The Orphans

This is a ten page experimental short story about conditioning and cyclic emotional addiction.

“I look scary,” I think to myself as I try to scrub my frenzied expression away with a mop.  Mary is beside me working on her own face. I want to look up at her, but I don’t want to get in trouble. I get in enough trouble as is.

The ginger clop of Father’s expensive shoes tippity-tap their way into my range of hearing so I try to speed up. I want him to be proud of me. It’s bad when he’s not proud of me. Behind me I can hear Mary’s mop doing the same as mine. She’s a smart girl. She takes care of me; teaches me things. I love my sister.

“I see that you two are f*****g up, as usual. I said to mop the floors until they shine. Not to drown the tiles in bleach water until they dissolve. How pathetic can you possibly be? You even missed a large area over there. It’s mopping, not brain surgery. You take a damp cloth on a stick and run it over the floor. How hard is that? You two will be going to bed hungry, as usual,” Father informs us as he pushed me down into a puddle. The bleach itches the cut in the back of my head. I get up as fast as I can. Staring at my shoes, I know better then to cry, I scratch behind my ear and little blood flakes float down around my shoes. I see my sister’s eyes widen in the tile and I know I messed up.

“Wonderful, now you can start over from scratch,” Father says, picking up the mop to hit me.

“Excuse me, are you the manager here,” asks the voice of Mrs. Fields. She’s the nice lady that I talked to yesterday. She gave me a ring and asked me to keep it safe. I smile at her, knowing that I’m less likely to be beaten when guests are around.

“Why, yes I am,” he says with the big smile he only shows to customers. “Can I help you with something?”   

“I’d like to have a word with you in private,” she said sternly.

 Father forces his smile bigger and wraps his arm around her shoulder, leading her over to the corner on the far side of the magazine stand. “How are you enjoying your stay?”   

“I would be enjoying my stay considerably more if your staff could find my jewelry. It appears to have been stolen from your safe,” Mrs. Fields said, head back in a snooty sneer.

“I assure you that your property has not been stolen. We have no thieves in this establishment. Come with me and we will get to the bottom of this,” he says, leading her over to reception to talk to Mother.

I look down at the big diamond ring on my thumb. I like the way it sparkles. It’s such a pretty ring. No wonder she’s upset. She probably doesn’t remember giving it to me because she’d been at the bar all night before she gave it to me. Bar people forget a lot. I’m sure she’ll be happy that I kept it safe for her.

I walk over to them and tug on her skirt to get her attention. She looks down at me and sees the ring. She doesn’t look happy.

Instead of smiling at me and patting me on the head, she snatches it out of my hand and starts screaming at Father. “What is your seven year old doing with my family heirloom? I leave it at the front desk and it turns up on your child’s finger. This is not professional!” she screams, waving the ring around in the air. The stone goes off like a sparkler!

I try to explain, “You gave it to me to keep it safe.”

“I’m terribly sorry about this. Ever since my wife and I adopted him, he’s been nothing but trouble,” he says to her before turning to me and pinching my shoulder. I crumple like a toy and he drags me down the hall screaming, “You thieving little liar, just wait and see what happens now. Stealing from our guests! How dare you? Then you lie about it. I have a good mind to toss you back out into the gutter where we found you. You were a filthy starving little creature and I took pity on you. I see how you repay me. You go to your room and think about what’s coming. Your sister can mop the whole foyer by herself. I’ll be down to deal with you later.”

I run down the stairs to the basement and bury my face in my bed. It’s just a pile of old sheets that are too worn out to go on the beds anymore, but it’s pretty comfy. I twist myself up in the pile of dirty sheets making a cocoon and wait.           

 

 

Later, Mary comes down stairs and warns me that they’re coming. “They’re getting their rain slickers on,” she said frantically. “They’ll be here any minute. Why didn’t you put it in the safe? What were you thinking?”

“She told me to keep it safe, not put it in the safe. I thought she wanted me to hold onto it, and anyway I liked it. I never get to play with pretty things,” I explain. “They’re really mad aren’t they?”

She starts to cry, “You’re in big trouble. They told me to get you ready. They said that you’ll be in even more trouble if you’re not naked when they come down. I’m sorry. I wish I could do something. I offered to take the beating for you and they said that I could have all the beatings I wanted, but it wouldn’t spare you a single lash.”

