The Last of the Mayflies

Chapter 5

Autumn began to draw to a close, with chill winds that stripped the trees bare. My breath fogged in the air as I went about my day, and my footsteps crunched through the shriveled brown leaves that scuttled through the fields and the streets in town. Fig began to puff up his thick winter coat, and the air smelled of burning firewood wafting from the chimneys, and most nights there was a frost that would sometimes leave ice along the edge of the pond. Often times the bodies Barnsby purchased came to us half frozen and took a good half hour by the fire to become pliable (a rather humorous, if not mildly frightening sight, now that I think back on it. Picture three men seated at a fireplace, sipping tea and perhaps discussing the morning's weather, while a naked, dirtied, and frost covered man lays on the floor at their feet like an exotic and somewhat erotic rug).
Life was slowing down as the Earth prepared to shutter itself in for the next few months, and I am sure you would expect a flower farmer of all people to have quite a bit of leisure this time of year. Well, you would be hopelessly incorrect. I had never been busier in my prior sixteen years combined.
The flowers themselves required little attention (seeing as they were all dead), unless you counted Delia snatching me away under the pretense of floral designing. The closest I had come to anything floral was observing a grieving widow place a shriveled flower atop the coffin of her newly dead husband, as Delia and I observed the funeral from a safe distance, decked in our finest and darkest mourning attire. I could see why Barnsby had hired her: within seconds of arriving she had noticed chains on the entrance gate, which meant they were locked at night, however, a brisk walk away there was a bent rod in the fencing which created an opening just wide enough for a young woman lacking in the derrière and bosom, or a young man lacking in breadth of shoulders or any discernible muscle, to fit through. And any time a guard passed near us, she devolved into full body sobs that sent her falling to her knees as she lamented into the earth, only to rise with dry eyes and continue on discussing whatever previous train of thought she had been on prior to the interruption, which tended to be occasionally of her dissatisfaction with her current literature, never of her fiancé or upcoming wedding, and usually of Burke.
Neither of them had spoken to each other since the ill fated cake exchange, and in fact, had it not been for her random kidnapping of me, I would not have seen her at all, as Barnsby had little work for her seeing as the third party ressurectionists that supplied our bodies did their own scouting, and whatever other tasks he had offered her, such as writing notes for Burke, she refused, citing an "excess of personal affairs to attend to".
So I had been mildly surprised when she had showed up at my home that morning and plucked me away from my firewood splitting (of which I was not difficult to be plucked from), with orders to scout a funeral. The old Englishman must have forgotten to inform me, or with the unpredictable and sudden manner of death, perhaps had not yet been able to.
"How dare he," She whispered heatedly, and I sighed, knowing already what was coming, as she had circled back to this conversation about seven times prior. "I'm too busy getting married away? I'm incapable of the simple task of digging up a corpse? Who does he think he is? Can you believe the audacity of that absolute jackass?"
"Yes, Delia, you are absolutely right," I rattled off like a well trained, exasperated parrot. "He is such a brainless, mannerless, and crude fool."
"And of low class as well. A resurrection man. A man who makes his living off the dead!"
"And Irish."
"You are a smart man, Eli," She smirked, quite pleased. "I believe he is just jealous as no one is interested in marrying a man as coarse as he."
And then there was a shift of her eyes towards me. "...Right?"
"No, Delia, never for a man as hideous as he." My eyes glazed over, much like the corpse's that I watched them now lower into the ground and begin to cover with mounds of dirt.
"Hideous," She narrowed her eyes. "Thank you, Eli, that is such an astute observation. I do think he is quite hideous, with his hideous skin, and that hideous scar on his face. Right through his lips, too. No one would ever want to kiss those."
"Never," I too narrowed my eyes, picturing the eyesore myself. "They're too rugged, especially with that beard he has begun to grow. Such coarse hair—the color of a penny. I assume it would feel quite rough against your skin as he kissed you."
