The wolf and I walk slowly. We pause from time to time to marvel at the changing leaves. The wolf whispers under his breath. He says, One, two, three little bitches were sitting in a tree. One fell out and broke her knee. I came along to show her my wee. Then the little bitch was sitting on me. I pretend not to hear him although I am unimpressed with his skills as a songwriter. If I walk too quickly, the ax strikes my spine head-on and cuts into it. The wolf stops at these moments to sniff the air. Do you smell blood, he asks and I shake my head.
We continue on. When I stumble, the wolf moves to grab hold of me. His claws take hold of my wrist and I shake free. I would rather not be touched, I say and the wolf takes his paws away.
I let the wolf lead the way across streams and leaf-strewn pathways. I would rather him be the one to drown or fall. I watch closely to see where he missteps or trips. Then I skip around those obstacles, smiling brightly at his back. You are very agile, he says and licks his lips. I bend over to wipe dust from the tops of my shoes. The wolf watches this motion hungrily. I imagine it must have been a very long time since you last made love to your husband, the wolf says.
I shrug my shoulders coyly. Who knows, I say. I never speak about my sexual life with strangers. You might get the wrong idea about me.
The wolf's ears stand straight up. Or, he says. I might be enticed by you. You're very complex, I think. And you smell so good. I know exactly what smell he refers to. The pungent stench of meat. My least favorite fragrance. I pretend that I do not know what he speaks of. The wolf leans forward and sniffs the air. The ax digs into my back and I shake my shoulders slightly to loosen the blade. The wolf lifts his head up. Do you smell blood, he asks again.
It must be in the leaves, I say. The wolf sniffs again.
Are you certain, he asks.
No, I say. I don't know anything about leaves bleeding. Animals yet. Plants, not so much.
Are you bleeding, the wolf asks.
No. It isn't that time of the month, I say.
But the blood doesn't smell old. It smells so fresh, the wolf says.
I push him forward. The wolf grunts and continues on. Soon, I see the husband's house. I point to it. That is my husband's house, I say.
It's cute, the wolf says. Are you sure he's home?
I peer closely at the house. No, I don't think so. His car isn't here, I say. The wolf grunts again and moves close to me.
I can wait inside with you until he gets home if you'd like the company, the wolf says. He grins and I smile back at him.
That would be wonderful, I say. I open the door and the wolf steps in first. I follow. I close the door and the wolf comes towards me. He pulls at my top and I strike him. The wolf screams. The husband emerges from the bedroom. I brought you a gift, I say. I eat the wolf in one bite and vomit him onto the dining room table.
You're too kind, the husband says and sits down.
33
I am a weeping woman. I have lost my husband and my children. I walk up and down a river bank with a knife sticking out through my heart and my children's heads in a wicker basket. They scream my name. They say, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy until I feed them rowen branches and rub aloe across their foreheads. Then they stay quiet for an entire cycle of the moon.
I do not know why the children will not leave me. I abandon them time and time again but cannot lose them. I leave them tied to trees and find them again on my back. I bury them beneath tree roots and wake up in the morning to feel them suckling at my breasts. I hate them. I do not want them near me. But the children are relentless. They prefer my company.
I am always crying. Old men come to collect my tears. They believe that my sorrow will cure blindness. They rub their eyes fifteen times and when they open their eyes again, they gasp. It is brilliant, they say. The light. The dark. How it contrasts and grows. How it blends together and shrinks. Then they walk away, leaving me alone.
I do not mind this existence. I have no need for companionship. That is why I leave the children behind. I go to parties that begin at midnight and leave the children home alone. They cry for me in the midst of their nightmares. When I am done dancing salsa and tango, I walk through the forest. I never get home before dawn. Always, the house is burned down. I believe in proper burials and so I dig their bones out of the debris. They are blackened and breaking apart. I cough as I inhale. I fill my basket with their limbs and carry them away. I dig small holes in the cemetery and drop the children in.