I quickly peel off my clothes and look into her sad blue eyes. Brushing a tear from her cheek, I try to comfort her, “Don’t cry. You know they hate it when we cry. I’m tough. I’ll be fine. It’s not like this is the first time. I should have known better.” The door opens and I can hear them coming, tapping their canes on each step as they descend.       

Mother’s high pitched trilly voice calls to me, “Bobby? Are you ready for your punishment?”

“Yes, Mother,” I say as I assume the position.

Father smiles, “Well, at least he’s learning something. Shall we begin?”

Mother responds by bringing her cane down hard on the back of my thigh. Tears immediately well in my eyes, but I try not to let them see. I feel the skin on my back split under Father’s first blow. It stings and itches and sends tingles up my spine. Another blow comes down hitting me on the butt. The blows keep coming for a while, but I don’t make a sound. I learned my lesson about that. They get bored faster this way.

I know that I’m about to collapse or vomit, not sure which, and suddenly the blows stop coming. I can almost hear them smiling behind me. “I suppose that will be enough for tonight. You took your punishment like a man. You can turn around now,” Mother says, dropping her cane next to my bed.

Father tosses his next to hers as I turn around and sit like a crab. It hurts too much for me to actually sit down. Mother and Father’s yellow ponchos are misted pink with my blood. “Clean these off and go to sleep,” he says sternly.

They take off their ponchos and throw them on top of the canes, and then Mother gathers up my bed in her arms and smiles, “We’ll see how you like having your things stolen from you. You can sleep on the floor from now on.” They turn and walk back up the stairs and mother calls behind her, “Off to bed now. At this rate you two will starve, but have it your way.”

 

Tomorrow comes early. I’m still a little woozy from last night’s punishment, but I don’t let it bother me. We go out back to the garden and begin to weed. Mother and Father watch from the big dining room window to make sure that we don’t sneak food. We’re really hungry since we haven’t eaten in three days, but we don’t. The punishment for stealing food is the worst.

When we finish weeding it’s time to plant the brussel sprouts. I turn so that they can’t see my face. She taught me this trick because Mother and Father don’t like us to talk while we’re working. She’s two years older than me. I hope I’ll be as smart as her some day. I whisper to my sister, “I’m so hungry. I wonder if they’ll feed us tonight.”

She pokes a few seeds into the loose soil with her finger and answers, “It’s been days. They’ll have to feed us soon. We’re not of any use to them dead.”

“Good, I’ve been using that saliva swallowing trick you showed me, but I can’t seem to produce any anymore.” I try to make some spit, but nothing happens. “I’m so glad to have you here with me Sis. You’re the only reason I have to keep going. I know that as long as I have you with me I’ll be ok, no matter what they do to me.

She smiles sweetly at a mound of dirt, but I know it’s for me. 

         

 

At dinner time, we sit chained in our corner, as usual. They are eating steak and lobster. Mother pulls the tail meat out of a six pound lobster and brings it to her mouth with her bare hand, eating it like a candy bar. She bites off a chunk too large to chew and starts to choke. When she coughs it up on the floor beside her Tabby runs out from her hiding place under the table and purrs as she gnaws on the small end. Tabby is a big squishy orange cat with white feet. He doesn’t like people very much, but I love him anyway. Sometimes he lets me use him as a pillow for a little while.

Mother sees us eyeing the cat’s food, “I suppose that you little moochers are hungry. Well, here.” she pulls off the lobster’s claws and hurls the carcass into our corner.         

We dive at the carcass and take turns dipping our fingers inside to scoop out the tubule. We suck the butter off the outside and crack open every inch of shell to lick the inside. It’s delicious.

Mother takes a bite of asparagus and spits it out, “This has gone bad.” she says with disgust and hurls the heavy bowl at me hitting me in the head. I feel all tingly for a second and float above myself. It feels kind of nice. I’m not hungry anymore. I watch Mary chew up some asparagus and spit it into my mouth. She’s rubbing my throat to make me swallow. She’s so sweet.

            Father grunts, “I’m stuffed. I feel like I’ve swallowed a mattress.”