"A beard," The word caused her fists to tremble with hatred. "Yes, that would be quite rough against the skin, but not as rough as those disgusting hands—hand—as it gripped your cheek, so tough and callused..."
"And the arm," I added. "With all those drawings."
"Yes, the forearm, with the veins—"
"Oh yes, the veins."
"And the way the drawings stand out on the pale skin."
"He has more."
"More," Delia looked at me, her eyes wide and breath quick. "Where?"
I rubbed my hands across my chest, watching as her jaw opened wider with each inch I covered.
"The whole thing," I whispered.
"Oh my god," She said. "Do you think they go lower?"
A grin spread across my face as I pondered this great thought. Now I would need to find out. For the sake of expanding knowledge, of course.
And perhaps Delia pondered this as well, but as she watched the ground swallow up the coffin, and the deceased's family cling to each other and weep, even long after the gravediggers had finished their work and left, a somber look came over her.
"Why do you think they cry, Eli?"
"Uh," I stammered, thrown off by this sudden shift in conversation. "Well, I assume they miss their loved one."
"But if they were suffering, shouldn't they be pleased they are now at peace in paradise? Or had they lived a long and fruitful life, should they not be happy for the wealth of experiences they had?"
"I-I don't know," I pulled at my collar, trying not to wonder if my mother had wept the same at my father's burial.
"Maybe," There was a far awayness to Delia's eyes. "They weep because they lived a life unfulfilled. A life of dreams wasted."
And then she turned to look at me.
"What do you dream to be, Eli?"
And I found myself caught on my own tongue and speechless. The thought had never crossed my mind.
"I haven't the slightest clue," I admitted.
"The life of a flower farmer doesn't appeal to you?" She gave me a small smile.
"I don't much mind it, but I don't exactly relish it. I just find it a bit pointless I suppose. You plant them every year just for them to die."
"But they bring such beauty while they're here. I wouldn't call it pointless. But you're a young man. You have your whole life to think on it," Delia's smile faded when she turned to look at the deceased's family, a woman not much older than Delia herself, with a litter of young children clutching at her skirts. "Not me."
And then a couple broke off from the family, an uncle and aunt perhaps, and caught sight of us and proceeded to walk with purpose straight towards us.
"Quick," Delia hissed. "Cry!"
"I can't!" Panic rose in my throat with each step they took closer.
"Try harder!"
They were practically upon us now, so close I could hear their sniveling and observe the puffiness of their eyes.
"I am trying," I said. "I'm not a witch like you—"
Delia did indeed bring tears to my eyes with a sharp jab to the soft and delicate parts of my pelvic region. It also brought me to my knees, where I slumped slowly forwards onto the ground as strange noises escaped me—throaty moans with a sort of shrillness about them (a sound combination I assume you could reproduce by somehow inciting a donkey and a cat to mate).
"Oh dear," The woman gasped. "Is he alright?"
"Oh yes, he's just so overcome with grief," Delia sniveled as well. "We just can't believe that he is truly gone. Oh, what a loss. How will we ever go on without poor—poor..."
"—Samuel!" The woman sobbed, falling into the arms of the man.
This girl was a witch. An absolutely shrewd, cunning, brilliant, witch. I glanced up from my own suffering just in time to catch the barely perceptible smirk that crossed her tear soaked face.
"Poor Samuel," Delia lamented. "'Twas much before his time, don't you agree? He had been so healthy..."
"Yes, taken much too soon," The man shook his head sadly, as his wife continued to sob. "The cancer took a heavy toll on him. It ate the man away from the stomach out, until nothing but flesh and bone remained."
Delia glanced at me with a slight wiggle of her brow, before plunging her face into her hands.
"Such a terrible disease!"
And then they all cried together, until the wife caught chill, and then they exchanged embraces and kisses on the cheek before the couple departed.
"Take care," Delia waved after them, wiping tears from her eyes. "So good to see you again."
And then they vanished from view and with a deep breath her tears dried and were replaced by an ear-splitting, wicked grin. She flicked her hair over her shoulder as we walked back towards the cart, I following behind her while glubbing as if I was a fish.