In the morning, they have sprouted. I look at the tree trunks and see the children's faces. I pick up an ax to cut the wood down. I am disgusted by the sight. My lovers follow me to the cemetery to make love. When they see the children's trees, they turn around and find a new mistress. I call to them. I plead to them. I thought you would love me better, I say. Can't you love me? I made them go away. I had nothing to do with them. Won't you please come back and stay with me? But they do not hear me. I watch them depart and when they are finally gone, I sit beside the children's graves and eat the dirt slowly. I like how it tastes. It tastes of blue cheese and blackberries. I eat until my chest overfills my shirt and then I vomit everything back onto the grass. The children scream beneath the ground. They claw their way back out. They clamber into my lap and pull at my hair.
I leave the children at the edge of the river. I know that the tides will rise over the banks soon. All the women speak of the approaching hurricane. I buy groceries and attend church. The gods watch me in the distance and click their tongues disapprovingly. Soon, the river takes over the entire town. I laugh. The children are gone. I raise my hands to the sky and hear the familiar pleading sound. The children remind me of cows and kittens. They are always pleading with me. But cows and kittens are adorable. They do not change as drastically as the children do. One day, the children will decide that they hate me and everything around them. I will have to worry about maintaining their happiness while discarding my own. But I do not have to fear this with the cows and kittens. Even when they are adults, they depend on me. They will love me because I bring them food and bathe them. They will not try to slap my face or talk back.
The tides bring the children back to me. I scream. My lovers come out of the trees and see my bloodied hands. They turn my hands over and over, trying to decide which side is dryer: the palms or my knuckles. I scream in their faces and drag a knife across their skin. Everything is dead. Everything is bleeding. I run through the trees. I stab the trunks and shriek. The sap flows freely. It is red and thick. I scream into the amber and move on. I run into town and scream at the doctor. I scream at the women. I scream at the old men. I scream until my tongue feels dry and brittle.
Everyone tries to hold me down. They beat me with switches and leather belts. They throw stones at me. They try to cut my veins open. I open my mouth and eat them all. They all taste like blood. I swallow dozens of people, hundreds of people, thousands of people. I sit alone in the town square, my body bruised and bloodied, my stomach full. I pat my abdomen and all the people move. I was just trying to free myself of the demands of motherhood, I tell them. I tire of their weight within me. Closing my eyes, I vomit them back up. They stumble away, red and dripping.
The children walk towards me. They drop down from the surrounding rooftops. They slip out of the trees. Mommy, Mommy, they say and I close my eyes. They pull at me. They try to yank me in twenty different directions. I feel myself ripping apart. The children run free, each holding a separate part of me. One holds an arm, the other takes a leg. One grasps hold of my genitals, the other steals my face. They scream happily and wave my body around. I am silent. I look for my lovers. I do not know where they could be.
34
I have trouble falling asleep at night and so the husband suggests that I attempt a sleep remedy. Sometimes drugs do not work on my body. Still, the husband buys the pills and gives them to me. I take two pills at one time and wait several nights for the medication to work. I do not sleep. I take another two pills and wait. Still, I feel nothing. The husband grows concerned. He puts sleeping pills in my breakfast and in the cemetery. He places it in my mouth when I go to brush my teeth. He gives the creatures many boxes of the sleeping pills and has them force feed when we go to dinner together.
The pills do not work. The husband is alarmed. I have not slept in several months. My eyelids do not close. I sit awake at night while the husband snores. I watch him closely. I do not like how he looks when he sleeps. He looks too fragile, too unlike the husband I know so well. The husband is afraid that I do not sleep because I am concerned about looking ugly. I would like to tell him that this is not true but a part of me fears that it is. Do my eyes look puffy when I sleep? Does my hair get too mussed? Do I twist into odd positions and slowly move my limbs out of place? The husband suggests that I film myself sleeping so that I can learn of my unconscious habits but I do not want to see myself in that way.