            Mother nods in agreement. “I couldn’t possibly eat another bite. Let’s retire.”

            Father tilts over a little, I think to fart, and says, “Alright, I think I’ll have a Cognac before bed. Would you care for one?”

            Mother frowns a little and shakes her head, “No, I think I’ll pass.”

            Father, yawning, “Children, you know what to do. Take the scraps to the dogs and clean up this mess. I don’t want to hear a peep from you the rest of the night.” He tosses a key at Mary and she removes our chains.  She comes to the table and picks up a large tray of steaks and carries them outside. I float behind her out to the dog kennels and watch her dump the steaks on the ground. I follow her back inside and watch her do the same with the rest of the food without taking a bite for herself. The adults have disappeared. She carries me down into the basement and covers me up with a dirty, shredded comforter and then lies on her pile of rags to sleep. I hope that she doesn’t get in trouble for letting me use her blanket.

 

 

            Six more years pass just like that. It’s amazing how time flies when every day is the same. Here I am again, fighting the wind to keep leaves away from the walkway. It’s my thirteenth birthday, I think. Mother and Father watch us from the porch as they enjoy the lunch I prepared for them. I’m losing the battle. I know that they are going to scream at me any second. They must be in a good mood today, because they haven’t yet. I see a gust of wind pick up a stray leaf and blow it into Father’s lobster bisque. This is going to suck.

“You incompetent pieces of s**t! Why must you ruin everything you touch? I swear you two do more damage than good. We should have let you starve in the street,” Father screams as he hurls the soup at me.

I dodge it slyly. I’ve gotten good at this over the years. If he misses on his own he doesn’t get as mad as if I dodge it. 

            Mother laughs at his failure, “You know, Dear, it’s never too late.”

This makes Father even madder. His screaming got louder, “You’re right. You know what? To hell with you two. I don’t see why we should continue to feed and clothe you, and put a roof over your heads.” A look of disgust radiates from his face like a trash can fire. “You know what? Get out. Get out right now! Both of you! I never want to see you two again. Leave!”

            “Oh s**t, he’s a lot more pissed than I thought,” I think. “What are we going to do? We have nowhere to go. I don’t want to starve to death.”

            Out loud I beg, “But sir, I have no control over the wind. I am so sorry. Please don’t make us leave. Your kindness has kept us alive since our parents passed away. We love you. Don’t make us go.”

            Mother usually likes it when I beg, but this time she seems too amused to take pity. Her voice is cold and tinged with venom as she responds, “I believe you were told to leave. Why are you still here? Get out of my sight.” She stands and throws a chair at me. I’m not quick enough this time and I fall down, tumbling into the chair as I flip.

            Mary helps me up and we quickly scramble out the gate. Outside, we stop for a moment and look back at the place where we’ve lived for the past nine years.

Mother calls to me, “Boy, you seem to have left your mother’s passport behind. I’ll throw it away for you. Do have fun starving in the streets. Ta-ta now.”

            I look at her and see that she’s holding the little blue book, the last remaining piece of our life before the hotel. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I fell. I try begging again, “But that is my only picture of mom. It’s all that’s left of her. Please give it back.”   

            Mother replies scornfully, “I don’t see what good it is to you. Your parents died years ago. She won’t be needing it. However, if you insist, come get it before I change my mind.”

            I quickly sprint back through the gate, knowing full well that Mother has a penchant for changing her mind in a moment’s notice. I take it from her and turn to leave. Suddenly I feel a tug on the rope tied around my waist. Mother likes to keep us on a short leash.

             “Hold it boy,” she says suddenly. “All that shouting made my throat hurt. Pour me a glass of wine.”

            I quickly do as I’m told in the hopes that she may decide to take us back. Mary watches patiently with a look of anxiety scarring her pretty face. Her eyes say to be careful. Mother downs the glass in one gulp and demands another. I pour again. Sipping it slowly she raises an eyebrow and says, “I suppose you do have some uses after all. I would miss having someone to pour my wine. I guess we’ll keep you. Get back to work on those leaves.”

            Mary tries to reenter the gate, but father pushes a button on his remote and it slams shut in her face. “The lady said that she would like to keep the boy. She said nothing about you. Get going,” he screamed.