"Go on," She cupped a hand around her ear. "I already know what you wish to say, but please feel free to say it anyway."
"That was brilliant," I laughed. "Where did you learn such trickery?"
"Witchcraft. I could turn you into a toad, should I wish."
My grin slipped.
"I'm joking," She laughed, before seizing me by my chin. "Or am I?"
Delia released me with a wicked cackle.
"When you are born a woman, such as I, from birth you are labeled as weak and less than. It is true that it would be difficult for me to overpower most men—not you, obviously—so in order to not submit to their whims, women must have power over men's weakest muscle—"
"The penis?"
"No, although that does help. La grosse tête, pas la petite tête," And then Delia tapped her head, and my inferior muscle finally understood.
"You're a frightening women, Delia," I nudged Fig into motion. He was agreeable today, as I had used some of the money the dead had brought me to acquire some chickens as companions for him (of which he beat mercilessly in his free time, their screams perhaps reminding him of my own). "The men of the 17th century would have thought of you as quite flammable."
"Good."
And later, when I dropped her off at her home en route to my way to Barnsby's (of which I was already quite late for), she paused halfway off the cart.
"Eli, don't worry yourself with telling Sir Barnsby about the body," She spoke rather quickly, but I had just informed her of my lateness. "He already knows. He had just asked me as a personal favor to check myself for any possible issues, as he believes women have a sort of thoroughness men lack."
(He was quite correct.)
"Okay," I shrugged. "Well, I must be going now. The Irishman does not like to be kept waiting. Please pray for me."
"Bye, Eli," Delia giggled. "See you soon."
I arrived at the Englishman's only about two hours late, which to be honest, wasn't really far from the usual for me. Now, forgive me, but the thought of slicing into a cold, stiff, and semi-thawed body didn't exactly get me jumping out of bed first thing in the morning, especially combined with the fact that my overseer was a surly, one-armed, sexually deprived, and infuriatingly desirable prick.
"You're late," said Prick stated the obvious as I burst through the door. He stood hunched over the body, pried open at the abdomen from yesterday's session, with gore plastered on his arm, and most importantly, no tea, and no Englishman. Today would be worse than usual.
"I got here as quick as I could."
"I once removed every limb from a centipede to see if they would regenerate. They did not, but even so, he still moved faster than you."
Much worse.
"Where's Barnsby?" I asked, although I supposed I already knew the answer, but anything was worth the effort to distract from my punctual ineptitude.
"Sleepin'," Burke said.
As expected. The Englishman had quite the eccentric sleep cycle, as I had come to learn. Some days, which were the days I did not dread—dare I say, I might have enjoyed—he would greet me at the door with a cup of tea, and would keep the Irishmen well hydrated as well (I still believe he slipped something in Burke's tea, for that mild temper of his), and was a lively, yet soothing teacher, downplaying my mistakes and nerves with humorous (although sometimes only to him) anecdotes about previous dissections, or students, or Burke (humorous to all but Burke. My favorite of which was when Burke, quite infatuated with his first brush of young love, snuck out on a cold winter's night to spend time with his beloved. However, after quite a busy night, he failed to rouse before dawn, and the girl's father discovered him in his daughter's bed. The young man was promptly kicked out in the cold and forced to walk home in nothing but what he was born in. And had that not been humiliating enough, I believe we all know what the cold does to a man's "petite tête"). And then other days it would appear I had caught him fresh from waking, with sleep still clinging to his eyes and voice, and although still merry, he would never quite reach his usual flame.
And then there were the days like this, when he did not wake at all, and there was no one to rein Burke in when he grew vicious, which was just lovely for me, as his already charming moods tended to be even darker when his mentor was absent, and as the Irishman's strength returned in the days after our little mishap, his tongue only got sharper.
"Don't try to change the subject, pup," Burke said. Perhaps I did not give him enough credit in the mental department.
