Thursday, May 6, 2004

Wilt, Cont.

NOTE: I realized that the date on Vicie's grave would make it so her daughter was quite young; too young, so that there's no way she could be speaking like she does in the dialogue. So I changed that.

I also started adding new paragaphs in the conversation ones where it's need. You'll see what I mean if I repost them, and if you read what I've got today.

---

VI
The tombstone, gray, edged out of the ground. The flowers there began to droop over and wilt, first red, then paler, then paler. Palest. The wind began to blow, making the strands of grass upon the ground bend, making the flowers—dead pale red—throttle in the open breeze. The picture, held in place by the rock, wavered up and down in its constraint.

Suddenly, the wind increased in speed. The picture began to harshly move up and down on the rock, making the sound of a flag whipping in wind. The flowers blew away, did twirls in the air, then fell back on the ground in pieces—a dead stem here, a dead petal there, a dead leaf there. An entire wilted head of a flower here. Grass came out of the ground, carried off in the wind—green blurs doing summersaults and loops and twirls.

In the background, a large sun—a red, now bruising sphere—was setting. But the wind, increasing even further in speed, moved it eastward in the cloudless sky. It kept moving, slow. More eastward and more eastward, until it could not be seen in the sky at all. Dark devoured the daylight. Prowled in. And a twilit sky and a moon keeping watch up there. Full moon.

The moon’s craters created what looked like two strained eyes, a strained mouth. It seemed to whisper something, seemed to move. But the wind was all that was heard. He wonders what the moon is saying.

The wind, at incredible speeds. The drawing, held in place by a small rock, tears. The rock tumbling off. Carried off in the wind, the drawing twirls. Then it turns so he can see what is drawn on it.

He sees a disproportionate lower torso, one leg longer than the other, crooked. MOMMY, a crude handwriting reads below the legs.

The disproportionate legs begin to gain color. The color of flesh comes alive from the torn drawing, the feet, the knee. It begins to come alive from the picture. One leg longer than the other. The legs walk over to him, and he sees it. “Daddy, what is that thing?” she says. It’s his daughter. She’s talking. But from where? “What is that thing?” she asks again.

He knows what it is. But he cannot tell his daughter—she is too young. “It’s her private part,” he hears himself saying, even though he didn’t move his mouth or think to say it. “You’ve got one too, honey.” His voice sounds like an echo, dull and far away.

“Do you have one too, daddy?”

He thinks to answer his is different, but he cannot hear himself say it. His attention is diverted over to the legs, now right beside him, the private part of her pushing against him. He can feel it. He can see the one leg longer than the other. He can see the hair there. The hair.

The legs begin to move up and down on him. His mind is hit with image after image after image of her. Her how he remembered her. Naked. The firm breasts, her black hair, her green eyes. The way she made love. It is all spinning around him, out of control. He wants to control it. Somehow, he senses his daughter. He senses her presence, can just hear her asking, “Daddy, what’s that mommy’s doing?” but doesn’t hear it.

He begins to feel the tinge, the pressure, of pleasure pushing down on him. Beating on him. His whole body begins to pulse with it, asserting control. He can hear her moaning, can see the look of strained pleasure on her face. Then it is gone. The pleasure is gone, and in its wake, there is a feeling of emptiness. A frantic feeling. A desolate, gone feeling.

He sees the legs, and the hair he can see begins to turn gray. The legs, strong and fleshly, begin to pale. Her hair on her private part seems like a flower’s head, it begins to fall away like petals. Dead pale petals. They float to the ground, like a leaf.

Her legs begin to lose their footing, their place, and fall inward. They collapse, and wounds begin to gain shape. Bruises and sores and cuts and gashes and lacerations. She begins bleeding from them. The blood is not red. It is pale. Wilted. She’s wilting. Right in front of his eyes. And now she is bones. And now she is nothing. Gone soon as she came. The feeling of loneliness and desolation bangs inside of him, even stronger than before.

The wind picks up again, much stronger. The gravestone is taken up, the dirt falling free from it. It goes off into the darkness, is eaten—devoured—by it. Somehow, he doesn’t know how, he can feel the wind, its immense strength—but it does not carry him away.

Dirt is flying all about, dusting everything. The stars themselves, in the sky, appear to be moving in the strong wind; the moon stands where it is, and it seems to be talking. It seems to be mumbling. But he can’t hear. The wind is all he hears, and what he hears in his mind. Her.

Then. A hand protrudes out from the dirt, where her grave used to be. A thin wry hand, cold and reptile and unhuman. She comes out, naked, but not quite as beautiful. Not quite as beautiful at all.

Her hair is thin, stuck on her head as if what hasn’t fell out will fall out soon. Her breasts are pale, the nipples like rosebuds. She looks thin and weak and dead.

“I can’t believe you!” she yells, walking over. “I can’t believe this!”
“What?”
“Why’d you take my daughter from me? What was it that makes you think you can do that?”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumbshit with me. My daughter! I want her. I want her with me. Now!”
“What?”
“My god, are you fucking deaf? Can’t you hear me? CAN’T YOU HEAR ME? HELLO? I WANT MY DAUGHTER. WITH ME. I WANT HER WITH ME, NOW!”
“I can’t hear you, Vicie. I can’t hear you.” He puts his hands on his hears, holds them closed. “I can’t hear you.” He begins to cry, but the tears get caught in the wind, and are gone right away. The wind is all he can hear.
“You can’t hear me? Is that what you’re saying? Maybe it’s that you don’t WANT to hear me. Maybe that’s what it is.” She turns around, her buttocks waggling in the distance. “I want her dead, in the ground, with me. I want her dead. DEAD. DO YOU HEAR ME. DEAD. I. WANT. HER. DEAD. I want her here--HERE WITH ME!”
He can tell she’s yelling. But he can’t hear. He cannot hear.

She crawls back in the ground, and he’s left there. Standing. Alone. Wondering what the hell just happened. He closes his eyes, the wind is getting them all full of dirt. It stings.

He turns. And opens them again.

V
“Daddy, daddy! Wake up, wake up!”
“What?”
“Daddy, you’re awake! I was scared.”
“Why’s that, honey?”
“You were talking in your sleep, daddy. It was scary.”
“What was I saying?”
“I couldn’t hear most of it.”
“Oh. OK. I’m sorry, honey.”
”Sorry for what?”
“Scaring you.”
“It’s OK. Was it a nightmare? Is that what it was?”
“Yes, I think so. Daddy’s OK though.”
”Do you know what it was about, daddy?”
“It’s already leaving me. No, I don’t. Only small parts. . .small parts of it. That’s it.”
“I always forget my dreams too, daddy.”
“Yeah. What time is it? Are we late?”

“Good. We’re only a little late. OK then. I’m going to get dressed, honey. It’s time for the little girls to do it, too. Daddy can help you if you need help.”
“I can do it myself, daddy!”
“That’s big talk coming from a little girl.”
“I can, daddy! I can!”
“OK. You do it, then. I’ve got to rush. Or else I’ll be late. And I’ve got to drop you off at preschool, too.”
“OK. I’ll go get dressed then, daddy.”
“That’s a good girl.”

“You’ve got your jeans on backwards, honey. Here. There you go, turn them around.”
“Like this, daddy?”
“Yes, there you go. That’s right. OK. Let’s go. Grab a banana or something if you need it, honey. Daddy’s going to take one. Should hold you off until lunch.”
”OK daddy. I got it. Let’s go.”
“OK.”

“Have a good day, honey. Daddy’ll see you after work.”
“You too, daddy.”
“Daddy will try. See you later. Be nice to the other kids.”
”Yes daddy.”
Comments (0)