I eat handfuls of dirt in bed. I get crumbs on the sheets and brush them off before turning off the light. The husband is not a fan of this behavior. He prefers that the bedroom is kept just for sleeping. No snacking should be allowed. I stare at him as I eat. His mouth moves slowly. He enunciates his words too purposefully. You do not speak quickly enough, I say and throw a handful of dirt at him. The husband blinks. The dust falls from eyelashes and onto his mouth. He spits the dirt out. I climb out of bed and eat the dirt off the floor. I do not mind the bits of dust that mingle with the dirt. They are simply pieces of the husband and my flesh. I like to know that I am consuming us.
The husband, on the other hand, finds this disgusting. I try to kiss him and he pushes me away. He hisses in my face. He makes the sign of the cross, hoping it will keep me from getting too close. The gods peek in through the window and laugh loudly. Even they know that these gestures are meaningless. I take a handful of dirt and smear it across the husband's face. He roars loudly. The gods throw glass at the window. When they realize that the window will not break, they begin throwing metal crucifixes.
The husband falls asleep. I walk laps around the bed. I do not feel tired. The husband wakes up and tries to make love to me. We make love all day. As soon as he has finished, we begin again. Finally, after the three dozenth time, the husband lies back down. I sit beside him and read a book. Why can't you sleep, the husband asks.
My consciousness will not allow itself to be shut down, I say.
Are you afraid that if you fall asleep, you won't wake up again, the husband asks. Everything the husband tries to understand about me is in terms of fears and uncertainties. He does not realize that there are underlying reasons for my acting a certain way.
No. I just can't sleep. My mind won't stop working, I say. The husband sits up as well.
Perhaps we should try a lobotomy, the husband says. He climbs out of bed to get his toolbox. I lie down and stare at the ceiling. He returns and begins chipping away at my head. I feel a slight pressure in my nose. I would like to sneeze but I suppress the urge. The husband drills and hammers. Oh, he says from time to time and pats at my head. I look at the napkins and see that they are red. I imagine the blood rushing from the holes. It wets the pillow and then the bed. I turn bright red. The husband reaches my brain. He pokes and prods. Everything turns blue and then pink. I blink rapidly. The colors continue switching. The husband steps back.
I've done all I can, he says. I touch my head. My fingers slip into the hole. I poke my brain. I feel around the hole's uneven surfaces. The bone shards cut my fingers. My blood drips onto my brain. I stare up at the husband.
Will I be able to sleep now, I ask.
The husband shrugs. To be completely honest, he says. I have no idea. He puts his tools on the floor and lies back down. I touch his face and poke at his eyes. He brushes my hands away. I poke his nose and his lips. Great, he says, sitting back up. Now I'm awake. He looks flustered. I smile at him. The husband stands up and walks laps around the bed. He does jumping jacks. He beats his head against the walls. He walks into the closet and tries to hang himself. Swaying back and forth, he checks his watch and sighs dramatically. I can't believe this, he says. I'm wide awake. I can always fall asleep. Just great. He walks out of the closet and stares at me. I cover my mouth with my hands and yawn loudly. My eyes feel husband. I curl into a ball and smile at him.
I'm so tired, I whisper. I feel like I've never slept before. I yawn again and again. I sleep. The husband can only stay awake.
35
I tire of my immortality and decide to spend a week pretending to be a drug addict. Because I have never thought of drugs as any sort of recreation, I do not know where to begin. I read books on the subject and watch documentaries. When the husband tries to touch me, I spit at him and bite his hands. You don't understand anything, I scream at him. I do not tell him that I don't understand anything as well. I do not tell him that I can't even begin to explain why I must scream nonsense sentences at him. The husband huddles in a corner and cries. He does not like me to hate him.
Because I am not an addict, I am unimpressed by his pain. I sneak in and out of the bedroom while he is sleeping. The young man down the street sells me a packet of white powder for approximately five times its face value. At home, I spread the powder out on a toilet seat and sniff it up. My eyes and face turn red. Everything itches. I crawl behind the toilet and place my forehead against the underside of the water tank. It is cool to the touch. I breathe into it until my breath becomes condensation and drips from the tank onto my face.