            “No,” I scream, forgetting my place, “please, Father, don’t.”

            Mary screams in a voice I’ve never heard before, “Give him back you son of a b***h! You can’t split us up. Bobby, run to me! We can find a better life somewhere else! Come quick!! What are you doing?”

            I don’t kow what I should do. A moment of dumb-foundedness later, I take a step towards her and stop, afraid of what might happen if I tried to leave. The single step was enough. Father punches me in the face and I fall hitting my head hard on the stone steps of the porch. He continues to kick me as Mother throws her wine bottle at my sister. It smashes against the wrought iron gate, sending tiny blades of glass shrapnel into her face. While she looks around for something else to throw, my sister abandons me, shrieking.  

 

 

 

            I lie in my bed, a torn fitted sheet that I stuffed full of dryer lint, and run my finger across the cut on my forehead. This burning itch is all that I have left of my sister now. Mother and Father burned all of her things in a brass waste paper basket only minutes after she ran away. Now, I’m all alone. I wonder what she’s doing now. Will she starve, like Mother and Father always say? Is she even still alive? Life outside the hotel walls is dangerous. I remember from when I was little. We were homeless after the accident. Mom and Dad went out to get some groceries and never came back.

When the phone rang, Mary picked it up expecting it to be mommy. Instead, the smile turned into a confused look of suffering. Tears broke out, twisting her innocent face into a mask of torment. She made the sound our puppy made when its back end was flattened in the road. Already crying, I ran over to see what was wrong. I was only three, but I knew something bad had happened. She dropped the phone and hugged me so tight it hurt. She just kept repeating, “It’s gonna be ok,” and whimpering like that long dead puppy. Later, she explained that there had been an accident. That’s all she ever told me about the phone call.   

            We went to live with Aunt Lucy after that. Lucy drank a lot and her boyfriends were never very nice. Sometimes, Lucy and her boyfriend would take Mary into the bedroom and lock the door. Sitting outside with Binky, my favorite toy, I would listen to Mary cry while the adults laughed and said things that didn’t make sense. Mary wouldn’t ever talk about what they did in that room.

            One day when Lucy went out to the bar Mary took me and we left. We lived in a little hidey-hole on the side of a department store for a while. It was kind of nice. We could sit and stare at the stars all night. Mary would point out constellations and make up stories about them just like Daddy used to. Nobody knew we were there because there was a short brick wall between us and the sidewalk. Sometimes an employee would come out there to smoke or make out with their boyfriend where nobody could see. Mary would tell them that our mommy worked in one of the other stores in the mall so that they wouldn’t send us back to Lucy. We didn’t mind sharing our home with them. Sometimes the company was nice.

            Another good thing about the hidey-hole was that it was really close to the dumpster near the mall’s food court. We had lots of food.  Nothing good ever lasts though. The mall hired a grumpy old security guard that kept chasing us off. He started to catch on after catching us over and over and we eventually left in search of a safer habitat. We shouldn’t have done that.

Our next home was an abandoned building in the city where we lived with a bunch of teenagers. They liked us, but it never really felt like home. The whole building smelled like pee. A lot of the people we lived with liked to put needles in their arms before they went to sleep. Sometimes they wouldn’t wake up and the others would get nervous and take us to another stinky building to live. We got tired of having to move so often, so Mary took me away again.

We stopped to dig through the trash from a small hotel and that’s where we met Mother and Father. They screamed at us and chased us off, but later came out and invited us in for the first real meal we’d had in a long time. They were really nice for a little while. They let us stay in their basement. They gave us some old sheets to sleep on. They gave us their leftovers. We started to feel like we had a home again.

We met the other hotel employees. They were nice and had funny names. Some of them didn’t speak a lot of English. We didn’t mind helping them keep the place clean, but Mother and Father’s standards were really high. They had a few maids at first, but they disappeared one by one. With each new firing our household duties increased and eventually we were in charge of all the cleaning for the hotel. We had trouble keeping up and business began to drop off.

