DEATH BY THE CUP
“Strychnine is a cruel poison. One must truly dislike another to inflict a death so agonizing,” said Mrs. Small, wiping the crumbs from the corner of her mouth then reaching for another shortbread cookie.
Mrs. Green grinned, and Mrs. Small cocked a gray eyebrow. “Does it take long?” Mrs. Green purred. Her small frame jerked slightly and her eyes widened in fear when the front door of the house slammed shut. The two elderly women retreated from the table. “Not tonight,” Mrs. Green said.
Mrs. Small grinned at the sign of confirmation from her friend. “Of course—I understand.” Mrs. Small clutched her tattered purse and slipped out the back door. The familiar stench of freshly dropped cow manure made her cough in offence; she reached into her sweater pocket and pulled out a rose colored silk handkerchief, thin from years of use and fraying around the edges, to cover her nose. She continued walking along the gravel road toward her small cottage nestled behind a patch of trees a mile from her friend’s house.
Mrs. Small practically lived in her kitchen; it was the warmest room in the cottage, the place where she kept all her favorite things: jewelry and childhood photographs hidden in rusty cookie tins, and her knitting, stuffed in a box, in between the rocker and the wood-burning stove. How she loved to knit during the winter. She knitted blankets that flowed over her lap keeping her warm as she worked late into the night.
She also treasured the bible that she received on her wedding day, so many years ago. Its pages remained attached by a few threads clinging to the worn leather cover. She kept it under her pillow. Before going to sleep, she would kneel beside her bed with the bible open and stare at the pages. She never learned to read and did not understand what was painted upon those pages but she knew the precious book contained words of forgiveness her preacher had said so, and she stared at that book every night believing she would be forgiven for any wicked deeds.
After her nightly ritual of knitting, Mrs. Small would unlock the kitchen cupboard next to the sink. It gave her pleasure to run her fingers over the bottles filled with powders and herbs. She smiled with pride and satisfaction as she admired her concoctions.
Tonight she focused on a small bottle of clear liquid. Her husband had brought it home one day, and though she could not remember why he needed it, she knew what it was and what it could do.
The following morning the women met at the market as they did every week. Fresh eggs and butter from their own farms were things of the past; it was simpler to purchase such staples at the market. Arm in arm, they walked past the stands. It was too early in the season for root vegetables so they decided on a walk by the creek to pick stinging nettles for a nourishing spring soup.
Cecil Green was old but not tired. He was up and in the fields at dawn. He would eat his lunch in the field watching his cows and sheep; his senses now dulled to the stench of cow pucks. Before returning home in the evening, he visited the village pub. He would not leave until he was ready to be fed.
Mrs. Green rubbed the scar on her arm. She could not feel the burning blisters any longer, but in spite of the dry wrinkled skin and the discoloration, the memory of that night remained. She was not certain which hurt more, the hot oil from the stove or the knowledge that her husband could inflict such agony upon her.
Wearing rubber gloves, Mrs. Small and Mrs. Green picked the nettle leaves off the stems. After making a pot of soup, they sat down to business. The teapot was placed on the trivet surrounded by empty cups decorated with roses. Mrs. Small did not waste a moment and eagerly slipped the small bottle from her purse placing it next to the teapot.
“It has to be tonight,” Mrs. Green said as she pulled the dress sleeves over the fresh bruises encircling her wrists. “Tonight,” she said glancing over at the broken china platter the one her mother gave her on her wedding day.
“Tonight it is,” Mrs. Small confirmed, encouraging her friend while pouring tea. Mrs. Small beamed with excitement. No one will ever know. She recalled the doctor thinking Mr. Small died of a heart attack. Mrs. Green now would do exactly as she had done that fatal night. She knew her dear friend was ready for the deed. Mrs. Green had let it go far too long—soon no more hiding the bruises and no more fear.
“Can I hide it in his tea?” Mrs. Green asked softly, not that anyone could hear them. They were alone, after all.
“I shall put it in the teapot. Tonight, after his dinner, make tea and pour him a cup. Be certain you serve it with a sweet cake.” They giggled as they used to do as girls. Their eyes were bright in anticipation as they finished their tea.
When it was time for Mrs. Small to depart, she rinsed the teapot with cold water and poured half of the clear liquid into the pot. “Don’t forget,” she said pointing to the teapot. She placed the pot on the windowsill for later then departed through the kitchen door like a good conspirator. Cecil Green would enter through the front door and demand his supper. Mrs. Small was happy for her friend. Cecil would drink a cup of the special brew after his dinner and the deed would be complete.
The following morning, Mrs. Small hurried through her breakfast. She had baked a rabbit pie the night before for their lunch. Dandelion wine would make an appropriate toast. The discovery she made after opening her purse sent her to the floor. She clutched her chest and cried out. “What have I done?”