The husband bangs on the bathroom door. I throw magazines at the door and hit my head with the medicine cabinet. When the lock finally pops, I start screaming. The husband carries me to bed and wraps the blankets around me. I am feverish. I am itchy. I scratch myself until my arms are bleeding. I rub my nose incessantly. I would like more powder. The husband falls asleep and I crawl out of bed. I drop to the floor and drag myself through the walls. I am almost naked. I am barefoot. I can feel the chill of the sidewalk on my body. I make it to the young man's house and knock on the door.
I need more powder, I gasp and claw at my hair. Somehow it is so stringy that it simply hangs in my face. I do not know if it is saturated with oil or water, sweat or blood. I pull money out of my chin and hand it to the young man. He gives me a packet of powder and then a needle filled with a clear liquid.
Enjoy, he says and closes the door in my face. I make my way back home. I cannot go through the door and so I collapse outside of it. I spread the powder onto an ant hill and snort it up. I feel as though I might have to sneeze. I gasp and swallow air. I would like to cry. My eyes tear. I rub my fists against my face. I hide the syringe in my chest to use later. I fall asleep against the side of the house. The shingles press against the back of my neck and leave marks that my hair can barely cover.
When I open my eyes, I am back in bed. The husband stares down at me. What were you doing outside, he asks. I cannot answer him. My tongue feels as though it has become a thick chunk of fur. I open my mouth to speak and immediately choke. The husband brings me a glass of water and holds it to my lips so that I can drink. The syringe inside of me stabs my ribcage and gives me heart burn. The husband looks at me suspiciously. He does not open me up to see what I am hiding inside though.
I throw the glass at him. Leave me alone, I scream. The husband ducks. The glass shatters and water spills everywhere. I turn over and sob into my pillow. I raise my hands and see that the palms are filled with white powder. The husband leaves the room. I raise my head to look after him. The door closes. I wait a full minute before I begin screaming again. Why won't you leave me alone? You can't tell me what to do. You don't own me, I shout to the closed door. The husband slams kitchen cabinets.
I place my arm in my mouth and reach down my throat. I pull the syringe up. I play with the needle and the plunger, readying myself for the injection. I make a fist and release it. I make a fist again and release it. I do this many time until my veins are slightly plumped. I stick the needle into my flesh and inject the fluid. I feel a cold rush as the liquid enters my veins. I gasp and close my eyes. I can hear the husband. He sounds very far away.
I stand up and do everything in circles. I write my name in circles. I walk in circles. I dress in circles. I do not want to be confined by edges. I do not want to risk getting cut. I think of the syringe. It is a beautiful instrument. I laugh loudly and scream the husband's name. I vomit onto the floor. The husband steps in the fluid.
What's the matter, he gasps. He tries to pick me up. I fall in his arms. My head will not stay steady. It will not stay up. Everything is limp. The empty syringe rolls towards the husband. He pushes his hands down on my belly. Everything comes up in one wonderful geyser of drugs. The powder, the fluid. It rains down on the floor and seeps through the floorboards. The husband holds me to his chest. I was so afraid, he says as my eyes finally stay open. I touch his face.
What happened, I ask.
You overdosed, the husband says. I nod my head and touch my belly.
Did I nearly die, I ask.
You would have died if you were human, the husband says. This is exactly what I want. I sit up and kiss the husband on the mouth.
I understand humanity now, I say and the husband turns the drugs into dirt.
36
The husband and I feign terrible illnesses. We are not certain which sickness we would prefer and so we pick them out of a hat. Cancer. Tuberculosis. Malaria. The Plague. After we have tattooed the name of the disease on our flesh, we go to the nearest hospital and check ourselves in. The nurses try to take our vital signs. At first, there is no pulse. We flatline many times over. When the nurses try again, our pulse is so fast that the machines cannot even count the beats. The nurses panic and sweat. They push many buttons and pull many wires. The husband and I try hard not to laugh at them. We bury our heads in our pillows and push the bed controls. We rise up and sink down. Our feet go up and our heads go down. Our heads go up and our feet go down. We lie straight out.