"I know," I replied, "I apologize, but I really do have an excuse this time—"
"Excuse? I don't want to hear your bloody excuse!" The veins in Burke's neck bulged with his usual anger, but he was careful to keep his voice down. "That's all you're good for. Did you get too busy wankin' again?"
I blushed furiously. (You lose track of time just once...)
"No," I pouted as I joined the Irishman and our dead, and now mildly disfigured cadaver friend. A gag escaped me as I watched Burke probe the deceased's stomach, which made a delightful squelching noise. "I was scouting the funeral, like Barnsby—"
"So you're a lyin' coward as well," Burke slapped a scalpel into my hands. "Cut his guts out."
"What? No, I—" I sighed and shut my mouth. There was no use arguing with the man, especially when the explanation involved mentioning his wank fantasy/sworn enemy, an action which would likely end with my own guts being cut out on the table as well. Perhaps this was why Barnsby had neglected to mention it to him.
So I began to slice along the edge of the stomach, my knife sticking on thick tissues that took two hands to cut through. Sweat began to soak my shirt, and not just from exertion, but also because Burke had practically pressed up behind me as he leaned over with intense concentration to examine my work.
"Careful," He said, his voice right next to my ear. "You don't want to puncture it while it's still in there. It'll ruin the whole thing, and we need to get you acquainted with what a healthy abdomen looks like."
I nodded, and continued cutting, but my knees began to give way as I brushed up against intestines, and my hands trembled, further distorting my already jagged cuts. My knife nicked the edge of the glutinous organ, and a noxious green fluid began to leak slowly.
"Dammit, Eli," Burke reached around behind me and grabbed my arm, perhaps to steady it. It had quite the opposite effect however, as I was keenly aware of his touch, and it was just a tad overwhelming.
"I'm sorry!"
"It's fine," Burke said, apparently made more cordial by the presence of human organs. "Do small, quick strokes, not long and hard."
Good lord.
He instructed me to make an incision in the upper part of the stomach, where I then peeled a portion of the organ open to reveal the odd, almost worm looking interior.
"Look at it carefully, Eli. Memorize the details in your mind. The shape, the color, the size. Not all are this big, but considering how feckin' fat this bastard was, it's to be expected."
"And what's that," I pointed to what appeared to be an irritated, almost lacerated area of the stomach. "Oh no, did I hit it there, too?"
"No, that's an ulcer. They can be caused by annoyances. I'm sure I've got a few of them after dealin' with you lot."
"Maybe I can check when you die."
"If I'm dead it's 'cause they've hanged me for buryin' an axe in your feckin' head."
"Okay," I squeaked.
"Anyway, notice how the ulcer is more of a depression in the tissue, an irritation. It's very red and raw, and contained to the inner layer. If we were lookin' at cancer, it would be a growth, and often discolored. They appear to start from the inside, like an ulcer, but I don't think ulcers turn into cancer."
"What causes it then?"
"I'm not sure. I don't believe it's limited to diet, as I know individuals who have taken great care of themselves yet still were stricken down. I need to examine and dissect more sufferers, but they're hard to come by."
This was quite possibly the most I'd ever heard Burke speak, and though he lacked Barnsby's dazzle and theatricality, there was a sort of soft enthusiasm while he rattled off snippets of his knowledge. You could even say, a mildness.
"I had no idea you possessed intelligence," I pecked. 
"I wouldn't go so far as to call it that. I've just been lucky," Burke said flatly, not quite the ruffling I was looking for. He then reached for my arm again, which apparently much like my mind, had slipped off track.
"Careful, Burke," I laughed quite shrilly as the Irishman guided me. "You might cause me to fall in love with you."
"Ah, you wouldn't be the first one."
I nearly shrieked, and in my process to stifle the scream managed to swallow air, which led to a fit of coughing.
"It's a joke," He said. "Let's not get hysterical."
"I didn't know you were familiar with jokes."
"I know you, don't I?"
