By Bean
Mama put the baby in the
ground on a Tuesday. That was one year ago today and I haven’t been off the
property since. He lies beneath the dirt floor of our basement, back in the far
corner underneath some stairs that go nowhere, and where the light never
touches. She said it wasn't any good, me and a baby. That 14 was too young,
though she was barely older than that when she had me. Father stayed though,
stayed till he was killed in an accident when I was five. My baby's father was
already gone before I even knew the baby was there.
The
day I told her she shut up the house and took me down into the dark of the
cellar, told me to sit on the table and lay back. The one light above me became
the sun, a bright shining glow of another place and time. I held it with my
eyes as tight as I could while Mama pushed and tugged and prodded the pain till
it swelled so big I thought my body would burst. When the blood came I closed
my eyes and pictured a great wide river that would take me and my baby away. We
sailed past forests, pastures and fields of flowers that smelled of
forgetfulness and love. We sang songs to the birds on the banks, and laid in
the moonlight when the soft breeze of night came.
But
my baby is a no baby now, a thing only thought of in daydreams and night
dreams.
The
day after she took him, Mama told everyone that she'd sent me off to live with
her sister in Georgia. She told them how life would be better for me there, a
good school and music lessons - that I'd gone off to be someone better. Then
she told me that I could never leave, never go out in the daylight. At night I
was allowed to roam our property, but wasn't to go past the fence line. We had
land, and neighbors were far away. A figure wandering in the night could be
anything; a restless deer, a harmless trespasser, a trick of the eye, a ghost.
It'd be easy to explain, not that anyone was likely to ask. So I stayed,
knowing that Mama meant what she said. She had the most wicked temper, and it
could come without a warning, brought on by the smallest of mistakes. She was
ever mindful to remind me that I was the ungrateful child of my dead father.
The world would forget I existed, and I was to forget the world.
My
days inside the house were lists. Lists of chores, lists of my wrongdoings,
lists of wrongs done to her. I came to know each tragedy, each slight she had
suffered and the revenge she delivered to each who deserved it. I knew her mood
by the slight of her eye. Days she was happy weren't too bad, and I told her
how pretty she was and how she'd done right with all that she'd done. I washed
her clothes and fixed her meals, all the while singing inside myself to my
baby. Singing and thinking of his little place in the basement, wanting to be
there and talking to him. At night I would go out beyond the woods and pick him
flowers, bring them back and put them over him, hoping he could smell their
sweet, green scent. I replaced faded ones with fresh ones, pinks and blues and
yellows...bright and dazzling stars in the cold, wet dark. I told him how
beautiful he was, how strong and loving. I told him how one day we would
disappear from this place and have a little house all ours, with gardens and
trees. How we'd never have to stay inside when we didn't want to, that we'd go
out and play in the sun and taste the hot air of noon.
The
day she found the flowers was the day she put a lock on the basement door. She
told me I wasn’t ever gonna do that again, and that I was no longer allowed out
at night. She put padlocks on every door and window and told me to give up, to
let hope die, to know that I would always be here. "That world out there don't
want you, and you ain't got nothing to offer it anyway. You stay here. You will
always stay here. It's your place."
I
sang in whispers at night through the floorboards. I sang every song I knew. I
closed my eyes and cried quiet while I sang, picturing the tears trickling down
through the floorboards and bathing my baby with all the love I could muster. I
could not believe he had gone into the black, endless nothing without ever
knowing my kiss.
I
drew flowers on the floor for him kept hidden under the rug, only to come in
one day and see Mama taking a big black marker to them. She didn't say a word,
only unlocked my window and cast all the markers I had onto the ground below.
She locked it again, picked up the rug, smiled at the big black marks and shut
the door behind her. Then I heard it through the door - a new lock being put in
place. It only took a moment, then I was sealed in and this time I knew it was
forever. I knew I would never feel the sun or the wind again. I knew the walls
around me were all I was ever gonna have. I didn't see her again until days
later.
Until
today.