The nurses bring in IV stands. They take our arms and struggle to place the needles in. The husband breaks the stand with one hand and ruptures the saline bag. I laugh and watch as one of the nurses trips over a creature. The creature pulls her shoe off her foot and gallops down the hallway with it. You should probably watch him, I say to the nurse as she grabs her foot. He likes to eat babies. She scrambles to her feet and runs away. The husband laughs.
This is fun, he says. The nurses stab at our wrists and hands. The needles bend whenever they touch our skin. The nurses jab and poke. The needles spear their own hands. They turn away from us, wincing. Whatever happened to the creatures, the husband asks the room in general.
We hear a great deal of shouting in the hallway and turn to see the creatures running past our door, each with a bassinet in its mouth. Several dozen nurses run after them, screaming. The husband wriggles his toes. What's next on the agenda, the husband asks.
The nurses give me two white bottles of barium suspension. You must drink this, they say. They leave me alone. I uncap both bottles and pour them onto the floor. They turn to dirt. I lean over and scoop the piles up. The nurses return. I am taken to get a CAT scan. They put dye on my tongue because there is no way to stick it in my veins. I swallow several bottles of the dye. My skin turns bright magenta.
You'll feel warm, the technician says.
I smile at him. Actually, I doubt that I'll feel anything. All my nerves are dead. In fact, they really have never been alive to begin with. I don't feel pain. I can pretend though. I can imagine pain and trick myself into believing that that is what I feel. I do it often, sometimes to the point that I forget I am making it all up, I say. He slides me into the tunnel and turns the machine on.
A light passes over me. I pretend that I feel warm. Oh my, I call to the technician. It's so hot. I think I need to go to the bathroom. I laugh again and close my eyes. The technician stops the machine with my body still halfway in it.
Are you pregnant, the technician asks.
Nope, I say.
Are you sure, the technician asks.
I'm infertile. I have no real reproductive organs. The ones that I do have are hidden beneath a mess of organs and are not in working condition, I say. Why do you ask? Do you see something?
The technician is silent for a moment. I see a face, he says.
A male face or a female face? Or an animal, I ask.
A man, the technician says. I sit up and slide off the examining table.
That's just the husband playing a joke on you, I say and walk out of the room with the back of my hospital gown hanging open. I go to check on the husband. He is getting chemotherapy. I watch from outside a glass window as the husband is placed on a table. Many pinpoints of light shine onto him. They hum and glisten in many colors. The husband stares at the lights and eats them. He opens his mouth and swallows all the light sources. Soon, there is nothing left. The husband glows bright yellow. He licks his lips.
What happened, the chemo technician asks, staring at the husband. Sir, are you alright? The husband yawns and turns his hands this way and that. His palms are bright orange. I clap my hands together. A nurse comes and tries to place another gown on me. I shrug her off.
I am unashamed by my nudity, I say.
The husband sits up on the table and shouts to me. Radiation tastes delicious. I would like to eat power plants and acetylene torches. I would like to make friends with the scientist, Curie, and stir her vat of radioactive waste. I would like to eat every element and have them coexist in my body. It would be wonderful. I have never tasted anything so volatile, the husband says.
The nurses gasp. That is a good thing, I say. As long as I've known him, he has never had a favorite food. In fact, I honestly can't recall his having eaten anything at all, which is a pity. But now he has a favorite food. Now I can know what to make for dinner during our anniversaries.
The husband leaves the room and embraces me. Would you like to go home now, he asks. I nod my head and kiss his glowing cheeks. The nurses stare at us. They are joined by several doctors.
But we haven't begun treatment, they say.
The husband and I bow to them. I eat a handful of dirt. We are cured. You have worked a miracle, we say. We lift the floor tiles and leap into the earth.
37
The husband and I find a ghost in our house. We have been there many years and did not know that anyone else resided there. We find the ghost one day when we wake up just before dawn to make breakfast. She sits in a rocking chair in the living room. We do not own a rocking chair but she sits in one. She faces the windows and rocks slowly. Her feet stay on the ground. The husband and I stand in the doorway and watch her. I like how slowly she moves. The back and forth is so gradual that I want to fall asleep. My eyes feel heavy. She finally stops moving altogether and turns around to face us. Her head swivels on her neck, allowing her body to stay facing forward.