Mother and Father were losing money and they blamed us. They said that they couldn’t afford to hire new maids because they had to spend that money to keep us alive. The food started to get scarce and they started hitting us. We worked as hard as we could and eventually got to where we could just barely keep up. Mother and Father saw our progress and they were happy for a little while. The customers started coming in again, but with them came the complaints.

The beatings came back harder than before. The standards of the hotel went up and the food was taken away from us. We tried harder and sometimes we could even make them happy. I guess, in the end, we didn’t try hard enough. Now I’m all alone, the only member of the housekeeping staff. I don’t know how I’m going to manage. I’m crying myself to sleep, again.             

     

 

            The next three years fly by even faster than the ones before. I’m sixteen now, or something like that. It’s hard to keep track. My skills have improved a lot. I can keep the whole hotel running smooth and clean all by myself. They still beat me sometimes. Even now I make mistakes. I go outside to sweep the walk hoping that I’ll see Mary. It’s been a long time since she visited me. I can’t really blame her though. It’s my fault we were separated. I wouldn’t come visit me either.

            I hate fall. This time of year I can sweep for hours and never get all the leaves out of the gate. Power sweeping is a special skill which takes years to master. Anybody can push a broom quickly, but it takes a lot of practice to make leaves go where you want them during a strong wind. Even with large amounts of experience, this is a futile endeavor.

            As I sweep, my brain ticks off all of my other duties which this is making me behind on: vacuum the halls, mop the tile floors, laundry, prepare dinner, clean the rooms, wash the windows, check for burnt out light bulbs, fix the drippy sink in room 305, clean the pool and hot tub and take out all the garbage. I have two hours to do all this and here I am bum rushing nature with a straw broom. Today I am in rare form. The walk begins to look a little better after only an hour. My various other deadlines are approaching quickly, so I decide to quit and take the leaf beating over the multitude which would be inevitable if I continue. One last mighty swing of the broom rushes the last big pile back out onto the sidewalk and I suddenly hear a familiar voice. I turn to find Mary standing behind me with a large silver platter of shrimp.

            “Want a shrimp? I’ve got burre blanc,” she said, jiggling a drippy prawn then biting it in half.

            She must have snuck in while I was dealing with that last big gust of wind. I snap my neck in every direction to make sure that Mother and Father aren’t around. “Sis, I missed you so much. Come over here. If they see you, I’ll be punished,” I say as I seize the platter and dash with her behind the potting shed.       

            Mary smiles and touches my face gently. “Don’t worry about that. I’m not afraid of them any more. I have new parents now. They’re great. I have all the food I can eat, a real bed, and they never beat me or make me work. You should come with me. They said it would be ok if you came to live with us.”

            Shrimp are good. Mary is enjoying my happy noises, just like when we were kids. Nearly choking, I say, “You know I can’t do that. They would find me and punish me. I don’t know what they would do if I tried to leave, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be good.”

            Mary keeps smiling, but her eyes seem disappointed, “Don’t worry about them. I’ll protect you. I’m not alone anymore and neither are you.”

            “Boy, where are you?” mother called from the porch. “I heard you talking to someone just now. Who’s here? Boy! You better show yourself or you know what will happen,” Mother’s voice grew exponentially angrier as she screamed. I’m afraid that they will find her if I come out, but they will definitely come looking if I stay put. Either way, I’m screwed.

            Now Father begins to scream, “Boy?! Ok that’s it. You are in a world of trouble now!”

            It would be less likely for them to find her if I come out on my own. The ground rushes towards my face as I scramble around the corner and the annoyingly familiar taste of grass fills my mouth. Terror grips my heart like a homeless man receiving change as I look up and see Mary stepping over me into plain view. She tripped me. Why the f**k would she do that?

             “Let me handle this,” she says, and then whistles loudly with her pinky and thumb. The priceless look of shock on Mother’s face is not quite amusing enough for me to not to notice the one of anger on Father’s. Almost immediately a song permeates the air with sweet high tones which reverberate peaceful warmth. A man and woman glowing brightly golden step through the gate, their mouths agape and producing the most perfect tones that I’ve ever heard. As I try to get up I notice that my arm is also glowing. In fact, all of me is glowing with the same golden haze as the couple.

