Fly On The Wall: Fairy Tales From A Misanthropic Universe, Vol. I Page 6

  This time, it is a blunt razor, half cutting, half tearing. Her scalp comes off first and lands in the mower's huge bag. The blades batter her, shredding her face. Her vital fluids drain into the ground below and spray throughout the air as well. She watches pieces of herself flung far. She finds refuge in plain resignation. The scent of her pain fills the air with an arresting freshness. She begs to die, to just turn brown and dry. Alas, there is little she can do. Perhaps invade a flower bed or two. Maybe spring through interlock or somehow attack his tall widow's walk. All the same, she will surely be mangled anew, again and again. Alas, there is little she can do, for she is but a blade of Kentucky blue.

  30 – Happy Days Pt. I

  It's time. She breathes out forcibly. The baby is coming. Contractions get closer. She calls her love on the phone. She'll meet him there. She pants and sighs as she stumbles into the impatient Uber. She hopes he won't mind her ruining his seats. Sod him if he does. She hopes to last until the hospital. She will try her hardest. He doesn't mind, he worries about her health instead and panics.

  Fortunately, the driver is an aspiring rally-er who Ubers to finance his base necessities. His eyes grow narrow with ferocious focus. He darts in and out of traffic, narrowly missing other growling metal monsters. His own howls a war-cry, a great gruff howl. Eight pistons at least yell to high heavens. The quick Uber draws jealous eyes and angry honks. His German whip shoots ahead of the rest, he's no 'baller', but at that moment, he sure looks like one.

  He finds himself in a strange gap on the highway, of the kind that invariably forms in heavy traffic. He accelerates hard through it, rushing to get his fare to the hospital; rushing for his five stars; rushing to keep his seats clean. He has sympathy for her but he loves his car, and that is no small concern. In the back, she screams as his wild manoeuvres throw her to and fro. Her body hits one door, and then the other, before she even has the chance to grab a seat belt let alone put it on. In that strange gap through which he shoots like a bullet she manages to strap herself in, and say a few hail marys.

  She asks him to slow down, restrained by fear, her contractions had done so already. He dodges one vehicle after the other, pulling hard on his steering wheel; first left, then right. His engine screams ever louder inside its metal cage. He closed in on his sought ramp and forces his heaving engine straight onto it with another sharp twist of his wheel. The hospital is not far now, he can see its “H” sign, lit up bright in the sky ahead; he floors his ride once more. The vehicle's wheels chirp as he flings it around corners, screeching his way ever closer to the big “H”. His car barely holds on to grip, the rubber slides on the coarse concrete and lets off blue smoke, but the driver is apt so the carriage stays flat.

  The hospital looks ever bigger as it gets ever nearer. Thankfully too, for her contractions had decided 'fear be damned' and have returned with a vengeance. Her stomach shrinks to a raisin's size, she screams out, so as to be able to endure the pain. The driver hears her cry, it makes him cringe. He goes as fast as he can; he treats it like a trial; ahead a light turns red, the driver speeds up, thinking he has time.

  She wakes again, alone, in a gown, in a room. Her arms shoot straight to her belly – its flat, desolate. She scrambles, finds, and then presses the red button labeled “Nurse”. Once, twice, and then over, and over, and over again. Her vigor becomes frantic and she hits the call button madly.

  First came the nurse. The nurse tells her she is doing well, and that the head of OB/GYN will be in shortly for her. The nurse refuses to say any more and leaves, leaving her in an opaque state. Storms brew in her eyes, but she waits and stays strong, keeping herself from jumping to conclusions; maintaining what little hope she can.

  The doctor joins her shortly, just like she'd been promised. The doctor explains that the crash had nearly killed her, explained the doctor. She knows of no crash and asks of what madness he speaks. He explains, through clipped gulps, that the man who had brought her there with such vitality had run a red light, and had not made it through. She and her driver had been fortunate and lived, unlike their fated counterparts; they had perished.

  What of her baby? Well, that tale is a most complicated one indeed, or so the doctor claims. They had stymied her blood flow, they'd sutured her brow, they had even slung her broken limbs. The extrication of the baby had been quite hard, for the crash had hurt it, but hours of surgery, and brow-sweat inducing efforts saw her give birth. Unfortunately, mere ounces of whisky saw the life end there upon the operatory floor, her baby's head cracked open like an egg. Its contents lay spilled on the floor.