A shrill "eeeeahhh" escaped me, and I clutched my chest as if I had been shot because I had. Oh, my feathers were flying. And the insolent prick didn't even have the decency to acknowledge my wounded feelings with a laugh, or even a smug grin—he just pointed into the cadaver's abdomen. "Take it out now."
With a deep breath, I reached into the dead man's gut and pried the stomach from its nest. I attempted to avert my gaze, and avoid breathing through my nose, as I removed it, and it jiggled violently in my hands as if quite upset to have been so rudely awakened.
It was much heavier than I expected, and slimy, and began to slip through my fingers. My own, still contained stomach lurched violently at the sight of one of its cousins in my hands, and a ringing started in my ears, and then I glanced down and my mind remembered that this was a dead man, who I had cut open, and I was holding his stomach in my own bare hands. It seemed to fall at half the normal speed, and I had time to observe Burke realize what was happening, and attempt to catch it, but in such a moment of panic his mind had failed to remember the right hand was gone.
It reunited with the body with a sick splat and then promptly burst all over us.
And now, I shrieked.
The stomach fluid burned on my hands, and I rushed to rinse it off.
"You idiot!" Burke shrieked in return. "You've ruined it!"
And I looked below and saw that the body's cavern was now filled with a lovely concoction of juices and partially digested bread.
"W-we can just pour it out," I said. "Can't we?"
"The stomach's burst! That's what we need to study!"
"We can get another one!"
"What a waste of time," Burke shoved a tray of tools off the table, his face red with anger. "I know all of this! I need a cancer body so I can do real work, not play teacher!"
"Okay, so we'll get one!"
"I fuckin' had one and you useless shites lost it!"
I felt tears stinging at my nose.
"I'm trying my best, Burke."
"I'd be better off myself," He scoffed. "With no arms."
I snapped. The illusion of civility we had before was washed away with the stomach juices. I picked up one of the knives he had missed in his tantrum and jammed it in the table. He wanted to play with big knives? Oh, I would show him a big knife.
"Delia was right," I said.
Smashing success. If looks could kill I would've been opened up on that dissection table within seconds.
"Shut up," He growled.
"You are despicable to people trying to help," I yelled. "This is why you don't have any friends!"
"I don't need friends. Ed can force you on me all he wants, but the only thing I need is a cure. Last time I had a friend," Burke pointed to the scar that ran through his rugged lips. "They slashed my face open!"
"Well, I'm sure you deserved it. I bet you told him you fucked his mother!"
"At least I'm not a virgin!"
I gasped, reeling from the pain of his verbal stab. The man had some big knives of his own, it seemed.
"How did you know?"
Burke smirked. "I have two eyes."
Oh. Oh yes. He had set himself up for the perfect shot. I pulled back my arrow, like Paris to Achilles, and let it fly.
"But only one arm!"
Burke unleashed a battle cry and proceeded to hurdle over the table to kill me. What followed was a brief game of cat and mouse, as he chased me around the table while I screamed and attempted to avoid capture by frequently changing the direction in which I fled, which served me well until I confused myself and ran straight into the man. He shoved me to the floor, but with a single arm, wasn't able to do much more than to hold me down while I screeched and swung at him with limp fists.
Now, usually this was the point at which Barnsby would emerge and call for a "mental health excursion", which could be anything from a cup of tea, to a walk in the yard, or to sit through an entire piano performance. But we had never before attempted homicide on a day he was resting.
"You hit like a child!" Burke said, as my hand smacked into his face, hurting me more than him.
"I am a child!"
"A big baby. I haven't seen you be succeed at a single thing besides bein' a coward."
"I hate you!" I flailed my limbs, much like a child throwing a tantrum. "I hate you, I hate you!"
"Boys, boys! Enough!" Thankfully, the Englishman emerged to save my life. "If you must kill one another, at least do it at a lower volume."
