She sits in a self-imposed solitary in the barren yard. The grass is cut close to the hard earth;
sun-faded to a near death yellow and beaten down by heavy soles to a texture of
splintered straw that pierces through the thin fabric of her pants into the
pale flesh of her butt and thighs. She’s
reminded of its nasty temper every time she shifts and the blades stab her,
radiating a tingling warmth through her spine that peculiarly reroutes as nerve
signals in her toes, arms, abdomen, and neck.
She can see figures passing in her peripheral vision, but she ignores
the shadows and turns a deaf ear to the hum of voices that blend in an out of
tune arrangement that would offend her discerning ear if she didn’t take such a
measure. It’s a bright day. The harsh sunlight reflects off the collecting
stark clouds, bleaching the sky in an electric white that distorts the vision
long after finding shelter in artificial light.
To beat the boredom she cups and stacks her hands into a telescope,
peering through the marble-sized tunnel it creates, scanning the yard; rusting chain-link
fence, weathered picnic table and chipped bench, stained cinder block wall, raucous
geese flying above in a V formation that resembles a preschooler’s
undisciplined handwriting. It’s still
summer September, with warm extended days, but autumn is hovering and quietly
making herself known in the smell of ripening foliage that infuses the crisp
tail ends of the seasonal breezes. She
continues to scan her surroundings until he comes into her line of vision. She wasn’t seeking him out, but there he is,
just like most days in the last seven months.
She peers at him through the telescope, taking mental notes of his
unchanging attire, his shifting demeanor, his unmistakable good looks. His aviator sunglasses mask his eyes and the
direction they are aimed, but she knows they are trained on her, burning through
the reflective lenses and boring holes into her meditation. She releases her hands to her lap, but her
eyes don’t leave go of his rigid form.
She loses herself so deep in her reverie that she misses the alarm that
sounds the end of recess, as well as the baritone voice of the black clad guard
who has no patience for her dawdling. He
stomps to her side, forcefully kicking her in the left thigh with his over
polished, black, steel-toed boot.
“Get the fuck up bitch!”
He bites the words with the foaming ferocity of a rabid dog.
She doesn’t flinch or wince from the pain. She keeps her composure and with an air of
indifference and a stone cold face, rises to her feet and begins walking
towards the yard’s exit. She is the last
to leave the pen, and as she walks through the chain-link corridor that leads
to the neighboring mushroom cloud grey building, she raises her head slightly
to the right, catching sight of her diminutive figure in the lenses of his
sunglasses, his body stock still and segmented by the lackluster fence into
hundreds of uniform puzzle pieces. She
steps into the harsh fluorescent lighting, the heavy armored door swallowing
her, the locks pounding into position.
He slowly exhales and acknowledges to himself that she is a peculiar and
bewitching beauty, who has the uncanny ability to make him uncomfortable about
his existence and agonizingly hard.
She spends her afternoon in the deplorable prison library
that rarely sees more than four or five visitors a day. It’s a small, rectangular cinder block room
painted flat, muted sea foam green, the same green as the girls room in her first
elementary school; a grueling three months she doesn’t like to be reminded of— ever. Extending along the top portion of the north
facing wall, are six rectangular windows that resemble fish tanks on display in
a pet store; the humor of such a comparison isn’t lost on her, she being so
exposed twenty-four seven. Each window is
encased in a cell of its own and the sight of them makes her yearn for how the
world looks unobstructed by chain-link and iron bars, and how true silence
sounds, not the artificial silence they enforce within the prison walls. Her time here has almost run its course, and
she silently sends a prayer asking, pleading, that this be her last
imprisonment. Her appeal is interrupted
by a husky female voice. “You’re Moira, right?”
She turns around to see a thick blonde with a worn face,
eyes weighed down by heavy bags and rimmed with dark circles.
She offers a small genuine smile and replies with a simple,
“Yes.”
The blonde moves in a step closer. “Is it true…I mean, the rumors I hear…were
you with Dolly when she died?” The
blonde’s shoulders are tense and the dams behind her eyes look ready to
break.
Moira releases the smile, but holds onto the gentle voice,
answering in a single, “Yes.”
The blonde tries to stifle a painful gasp. Gathering her composure she hesitates, an
indication that she doesn’t really want to know the answer to her next
question. “Was it suicide?”
Looking her straight in the eye, Moira offers the same
reply, “Yes.”
Tears come unloose, spilling over the blonde’s bottom lids
as she angrily thrusts her hands in her short hair, turning away and then back
again, a toxic concoction of anger, frustration, and grief restraining her from
lunging. Her raw emotion causes each
breath to shudder and her barely audible voice cracks with each word. “Why. Didn’t. You. Stop. Her?”
Moira pauses for just a moment, thinking back to last
Wednesday afternoon in this very room, within the shelter of the tall, heavy
bookshelves. “It was already set in
motion. I was with her, keeping her
close, so it wasn’t a lonely passing.”
No longer protected by her harsh front, the blonde reaches
for Moira’s hand, but thinks twice about it and pulls it back. Moira doesn’t need to think, her body
instinctively knows how to comfort the blonde.
She just reaches forward and takes her hand in hers, squeezing it just
once. The blonde tries to put her
thoughts into words, but they are swimming and her voice is choking on the sobs
balled up in her throat. “Did she…Was
she…Any words…Did she know…”
Moira takes her left hand and delicately caresses the
blonde’s right cheek with the back of her slightly curled fingers.