  The OB/GYN explains how the man 'slipped', and asks her to sign a release in exchange for waived fees – the ones they'd charge for her care and disposal of the carcass. An offer most advantageous to her, he claims. She bawls and beats the bed with furious fists. The OB/GYN leaves the clipboard on an edge. He steps out of the room and lets the police in, their eyes meet in passing.

  Two officers enter, with hats held to their chests. Mournfully they tell the woman who'd lost so much that her lover is lost too. She barely hears through yelps and sobs, but the words still make it through. Shock sets in instead and she just stares at the thin blue blurs. He'd rushed to the hospital, to be with her, only to be slain moments away by an impatient Uber driver who ran a red light. The officers give their condolences, and assurances that he'll face trial, and then leave too.

  31 – 13

  Her birthday hadn't been like those of most girls her age. No, it had been very different indeed. The other girls, wouldn't be alone now. They would be having fun; and cake. Maybe they'd even sneak a beer or two; that would be so cool. They would have music, they would dancing, they would have boys. Unless that bitch Trisha spoiled it the way she spoiled everything; Trisha was a spoiled cow.

  She hated Trisha, the bitch. She wanted her to die; preferably by her own hands. She wanted to slice Trisha open and spread her entrails upon the floor. Perhaps make an intestinal balloon animal, or two and then seek future guidance in their stains. Maybe then, with vile vengeance in hand, maybe then she would be happy. She hated Trisha. She hoped Trisha would choke on her brother's cum and die. Oh yeah, she knew, and soon everyone else would too, they would know of her incestuous lies, and their countless lustful, sinful ties. Nothing they could do would stop her, not anymore. She knew how she would do it too. Trisha would invite her over for her party. She had to. her mom made her. She would sneak small memory cards into the goodie-bags. At least one would surely see. Oh, and how it would then spread! That would show her. She would make sure Trisha would kill herself, that Trisha would suffer as she had. She crushed the air between her teeth furiously. She'd mentioned the video; it was all her fault. She felt ashamed and degraded. She hated herself. Her lip twitched in utter self- disgust; her shame was visible from far away. She hadn't expected her so-called 'friend' to send her brother and his goons to rape her, on her birthday of all days.

  Her birthday hadn't been like many girls her age, instead, she was invaded, her integrity was attacked, her security violated, all her being was assaulted, by a group of brutish apes. She fantasized about how she would ruin Trisha's birthday back, how she would exact her revenge, about just how she would attack. They had done everything they could to her when she'd lain there, all pinned and pained. Now she just cried underneath the overpass, all alone. She needed to die. No justice would exist, not for her. She cried. Soon. She stopped. She had no more fluid to lose, no more tears to drop, not even sadness remained; she was just numb. She fell asleep.

  When she awoke she realized the fates had not yet ended her misery, and so she stood. She walked up the embankment. Her tattered clothes revealed a rich world of fantasy within the mind of one most poor. Her bottoms were torn, destroyed by the boys to gain their odious access. She didn't care. She didn't even feel the frozen wind which billowed through. Trisha would pay. The girl in rags had no money for memory cards, but she would find a way. The girl swore this through a cloud of breath wh
ich momentarily appeared below her lips. She stepped up to the metal parapet. She was weak, the low-pressure gusts formed by the moving vehicles almost bowled her over. She swayed, but remained standing. First, she put one leg over the parapet, then the other. Despite the fear, she cared little about what would become of her. She closed her eyes and took a step. The poor girl's mangled body had to be cleaned from the road, bit, by bit, by crushed and flattened bit, causing a great tailback.

  At her party, Trisha stared at the door impatiently. No matter how much she screamed, no matter how much cried, no matter she blamed one thing or another, nobody came. Her parents just handed her off to the servants. Her servants cared little for her, certainly not enough to check the traffic. Their lips were paid for service, and serve was all they did, crookedly consoling her. She remembered the video and was filled with dread. Her birthday hadn't been like most girls her age. Her premature departure would be.