The two of us paused in our battle, and like two children caught misbehaving by their father, turned to look at the man with sheepish anticipation. And then I gasped, for upon first glance it appeared that the dead man from the table was standing in the doorway, risen to haunt us, with his sunken eye sockets and bloodless pale skin. But no, it was the Englishman, his twinkling blue eyes dulled to a muddy gray and his snowy hair plastered with the sweat of a fever. There was something about his appearance that made him look so entirely different, almost unrecognizable, yet this something was also hauntingly familiar, so much so that it unsettled my stomach, though I couldn't quite put a finger on what it was.
"Ed," Burke rose quickly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
"It's alright, my boy," Barnsby gave a mighty cough, and Burke rushed to steady him, but the Englishman waved him away.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Oh yes, my hay fever is just horrific this time of year. Just some bad sniffles is all," The man glanced at Burke as he said this, then cleared his throat. "I was planning on making myself some tea, anyway. Would you like some?"
"I'll make it. You and your damn tea," Burke said gruffly as he turned the Englishman back around. "Go sit down, would you?"
"With honey?"
"Yes, and a hint of mint, I know. Just sit!"
"Will you join me? Just for a moment."
Burke glanced between me, the half-opened man on the table, and the Englishman, retreating to his bed with shuffling steps. He sighed, and slipped me my wages for the day.
"Uh," I twiddled my thumbs. "What should I do?"
"Just go home." He said.
"Are you sure? We didn't get much done—"
"Of course we didn't!" He snapped. "You're completely incompetent!"
Okay. I balled the money in my fist and stomped out the door before he could see the angry tears boiling in my eyes. Fig startled awake at my rapid approach, and once he realized it was me, gave a disappointed snort. I trotted off for home, just thinking of the horrible ways I would punish the Irishman, once I grew into my scarecrow like frame (and perhaps "grew a pair" as well). Sure, I was a shoddy workman and consistently tardy and often nauseous, but at least I showed up. There wasn't any reason for him to be so snappy and callous—like every little thing was a matter of life and death for him. I found myself longing for the company of Delia. She would understand my rage.
But gradually my anger dissipated, lulled to a low rumble by the soothing sounds of Fig's breathing and the jangle of his harness, and my thoughts turned instead to the Englishman and his rather atrocious appearance. Hay fever was a common occurrence in my household, seeing as our fields generated probably one eighth of the world's entire pollen (you would think perhaps after generations of flower farming, evolution would have selected for those not rendered useless by that evil yellow powder. You would be quite wrong, however. My father and I both suffered the affliction, and in the height of the spring harvest, you would have been forgiven for thinking you saw the living dead walking amongst the flowers, with shuffling movements and red eyes and plenty of moaning), so I could understand the man's desire to avoid the suffering with unconsciousness. Although I did think it a bit odd that his fever was so terrible when everything was nearly dead, but perhaps the man was allergic to the dying (quite ironic for a man of such a career, ha!).
And then I realized why the sight of the man had unsettled me so much—he reminded me of my father, when he would take his feverish walks about the house towards the end, pale faced and sweaty, and often spouting nonsense.
And also my mother. My poor mother, who I hadn't shared dinner with in at least two weeks, nor had I even paused to see her this morning before I left.
I reached home just as the sunset began, and was quite pleased to actually have some daylight and relative warmth, compared to the night's negative digit chill, to dress down the horse and tend to the various chickens he had mauled that morning (Once he had actually murdered one, that coincidentally had feathers the same color as my hair. I had been quite distraught by the death, until it made quite a tasty addition to that evening's supper). Perhaps there was some benefit to the Irishman's sourness.
And of course, the wages didn't hurt either. I added that day's money to the growing stash I had squirreled away inside a straw bale, where I hoped my mother would never look. By Christmas, if work kept up at its usual pace, it would be a small fortune, and more than pay for our yearly expenses, and any past misgivings on my part. Oh, how I looked forward to the look on her face when I gave it to her, along with the warm embrace that would hopefully follow. And then I could be done with the two foreigners, and with slicing the dead apart.
But... my mind returned to the sight of Burke, dejectedly staring out his window, certain that his noble efforts were over. A cure would be an even greater gift, wouldn't it?