Aren't you going to ask me how many eggs I want, she asks in a gravelly voice. The husband nods. I sink to the floor and stare at her. She throws a rock at my forehead. I want three and three quarters eggs, she says and turns back around. The rocking chair disappears. The husband helps me up. We make her eggs before we cook our own breakfast. She did not tell us when she would be back and so we leave her dish on the dining room table. I make myself sautéed dirt and the husband cooks roasted beryllium.
The ghost comes into the kitchen holding her dish above her head. It is cold, she screams and throws the dish down. The husband and I stare at the mess of shattered glass and eggs.
I'm giving you a plastic dish next time, I say to the ghost and start picking the mess up with a rag. She kicks me in the side.
I want another dish. This time warm. And with some cheese. And some salt. You're so used to eating dirt that you've forgotten the importance of proper seasoning. How am I supposed to eat eggs that taste like they've just slipped out of the chicken's ass? I want an egg that tastes like food, the ghost demands. She pulls my hair and leaves the kitchen.
But when will you come back, the husband shouts. She is gone. Grumbling, I lick the dirt out of my sauté pan and crack three and three quarters eggs into the dish. I pour an entire shaker of salt into the pan and let the husband grate some head-cheese into the firming eggs. I slide the eggs onto a plastic dish and place it on the table. The ghost returns.
She takes a bite of the eggs and glares at me. You're lucky, she hisses. I was starving. I pout. She throws a pepper shaker at my head and leaves with the dish.
You have to bring that back so I can wash it. Dishes don't grow on trees, I yell after her.
Yes they do, she shouts through the walls. She scratches at the walls and growls beneath the foundation. The husband and I stick cardboard in our ears and try to fall asleep. She pulls the blankets off of us and scratches my face. I sprinkle salt around our bed, hoping that she cannot cross this boundary. The ghost throws the salt back at me and pours handfuls in my hair. She cuts my legs and rubs the salt into them. I twitch and slap her in the face.
In the morning, the ghost prowls the hallways as a dog with a rabbit's head. When we look at her, she grows elk antlers and growls at us. It sounds more like a cat hissing but we take care to keep our backs against the walls as we walk around her. She sits on her stomach and licks her paws. The husband and I gather in the kitchen to make our meals. I eat canned dirt and the husband eats uranium sushi-style. The ghost runs into the kitchen and knocks the pans off the stove.
Feed me, she screams. I'm hungry. Why won't you ask me what I want?
What do you want, the husband asks.
I want a tuna melt, please. With the fish fresh from the ocean, the ghost says and disappears. The husband and I sigh. The creatures come through the back door and drop a tuna at my feet. I pick it up and put it on the counter. The husband butchers it, loin by loin. When he is done, I slice the tuna into thin slices and dress it with mayonnaise and capers. I add bits of celery and onion. The husband grates cheese onto the top of the tuna and then places it beneath the broiler. The cheese browns up nicely. The husband and I stare at the remaining cuts of tuna. We do not eat fish. The creatures howl and so we give them a loin to share.
The ghost takes the dish from us. She takes a bite and screams. This isn't chunky, she yells. Why isn't this chunked? Who makes a tuna melt with tuna slices? She throws the dish against the wall. It slides to the floor. The creatures run in circles around the dish and eat the tuna off the plate. They howl again and sprint into the walls.
The ghost sits naked in the middle of the kitchen. I want my food, she screams again. I am tired of her. I rub my hands over my arms and snap my fingers. The creatures come charging out of the beams.
Are you still hungry, I ask. The creatures nod. I point at the ghost. They pounce on her. She screams as they tear her limbs apart. They eat her quickly and come back to us. I feed them the remaining loins as well as the scales, fins, and bones. The creatures take their time lingering over the eyeballs.
The creatures drop down dead and the ghost laughs from the ceiling. I win, she shouts and I strangle her with one hand.