Mother and father shriek in pain and cover their ears as they fall to their knees. They crumple to the ground like I did so often as a child. Blood pours from their ears at first, then from their eyes and nose. Finally, their mouths open wide and emit streams of a thick black fluid which puddles beside them like used motor oil.

Still these people sing. What kind of sick weirdo would be singing at a time like this? These people are ill. Someone should call a doctor or something. The couple continues to sing as they back through the gateway and out of sight.

My sister offers me her hand, “You won’t have to worry about them any more. Come on, meet your new parents.”      

I take her hand and drag her out to the sidewalk, ““I told you, I can’t. They’d find me and never stop punishing me. You’ve gotten me into so much trouble. You have to leave. They probably won’t feed me for a month now. Things got worse after you left. They got meaner. They have a new whip that has glass shards imbedded in it and they’ve been looking for an excuse to try it out. I might die, but thanks for coming to see me. Those shrimp were great. Please leave. Bye,” I say as I shut the gate and lock it. The new parents look confused over her shoulder as I wave goodbye.

Mary keeps calling to me saying something about being gone, but I can only think of the grievous bodily harm that I will be experiencing shortly. Mother and Father are no longer on the porch, so I run inside to beg their forgiveness and see if they need any help. They don’t respond no matter how long I call. I guess they went out. I should get this mess on the porch cleaned up before it dries.     

 I retrieve my broom and try to sweep the foul smelling ooze into a dustpan. The broom is ruined, but no progress has been made. In the midst of the ooze, I see two metal boxes slightly larger than my fist, each one with a large green worm wriggling through its center. Eww, that’s disgusting. I don’t know what this thing is, but I know they would never forgive me if they saw this on their porch. I try not to touch the worms as I hurl them over the fence.

What the hell did they eat? This stuff is sick. What cleaning products would be best for this situation? Degreaser, maybe?

Mary finally stops screaming and kicks the fence. “I’ll be back for you when you’re ready,” she says out the window of a shiny black car as she drives away.

“Damnit Mary, why did you have to show yourself to them? I’m in so much s**t now,” I say, now that she’s gone. Several bottles of degreaser later the porch is back to its original state and I can finally get started on dinner.

 

 

 

The pleasant tinkle of New Orleans jazz is not enough to lift Mary’s spirits. She takes another bite of her filet and washes it down with a gulp of frappuccino. Putting down her fork, she says, “You know, it’s really nice here. Sometimes I just can’t believe how happy I am. When I see my brother scraping around like a slave, starving, and bloody, it brings back a lot of memories I would rather forget. You wouldn’t know anything about that though. Would you? No, you’ve never had to go without food, never been beaten or ridiculed. You have no idea what it’s like to live in constant terror; at the mercy of two monsters night and day. You don’t know how nice it is just to have food to eat. You don’t deserve the life you have. You can’t appreciate it, because you’ve never been without. Well, here you go. Have some more f*****g African lobster tails,” she says, tossing a plate across the room. The lobster tails fall off before it hits the wall and shatters. The pieces fall down and into a cage where the new parents crouch, bloody and cowering.  

The new parents scramble for the food, stuffing the big hunks of meat into their mouths and making animal noises. New Father chokes and coughs up a shard of porcelain. Another plate smashes above their heads raining scallops down on them. They smile and grunt as they pick scallops off each other’s clothes and swallow them without chewing.

Mary continues to rage throughout the night. The worms writhing beneath her home are nonplussed. 

 

 

Mary continues to visit the hotel periodically over the next few years. She watched through the gate as he grew from a thin and sickly teenager into a fully emaciated man. It seemed as though he only ate the occasional bite of food which she brought to him on her visits. Today she bought him a salami.

She found him, as usual, feverishly battling the hoards of leaves with the same balding broom he’d used for years. Upon seeing her, he ran to the gate smiling, “Hi, what are you dong here? They’ll be back any second now. You should go.”

            Mary sighs, “I keep telling you they aren’t coming back. They’re dead.”

            Bobby snaps, “Don’t say that. They’ll hear you. Now go, before they see you again. They never feed me any more. Do you have any food?”

            Mary opens her purse and hands a salami through the gate.

            Bobby grins, “Wow, that’s so much food. I’ll just take a bite and give it back.”