  32 – Wailing

  She wailed and wailed, but to little avail. She couldn’t take much more. She wanted it all to end but knew full well it could not, regardless of desires, it would all continue endlessly. The men that rushed to be inside of her, well, she couldn't say they didn't care, but they had definitely become desensitized, they did not care about her anymore, only about the others like them. They were no longer gentle, as they had been when they'd all first met. Now they used her carelessly; they abused her recklessly. They never asked her if she wanted it. Maybe they cared about her well being, but they certainly never cared about what she wanted. She shed a tear as black as a medieval night.

  It always started the same way. First a deafening noise, no siren's song but a shrill bell's screech instead. The frenzied shouts of savage well-clad men, all of whom rushed to be the first in her. One time she had not made them come quite quickly enough, they were furious beyond belief; they'd raged, they'd shouted, and even hit her body with their calloused fists. The day after they sent her away to some depraved monster who tore out her most precious innards and replaced them with cheap Chinese organs instead – ones clearly garnered from unwilling donors. They worked, sure, and she now made them come much quicker, but it just wasn't right; she wanted to be herself. She wanted no part in the misery of others, whose services were abruptly ended by the totalitarian state. The men cared little for her, yet they would not let her leave. They kept her there, downstairs, alone, in the dark. Dust was her only friend. Sometimes she could hear them laughing upstairs. Sometimes they came down in the day, sometimes they mocked her, threatening to ship her off and get a new whore instead. Crying just made it worse, it was then they slapped and hit her hardest. She looked forward to the days when the men all came and hosed her down. It was better than when they made her watch people burn, cremated while conscious. The putrid smell of charred flesh filled the air she breathed too often; she was too used to it. The bubbling, popping, fat of people which furnished the wind with grisly firework-like sounds. She shed another black tear; she could not be used like that again. She made them come so quickly, and yet all she got in return in return was to watch that most horrible of suffering.

  The deafeningly shrill noise came, as it had so many times before. She shed another black tear. She knew that soon, all of them would be grasp their long, hard, slippery pole, and pile into her, one by one. What was worse was they took turns. Today it was the chief who would drive. He reached and flipped her switch, and off she went again; her beacons flashed red and white, and her sirens wailed.

  33 – Mandala

  Once upon a time, there was a monk, a very special monk. He knew not where he had been born or what his name had been. It took months of travel to reach his destination those many, many years ago. Guided by an irresistible urge he ventured forth, 60 years to the day he arrived at the monastery. Then he had been youthful, spry, and excited about his future. Yet he was so now too. His life work stretched out before him in the monastery's courtyard. It was the most beautiful, largest, and most detailed sand mandala ever to have been witnessed.

  For 60 years, driven by divine urges, he woke faithfully at 4am and worked. For 60 years, day in and day out, he spent every minute by the mandala. For 60 years all those who passed by could hear a faint musical ringing around them, the gentle scraping noise which came from his chak pur. The noise sounded off the courtyard walls with soft echoes. For 60 years the monk studied, for 60 years he meditated; how quick those 60 years had gone. The day this story came to be was unlike any other, for he would be done. Each minute grain of sand would finally find its perfect resting place. The temple courtyard was full of brightly colored grains which the monk had meticulously lain out. It was as though the mandala itself had brought the peaceful calm over the courtyard, not a single errant leaf moved on its own. Wind was the scary unknown. With every misplaced grain, he'd felt trepidation. With every choice of color he'd worried, but through it all he followed the design religiously, and today he finishes. His faith guided him to make the greatest one of all. The monk didn't know how he knew this, but then he didn't even know what made him start in the first place, or what made him continue all those long days. He did not know what had driven to abandon everyone, and everything, all for this single minded purpose. He did not even know how the design came to his head. With the last rub of his chak pur, the final few particles tumbled into place and weakly ringing echo died down.

  For a brief moment, all was right in the world. Wars, fights, death, all paused. The monk looked upon his mandala, his mind, and his soul, were then engorged with love, and found peace. For that brief time, understanding ruled supreme.

  All it took was a gentle gust, a calm calamity.

  34 – Rain

  The day had been a dark one, gray clouds marred a normally endless blue beauty. Throngs of people gathered and waited, thousands upon thousands of people all exercised deep patience; they sang and danced in anxious jubilation. The hot atmosphere could not, regardless of conditions, seem oppressive. Not on that day.