Overwhelmed with impending gloom at the thought of another evening of Cecil inflicting his cruelty to her dear friend, she willed herself to hurry as quickly as possible to reach her friend’s house. She wiped the droplets of moisture from her face and cursed her failing eyesight.
A trembling hand opened the kitchen door and Mrs. Small sighed in relief. Beside the kitchen table lay Cecil stiff as a board and next to his head a large frying pan. Sitting at the end of the table was Mrs. Green eating her oatmeal.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this eBook without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Copyright © 2015-2018, M. Kersey, Publisher - Catalina Press.
Last night, I dreamt that I kept my soul hidden in a small wooden box and at the end of the day, I retreated to my bedroom, pulled out the box from under my bed, and freed my soul, but it wasn't a dream.
Something's changing and it's happening all around us. I pass people on the street. Emptiness etched on their faces and hollowness in their eyes. They look through me-past me-not at me-as if I don't exist-as if I were air. Conversations are brief and topics light and inoffensive.
A few of us saw it coming, but couldn't do anything to stop it. They never even noticed. Hints of it dotted the news, but people didn't pay attention.
My friends and family laughed at me. They told me I was crazy, that our government, the government we elected, would never do such a thing to its citizens. However, one by one, their souls were stolen.
One night the circle of friends-the ones who saw-was broken.
"Aren't you coming tonight?"
"Coming. Coming where?"
"It's girl's night. Remember? You're supposed to bring chips and dip. We're waiting for you," I laughed. "Rachael?"
"Ah, yea, but I'm really tired. I'm going back to bed."
"Rachael! Wait!" I said. My friends watched. No one spoke as I returned the phone to the cradle.
"But we never miss our night," Cindy said.
We looked at each other. I could see the light leaving their eyes. They each had experienced something - they knew it was only going to get worse.
Everyone walks around with automatic precision. Their memories wiped clean every few hours as if someone has taken and ripped the page from their notebook-brain and thrown it away. The topics of conversation over coffee are health problems and the medications their doctors prescribe. Tears don't flow. Laughter doesn't fill a room. Anger doesn't explode. Emotionless. Easy to control. Crime is nonexistent.
Last night, I dreamt I came home from work and stood in front of the mirror. I stared at my reflection. I was faceless and my hair was steel grey - bland and lifeless. I pulled the jacket zipper down and pulled each side of the coat apart revealing a cavity filled with light. My soul stepped back into my body. I stretched and groaned-a sense of freedom filled me.
I turned out the lights. I walked around the apartment and secured my blinds. I watched the street through the blinds. Nurses wearing black overcoats knocked on doors.
#
Only a few of us are left. We call ourselves the Awakened. We can't do anything about it. Now, the drug is in our water and in our food. We can't escape it. I've tried running to the country and to the smallest communities but they're all the same. Fellow citizens walking around like zombies taking orders from messages on the television and the radio. It's like watching a scene from a science fiction movie. Everyone walks past each other with vacant calmness and insincere politeness. There isn't a care in the world. They smile but not wide happy smiles, but short dead ones. They pass each other with faint familiarity. A glimmer of recognition yet they are subdued.
My sister Amy's cat died-her cat of sixteen years-she didn't shed a tear. Her lack of emotion at the loss sent chills up my spine. She stopped singing and laughing. She didn't look at me, but through me. Her blue eyes turned black and her pink skin grey.
"Aren't you sad?" I asked her.
"No," she said. "It's a fact of life-things die. So what. I'll get another."
#
We still meet once a week but no more card games. We drink coffee made with filtered water-filtered a dozen times.
When we meet, we sit arms length to each other and dim the lights. We're afraid of meeting in public. Paranoia is escalating among us.
I knew my soul would leave me if the water affected her but she hasn't. We are immune. Would my body eventually give in? Some days I wished it would take me over. Maybe it would relieve the feeling of loneliness living among these hollow shells. They still celebrate holidays and birthdays, but without joyous sentiment. They go to work as they always did but don't complain. Everyone is so compliant.
The members of the Awakened all work for different companies. We seldom cross paths in public and if we do , we don't exhibit any recognition for each other. We heard that new laboratories were set up to investigate citizens not affected by this process. Our imaginations run wild. The scariest of horror movies with the maddest of scientists have been the latest topic of discussion.
We heard that Rachel died. We were the only people at her cremation. How long can we exist like this. I don't know. The fear is consuming. I wear the same style clothes every day. A pin sticks me through my bra strap to remind me. Pretending is exhausting. My soul is tired.
#
I watched my soul relax and climb back into her protective sanctuary. She is safe there.
She is free of chemicals. She is free from the forces trying to change our society. How I've managed to retain my sanity, my individuality is still a mystery to my few friends and me. We face each day with fear and each day as if it is our last. We are four - the Awakened - the ones that see.