            “No, it’s all for you. Keep it,” Mary says, pushing it into his hands and backing away to make her position obvious. It was always a fight to get him to take anything for later.

            Bobby bites off a chunk and mumbles, “I can’t. They’ll kill me if they find out I’m sneaking food.”

            Mary forcefully declares, “I’m not taking it back. It’s yours. Hide it somewhere. I promise they won’t find it.”

            “Ok, I’ll do that, but you have to go. I’ll see you later, ok?”

            Once again, Mary is exasperated, “Alright, see you later. Enjoy the sausage. I love you.”

            “You too, sis. Bye.”

            Mary sadly walks away, shaking her head. When she is almost past the hotel’s perfectly trimmed hedge she hears her brother’s panicked voice loudly ask, “Yes, Mother?” A second later the salami splats on the road beside her.

            Since her current tactic is obviously not working, she decides to try the tough love approach. “Maybe if I don’t come back for a while he’ll snap out of it and realize that he has to eat,” the thinks to herself. 

 

 

Three weeks since I last saw Mary. I guess she starved to death after all. Mother‘s sniggers echo in the halls and father stands boldly behind the bar with a disappointed finger jabbing me from across the room. They’re angry because I’ve been slipping in my duties. The hotel is getting dusty. The customers point and laugh when I change the light bulbs. Things are not good. 

            There is a point beyond hunger when you start to digest yourself. Alternating waves of energy and intense pain teeter-totter across you like a drunk driven steamroller. Moving is awkward at best. Nevertheless, I have my duties.

            Mother and Father stand on the porch and laugh at me while I try to rid the walkway of leaves. My vision’s not so great anymore. All I can see is a stretch of grey-white squirbling with mounds of shapeless brown. It’s so bright today that I have to close my eyes while I sweep. This makes my endeavors largely unsuccessful so I try to swing my weapon extra hard. My wrist makes a sound like a dog stepping on try twigs and the broom slips away out of sight.

            People line up outside the gate, laughing and pulsing fire from their eyes as they point and laugh. Children throw rocks through the iron bars. Some of them hit me but it doesn’t hurt. Every nerve in my body is locked into a single sensation. I crawl on my hand, knees and elbow in search of the broom, but it feels like I’m groping the ground through a blanket. The day burns brighter and brighter until all I can see is white and I collapse. My tongue slinks out of my mouth like a slug trying to escape from a sinking ship and I taste something bitter like rotten asphalt. Yay, I’ve found the broom! Now, if I can just get back up…

            Standing is very difficult when the world is spinning around you and all you can see is white. My hand slips, dropping my face on the concrete. Something’s loose in my mouth now. I hope those are rocks. Mother and Father are all that I can see clearly. They’re standing over me, canes in hand, with looks of disgust beating down on me harder than the sun. I hug the broom as the familiar sensation of cane against flesh pulses out of the white. Golden globes whine and circle like vultures above our heads. Things are as they should be. Thump. thump…thump.thump… thump.thump….thump. thump…..thump..thump……thump…thump……..thump….thump………

            I can tell they’re getting tired. The blows are slowing. I blink and they’re gone. Everything is gone. I’m standing in a blank world. How strange.

        

When Mary arrives a month later, she finds Bobby’s emaciated corpse sprawled on the lawn, half buried in a pile of leaves. He looks mummified. Crows perch on his nose, pecking at the maggots spilling from his mouth. “Oops,” she says, laughing hysterically as a tear runs down her cheek. “I guess that didn’t work.” She kicks the fence one more time and collapses against it. Cackling with her head resting between the wrought iron bars, she starts to entertain ideas of moving back into her old home. After all, it is much larger than her new one.

 

           THE END

         

 

Author's Note

This was originally a screenplay that I wrote about ten years ago. I recently adapted it into a short story format. I think it's pretty weak compared to my other stuff. I'm very interested to hear what you have to say.

Reviews

[Hyatt_B]

It's a little 'Stephen King' if I can use him as an adjective. It's more conventional than other pieces I've read by you. I think the problem is the lack of exploration of feeling.

I prefer your other stuff because you are so willing to push back boundaries and go to places so many writers never bother to go to.
But even your weaker stuff is better than others' superlative work.