  The colors of the plane peeked through the clouds first, a fiery blood red, precious shining gold, and lush green; raindrops were birthed of the gestating sky. It was not an unwelcome drizzle, a long drought had taken its toll, the crops were brown and burnt. The metal bird burst through the cloud ceiling, parting the gray around it and revealing blue once more.

  The storied colors and roaring lion spoke to the resolve of the being inside. A single pair of wings was heard, fluttering above the crowd. A strangely audible sound in the tumult filled air. Propellers chopped the air, drums beat out entrancing homoousian rhythms, horns cried gladly too. But the wingbeats were heard, and so the people watched the single white dove fly above, heralding his arrival. After that, the colorfully painted silver bird landed too, to the roar of the delighted gathering.

  When the door opened the crowd grew louder still. The falling drops which had seemed so ominous, so wet, and so strong, were now all but gone; only sand bubbles remained among the parched crowd. A patch of blue opened above the crowds, but all could see the curtain of water which fell around their dry parcel. They rushed forth like an ocean wave, flooding the ground around his plane; hoping to catch a glimpse of HIM. Countless years of insufferable suffering had passed until he came, and many years it would be again until he would come once more. At least it was not all for naught, they knew well they would achieve that for which they'd fought.

  Much to the crowd's delight he appears at the silver bird's portal. He holds his hand to the sky to greet, and just then great gestating clouds roll in. The rain begins to fall, the roar grows too. Down he comes, and on pure ground he treads, no noble blood-soaked rag for HIM. To the tricksters he gifted coffins, in them: nails. They cowered before a righteous, unexpected roar. No matter what they try, their tricks can not make HIM stop, all their plans are foiled and flop. All the might and all the dread from that great mountain can barely break the pace, can only make HIM leave a moment to a most holy place.

  It does not matter though, for as before w
hen the drought is at its worst, he will come again, and with him comes the rain. The drought which so affected those crops so many years ago, now affects the soul, driving us to anger, to hatred, and to tyranny. That rain too which proceeded HIM will come again, wetting the seeds of love, now so deeply forgotten within us. Water – life's birthplace – is the most powerful thing on this planet's face. From the slow moving, quick carving, glaciers, to those sacred drought ending rains. As before, so too shall it again be.

  35 – Coughing

  It always started the same way, metal. Everything tasted of metal. Iron. Other metals had different flavors, but this was unmistakably iron. He dreaded it. He had been called paranormal, wacky, creepy, scary, disgusting, and even satanic, by those who claimed to love him most. Shunning would have been a too lenient trial for him they had decided, then strangers could still speak to him. It was through his cursed ailment that he came to be, here where tree trunks covered all one's vision, far from all. Now it was just him, the wolves, and bears. He often wondered whether it was any real improvement, they could, after all, smell it.

  He retched.

  The first time it happened was when he had just come to life. The doctors had pulled him from his mother and held him up high. He coughed in that shrill newborn's tone, and blood bubbles sputtered from his lips. Then he coughed again, and again, and again. Those sputters soon grew, and from them flowed more fluid – but no yellow phlegm this, instead scarlet droplets stained the operatory floor. Blood poured from his tiny mouth onto where so many crimson stains had been before. This time, it held more than mere small stains though. Newborn though he was, he vomited with the force of a great man, his head thrashed, spraying the whole room. The doctors nearly dropped him on witnessing such an awful sight; they panicked and yelled at one another, none had seen such horrors before; they tried to find a way to stem the flow. They failed, and in that failure failed too to notice his ever more sallow and anemic mother. The phenomenon had made them lose their senses, had made them loose attention. She had become paler and paler; her pulse had weakened, and her movements had quietened: the blood had drained from her invisibly. A final extended tone indicated her demise. Her blood, her life force, now pooled on the floor, and stained the walls, as well the doctors' scrubs. The doctors who had seen and helped with many horrors, and brought back many from death's honed edge, were now well and truly traumatized. They performed many a test throughout his life to try and discover his disease, but all faltered. They had carried out many treatments, from electric shocks, to pills, to priests, but none had been successful.