I made sure to blow out any lamps left on in the barn, as straw, wood, chickens, and a foul tempered horse are all quite flammable, and then headed inside.
"Mother?" I called, upon finding everything quite deserted, including the kitchen table, which was bare of the usual plate of cold gruel she would leave for me. Perhaps she ate later than I thought, or worse, assumed I wasn't coming home at all.
Or worse yet, I thought as my heart beat faster and I sped around the corner, had something happened to her?
"Moth—"
In my panicked state, I ran right into the woman, bouncing against her soft stomach and nearly knocking the bowls of that evening's "delight" (sarcasm, my friends) out of her hands.
"Eli," She gasped. "I didn't expect you home this early!"
"Well, I finished up early today," I gave a nervous chuckle and an absolutely cringeworthy swing of my arm. "Got a bit sick of drawing diagrams of daisies. That girl is something else! I pity the man she marries."
"Did you finish chopping the firewood? We will need more soon, and it is getting quite cold."
"No, I, uh, had to leave quite early for work. I'll get to it—"
"I don't understand why you must work such odd hours," My mother sighed and set down the plates. "Especially to just design floral arrangements."
"W-well," Was it hot in there? I believe it was. She always kept that fire roaring. That's why we needed the darn firewood, too. "It's all a secret. A big surprise, you know? She doesn't want her husband to know, so we have to work around his schedule."
Brilliant, Eli. I gave myself a subtle pat on the back—perhaps some of Delia's witchcraft had begun to rub off on me.
"I suppose. I just hate when you're gone so late. Everyone is town is talking of the increase of grave robbing lately. There are deranged men out there, Eli! They said a man had his arm severed by a shovel!"
"Wh-a-a-a-t," I fanned myself, absolutely sweating bullets. This was worse than my last confessional at church. "Surely they can't be serious. I've never heard of such a thing!"
"Just be careful, Eli," She said as she pulled back the curtains to let the last of the daylight in. "If something were to happen—good lord, Eli, is that blood?"
I followed her wild-eyed stare and pointed, trembling finger, to my shirt and hands, that in my upset at my accused ineptitude before, that in actual ineptitude, I had completely forgotten to clean, leaving behind streaks of red, now dried to a flaky brown, along with small chunks of tissue.
I believe at that moment that my heart fell out through my rear entran— exit.
"It's cranberries," I stuttered. God help me, she was on to me. Me and my sins. Such sin, so much sin—how did I get out of this?
"Cranberries? Why were you—"
"I have diarrhea!" I cried, and then in a totally non suspicious manner, fled, shoving my mother out of my way as I made haste to my bedroom, where I immediately stripped naked and hid myself away in my bed and began to cry. Oh, what a fool I was, truly a useless fool. The Irishman was right—I was a joke. My whole life was a joke, in fact, from the very beginning (an interesting story actually: when I was born, I had a bit of a rough exit, or entrance, so came out a bit bruised. Well, my grandmother, upon seeing my purple face, smacked me with an almighty strength. "Why did you do that?" My father had yelled as he held my fresh and moist and shrieking infant body. She had replied with a careless shrug that she thought perhaps I was not breathing. Anyhow, I feel that moment really set the tone for the rest of my life.).
My mother would find out everything—the robbing of dead bodies, the slicing of dead bodies, the occasional slicing of live bodies, the bursting of stomachs, the casual lusting for a one armed man—and I would be locked away in the safety of my room forever, only brought out to be taken to church, where I would have to confess all of my sins and be taunted with unfulfilled promises of rabbits.
At some point in all of my melodramatics, I fell asleep, where I actually dreamed of peaceful things. I was in the church garden, but the rabbits were real and they were there, and they crawled in my lap and ate lettuce from my palms. And then I was awoken by a cold wind and hands forcefully shaking me awake.
"Eli," A woman called to me. "Wake up!"
A woman who was not my mother.
I swear to you, the walls shook as I screamed.
"Stop screaming! It's me!" And then the mystery woman raised a light, illuminating her face.
Delia.
I screamed louder.