The
day woke with a storm on its way. I could tell by the way the sky slowed and
grew heavy. The dark grey clouds pushed in, and the trees began to bend, the
leaves glimmering like a thousand emeralds catching the light. I could hear the
house react to the wind, hear its strain against the hard pushes of air. The
wind wanted to come inside, wanted to take everything and carry it out. I felt
the wet heat build, as if the heavens were taking in a long deep breath. And I
could hear Mama in different parts of the house, hurrying the windows she had
opened shut again. I heard something slide and break, and her cuss because of
it. Out across the yard I could see the woods swaying like grass and I pictured
a great monster sweeping his hand across the tree tops. Then the Oak next to
the house groaned and its large branches began to scrape, like claws of a thing
that wants in. I thought of my baby all alone in the cellar, all alone in the
dark earth among the tree roots, the bugs, the decay. I laid my cheek to the
floor and began to sing to him. I let my tears mix with the black marker,
creating a dark pool I could taste.
The
storm was almost completely above us, the rain beginning to fall, and I could
feel the house trying hard not to be taken away. Then a great crack jarred the
air, sending shivers up through the floorboards and I felt my heart catch hard
in my chest. I sat up, my cheek smeared black, and I listened to the house.
Another crack of splintering, breaking wood. Another, then another shaking the
walls. The house seemed to be destroying itself from the inside. I could hear
glass shattering, pots and pans falling, windows give way. And then I heard
Mama hollering, hollering shrill and high. The crashing kept coming and I could
feel it at the bottom of the stairs down outside the door, each step bursting
and crumbling. Mama was there, just ahead of it, screaming and crying. She was
at the lock, the metal scraping and fumbling. I backed up quick, knowing she'd
come in and bring the strange wind with her.
And then she was there, and the
crashes were at her feet as she fell. "Your baby! Come get your
baby!" Then I saw him. His great root arms, soiled and wet with mud,
curled around Mama's foot, his great massive body pulling himself across the
floor behind her. I saw my baby made of the earth, twisted tree roots, and
clumps of rich black soil, held together by a deep dark wetness only found in
graves. I saw small buds of flowers growing, alive and longing against the cool
of his body. And then I heard his voice, a long, low howl coming from somewhere
deep inside. It filled the room with a thickness and desperation I've never
known, taking my insides and twisting them till I thought I'd die. The sound
faded as he began to pull Mama in, roots and vines enclosing her body, stuffing
flowers into her scream. The last I saw of her was her right eye, begging me
from the darkness of his gaping, hungry mouth.
My
baby took Mama back down into the cellar with him. I'll put flowers there, for
both of them now.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Flowers For The Dead
Labels:
bean,
flowers for the dead,
short story
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
18 comments:
Awesome short story. I could of listened to this while sitting by the fire pit on this wonderful chilled evening.
Bean IS so cool.
Great story,Bean.
I love it!
Bean, you have enormous talent. I'm with Jay's Shadow....this story could become an annual firepit event.
Well done....very well done. Thanks for sharing....
.... stuffing flowers into her scream...
awesome.
Great read
That is incredible. Truly. It drew me in and stopped me from continuing with my well-past-midnight putting up of decorations. Very, very well done.
Best read with a creepy symphonic piece in the background and a pile of musty old cheesecloth curtains in your lap.
Thanks, ya'll. :)
P.S. Love the new icon Bean.
:D
To quote Nietzsche; "Holy crap that was fantastic!"
Loved it! Gripping right from the beginning! :)
Whoa... amazing stuff Bean!
OMG that was just awesome! "Stuffing flowers in her screams!" that is genius!
Wow, just wow. This was an awesome story. In complete honesty you really really take this up as a career. You paint a damn good picture. SUCH a good story! Keep em coming.
Thanks for the kind words, everyone. I really appreciate it.
i'm thinkin of shirley jackson with a tell tale heart...brrrrrrrrr..<33333333
Beautiful, and beautifully written!
Deliciously creepy and truly excellent. Great material for a pro storyteller. Mesmerizing!
Such a voice! I swear I could see this poor girl, roaming the night. I could picture it as a movie, scenes expanded, utterly heartbreaking. Awesome!
Wow...such stunning comments. Thank you. :)
Post a Comment