The Righteous Perish

Part 6

   I heard it before I saw it. I heard Grandma gurgle something awful from the slimy thickets of her lizard-like throat. I heard her fat meaty heart slam against the gooey flesh of her chest. I saw her plump form stumble into the lion-claw glow of the moon and eye-like glimmer of ivory stars. I screamed. Before I knew it, I saw the most powerful woman in the world lying in a casket, never to spank me again.

"Mama," I asked, "Is Grandma Mauricette in Heaven?"

"David James Carlyle," Mama barked, "I told you for the thousandth time, she lives in the bayou!"

This wasn't odd to me. You see, before Dad's funeral home, no relative died. They simply roamed the Louisiana bayou as some sort of monster or spirit-- I'm not sure which. Night after night, I felt sharp-nosed mosquitos tear into my soft skin. I felt cold, sticky mud squish between my toes. I screamed till my throat hurt:

"Grandma, Grandma, Grandma...!"

See? Despite becoming fluent in Korean, I was a stupid child. I knew no other life than my own. Now I struggle to atone the shadows that roam between flesh and bone.

                                                                                           XXX

Pich loved hats. Cloches. Fedoras. Berets. Her favorite was a round straw boater, tied with a glossy scarlet ribbon. Whenever she wore it, nobody noticed the scars and bumps of her face. They only noticed the safety of a painful smile. 

I know that face. I see it every day-- at work, at home, and at the feathered pink edges of the sunset. The deep-brown slither of eyes over a mangled red mouth. A smile like a trembling volcano. It never erupts. It waits.

Pich sighed. She'd never felt such revenge. Not even in the orphanage, forcing down sour swamps of pea-soup. Not even when she was a puppy at Mama Kisook's cracked heels, suddenly transforming into a human before onlookers. ("You saw nothing," Mama snapped, "I'm blind and even I know that.") She smiled. Mama hugged her because she loved her-- not because any roving-eyed fool told her to. That said a lot, for a woman whose God was death. Her heart was soft and warm, soothing every edge of her tense muscles. She's like my mother! If only Kwak was that kind.

Kwak! Her throat tightened with anger. She remembered the brown-red face of that slug, leaving only filth behind. Wasn't she Kisook's cousin? She mentally scanned every guest list. Through her Mongolian mother, Kisook was cousins with Bolormaa Davaajargal, a woman unfortunate enough to shit out hideous Kwak.

Once removed! Whatever. She'd have her removed from this world. Kwak ruined her life. She may have had a gun, but she was glass under the sun. Her eyes sparkled like ice, trapping Pich behind their bitter light. No heart was warm enough to melt them. Everyone knew why.

Pich examined her tools. The blade was thirsty. Yet a pistol is faster, much simpler to use. Pich's heart pierced her throat. Snakelike scars pulsed around each bony arm. She clutched the remains of her face. One eye pressed open, the other swollen shut.. A rubbery, boneless bit of nose. Rocky caverns for cheeks and chin. A prickly lipless mouth. All my fault! Her stomach burned with nausea. She remembered lifting her fingers, coaxing Death to lift her eyelids, soften her cheeks, reform her face. How many times have I begged for the Face of Death? That pale diamond of a face, with luscious crimson lips and curly black lashes blooming over dark lilypad eyes...! I can't look, she thought, Though the only difference between a mirror and a window is vanity. Beauty vanishes, eaten alive by lion-mouthed eyes....