They're winning. Soon the entire world will be at the mercy of their governments: governments in partnership with big pharma, an orderly planet with no more terrorists, no dysfunctional families, no activists, no hatred, no lawbreakers, no passion...and no freedom.
© 2015 Copyright, Mary Lou Kersey, All Rights Reserved.
Originally published at Ascent Aspirations
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this eBook without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Copyright © 2015-2018, M. Kersey, Publisher - Catalina Press.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU CALL and tell me he was in the hospital?” he asks, his eyes welling with tears. My heart sinks watching him as he chokes back his emotions. I can’t tell him that my brother, his only son, didn’t want to see him.
***
My brother clings to life, breathing oxygen from a mask connected to a wall. No, even though each rattled breath may be his last, he doesn’t want his father to see him; he doesn’t want his father near him. He does not want his father to see him at the lowest point of his life. No, he wants to be remembered as a well-dressed, independent man on his way to becoming someone important.
***
“No, he was never around when I needed him—he didn’t even come to my graduation. I don’t want him here now,” my brother says, sighing. He coughs into a mask, wipes it clean using a tissue, then places the bloody tissue into a small bag tucked between the blanket and the bed rail. The nurse brings in his lunch and places the tray on the table—I lift the lid and look at the gray food. He looks at me and rolls his eyes, now bloodshot. “Do you want it?” he asks, as he reaches for the cup of iced water.
He drifts to sleep. I reach for the small photo on the nightstand—a photo taken one Easter morning. We’re both in our pajamas sitting on a red sofa, each holding onto a stuffed bunny. Our bodies are so small our legs barely reach the edge of the sofa. I watch him sleep as I hold onto the small photo. I remember the games we played as children hiding under beds and in closets. I remember sharing secrets as we hid in our tent made out of an old bedspread. I smile and look over at him—he’s still sleeping, then I cry. I bend over him and kiss his warm, damp forehead. I place the photo next to the water jug on the nightstand.
He’s clinging to life, holding on, and I am thankful for every extra minute he is alive. He’s slipping in and out of consciousness—mumbling. Is he dreaming? I don’t know.
***
“No, no more morphine!” he pleads. He wants to be lucid—in control. He will suffer. “Pease, no more morphine. No. No—Dad,” he insists. “No—Dad.” He holds up his hand, a gesture I’ve seen before, a gesture that means no more—and he means no more about our father.
I don’t blame him. I don’t want Dad here either. How can he face the man that allowed his lust for a woman to split up our family—the same woman who allowed him to leave his children hungry and home alone at night. My brother is at peace with his decision. I am glad Daniel chooses not to call him. My brother is holding onto his dignity like a rock climber holding on to the edge of a cliff.
I try to imagine what is running through my brother’s head—his memories of childhood and the wicked stepmother. The fear of seeing her again with those thick arched eyebrows painted brown hiding the gray hairs. The foundation she wears can’t hide the orange-peel texture of her skin, and the mascara and eyeliner can’t widen the small beady eyes. The hair spray only makes her dry, brittle hair look even dryer, a sad sight for a dying man. Yes, I’m glad they didn’t come.
***
“Nurse, nurse please help my brother, he can’t breathe!” I call out. He rings the buzzer and still no one comes. I run to the nurses’ station and slam my hand on the counter interrupting the gathering of chatting nurses. They stop and look over at me. “Who’s in charge?” I demand. “I want to speak to the person in charge.” Once they realize my panic, I’m told help is on the way. I run back toward my brother’s room. I turn around when I reach the doorway and look back at them to make sure someone really is coming. I walk toward my brother’s bed, but it’s already too late.
***
“I wish I had known,” my father says again.
“You couldn’t have done anything for him,” I say. He doesn’t offer to contribute toward Daniel’s cremation or anything else. Why should he? It’s already paid for. “Typical,” I think. He just doesn’t get it. I choke at the thought. I take another drink of beer to help wash my fried fish down. I eat a French fry—I don’t know what to say to him. I’m carefully choosing my words. “We tried, but Daniel didn’t want us to call you; he didn’t want anyone to come,” I say. I hope that eases his pain, even briefly. I shouldn’t care, but I do. I’m just glad Dad’s wife isn’t here sitting next to him, across from me. Old emotions stir as I think of her. Yuk. I take another gulp of beer. The evening is coming to an end.
“Sure is humid,” my father says.
I agree, as I restrain the urge to point my finger in his face and say, “It’s all your fault—all of it.” I give my head a shake wiping the thought away. In spite of everything that’s happened, I feel I need to say something comforting to my father. “He was always very private with his life. Daniel died on his terms - not ours,” I say, hoping he might finally understand, but as I look into his blank eyes, I know he never will.
End
© 2015 Copyright, Mary Lou Kersey, All Rights Reserved.
