Fly On The Wall: Fairy Tales From A Misanthropic Universe, Vol. I (8 page)

First the
tired sputter of the motor. She heard it in the distance, a
wheezing dread-alarm. The doleful machine got ever closer, driven
by the wicked man. His face was always obscured by the raucous
mower. He was now near, the ear-splitting motor's flailing rotor
blades made that much quite clear. She couldn't live through it
again. Why could god not just take her, and so through death save
her? She just wanted to be happy. Why – why her?

She stands
defiant, dew streams off her lush face. She can take it and she
will, there is no choice. If only he would kill her when he was
done, that was all a gal could dream of. He never does, instead he
ignores her pleas, every time. Instead, he comes back, again and
again, always repeating his rank ritual. A buffeting wind precedes
the pain, this time as it had all others. She struggles to stay
standing; the wind makes her sway from side to side. The cruel man
then holds the vile blades to those she loved the most. He makes
her watch him rip their scabs off revealing moist flesh. Then comes
her turn. It always feels a little different. Sometimes the blades
pull with the force of a tank, tearing flesh from her asunder.
Other times they cut like mythically sharp blades, leaving clean
lines with edges quite fine. She never knows how it would be, not
until it happens.

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.

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.

H
er 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 which 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.

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.