“I pulled her into my lap, sang to her as I stroked her
hair. She smiled as she leaned into me
and softly whispered, ‘Mama.’”
The blonde pulls her hand free, squatting low to the ground,
where she holds her face in her hands as she cries, her body forcing a
self-soothing rock. After a few minutes
the blonde stands, gaining her composure and repositioning her defensive armor,
resuming her rigid posture, her face now grim lines and blood shot eyes. The
blonde turns to leave, but a new thought surfaces and as she turns to ask
Moira, the library door opens and in walks a young guard, his aviator glasses
perched on the top of his head.
“Cole! You got a
purpose in here?!” He smokes and drinks
too much for someone his age, and the effects of both are given away in his hoarse
voice.
The blonde turns to the guard and manages a solid “No” as
her reply.
With a sharp edge to his tone, the guard snaps, “Then get
the fuck back to Gen Pop!”
The blonde doesn’t resist, she does as is commanded without
turning back.
He stares at Moira, salaciously eyeing her in the
prison-issued scrubs. He uses a
friendlier tone with her.
“Are you almost done here, Rhan?”
She politely answers,
“Yes, I think we can go now. But first,
could you help me check the receiving hall for any packages?”
He’s irritated by her request, but he figures it’s a way to
get a few more minutes with her, so he feigns annoyance and barks, “Quickly.”
He walks with heavy feet to the antiquated steel door; it’s chipping
green paint and rusted rivets giving it a haunted appearance. He flicks the light switch beside the door,
before pulling his key ring from his overly accessorized belt. Standing beside him, she internally counts
each key as he splays them between his fingers.
He finds the one needed and unlocks the door. He has to use some effort to pull it open,
and it leaves him feeling slightly winded.
Forgetting himself and where he is, he graciously acknowledges that she
is a lady and proffers his hand to her as she enters first. The receiving hall is original to the
building; disintegrating stone walls draped in middle-aged cobwebs, a dust and
dirt coated stone floor, a single hanging light bulb that casts an amber light partially
down the long corridor. The receiving
door is at the end of a dark passage that branches from the main hall, which
continues deep within the shadows to a depth unknown to most employees of the
prison. There are a number of boxes
stacked into three piles midway down the hallway. As he releases the heavy door, it slowly
shuts with a fading creak, obscuring their presence from any who enter the
library.
“You stand here, okay Rhan.”
He points to the threshold, his words commanding not questioning.
She sweetly answers, “Yes.”
As he walks towards the week old shipment, he is overcome
with a slight disorientation, the calico light and shadows making his vision
lose its depth perception, his head reeling and dizzy. He turns behind him to see her still standing
in the exact spot he ordered her to, her eyes glued to him, a sweet smile
stretching across her face, directed at him.
He turns back and approaches the boxes.
He begins carrying each box into the library, each time she kindly holds
the door open for him, and with each pass by her he takes in something new; she
smells of cypress and citrus blossoms, her thick mahogany hair is tied up in a
pony tail and is silken and wispy, her eyes catch even this unflattering light
and reflect it as a star or planet glints in the dark night, her milk glass
skin is free of all flaws, not a mole, freckle, beauty mark, or scar mars her. He returns to the second stack, sweaty and
heart racing, and as he picks up the second to last box he loses his grip and
it falls forward, the open flaps releasing a book to the ground that coughs a
dust cloud into the air with the smack of paperback on stone. He juggles the box back into an upright
position and gathers his bearings before proceeding with his task. She continues to watch his every move with
soft eyes and a gentle smile, quietly studying his moistening flesh, his
unstable breathing, and staggering legs.
As he bends to pick up the next box, he feels a choking ache devouring
his chest and suffocating his head. He
drops to his knees, hunching over as his nails etch pain into the dirt. He looks to Moira, his voice silenced as
tears streak his cheeks. She offers him
a compassionate acknowledgement with the tilt of her head and pout of her
lips. As she gracefully walks to him, his
vision distorts her, separating her into three female entities, and his ears
are overwhelmed with a trio of feminine voices singing an ancient operatic
piece in a language foreign to his ears.
In between his body lurching and burning from an energy begging for
liberation, he desperately tries to plead for her help. She kneels before him, taking his chin in her
left hand, silencing his mouth with her right index finger as she hushes him,
“Shhhh.” He looks into her eyes and
begins to still as she first kisses a tear from his cheek and then gingerly whispers
to his ear, “You won’t feel a thing.” He
gradually shuts his eyes, and all at once a warm spiraling release fills him
with childhood innocence and unsullied joy, when time had no significance and
everything was executed with wild abandon.
She holds him close to her breast, embracing and absorbing every thought
and feeling that carried and bound him to this moment. He could feel himself losing touch with his physical
pain, and immersing into the rhythm of her breathing. Unable to rally the strength to lift his
eyelids, he lets his mind unlock hidden childhood memories; sitting atop his
father’s shoulders during Fourth of July fireworks, only four and so proud to
hold his baby sister for the first time, his young mother cooking breakfast in
their sunny kitchen, she singing a florally tune, as she turns and smiles at
him—and then the sharp, metallic slice of scissors.
She tenderly lays his limp body onto the floor beside his
incomplete chore. Pulling herself up from
where she knelt, she ignores the grime that coats her pants and hands, and
quietly takes her leave down the dark corridor; gradually dissolving into the shadows. Inches from his lifeless form rests an errant
paperback copy of the palpable thread that tied him to her…The Moirae.
E.A. O'Connell
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