Twins

The twins, they were almost identical, they dressed so nonchalantly but still ended up picking the same clothing out of their piles. Nobody ever asked why they had two of everything, we must have assumed that was how twins came. Physically, they never seemed to notice they looked the same. They hardly interacted beyond shared whispers but it was understood in the House that they were two different people, and to somehow happen to mistake one for another could have grave consequences.

Marabel was a tormented girl, scarred in such a way as to encourage her unbridled id to inflict terrible injuries upon the other children. Like a preteen De Sade she would lure a confused little cousin up the stairs to the attic, at the very top of the House, and there she would come upon them. There would be her favorite pair of restraints hidden in the corner, and there in the faint shadow cast from the small window, with a view of heaven, there were a pair of scissors. Once ensnared, she toyed with her prey, and soon becoming bored she began to cut; first clothing, and then, their flesh. She held them down and cut them to pieces, defenseless children who thought that she was Selene, her sister.

Selene was gentle, a graceful girl whom the children seemed to flock to, like a mother hen. Selene would make sure they were well fed and that they would take their baths and be in bed by nine. She helped them with homework and changed diapers when she had to; and in her quieter moments there was almost always a pleasant interruption by an adorable toddler. She would find them a rag doll toy and send them along. When she wasn't tending to her flock, Selene seemed to hover in place, like a non-transparent apparition locked in a looping pattern of slowing fading in and out of reality. If no one was watching she sometimes looked like the static on the television screen. Her eyes were blue like the babble box showing the aux channel, never-ending and bottomless.

I don't know who raised her. I do know Selene looked after Marabel for a time, which always kind of mystified me because Marabel was 7 minutes older than her. I also did overhear a conversation in the kitchen once when someone said Marabel killed their mother with a knife from the kitchen, when they were little. No one said an age, and I had to go before I got caught eavesdropping.

Someone said once he could see a resemblance in me and the twins, one of my drunk uncles holding on to the stair bannister. I gave him a scowl and ran down the hallway. I don't want to look like either one of them.

Grandma said there had been a curse laid upon the house the night the twins were born. She said their Ma wasn't supposed to be having twins, but she delivered them in the kitchen, during a really bad thunderstorm, blood dripping through the partition in the table. Grandma said she had to help their Ma during the delivery, because the girls came out fighting, with the cord wrapped around one's neck. That baby came out blue, but once Grandma slashed the cord she started breathing and everything seemed fine. After that no one was sure which baby had been almost stillborn, they looked so much alike. I have my suspicions.

I was born in a hospital, like a normal child should be. I ain't nothing like those two.

I hate finding Marabel's victims one she's through with them. I never know what to do. I found Emma in the third floor bathroom, crumpled in the tub. I tried to ignore her and back my way out of the intrusion but I could hear her struggling to get my attention, and I couldn't ignore her. I closed the door behind me and looked at the damage. Her eye makeup had streaked to her ears, dragged by tears, and there was something wrong with her eyes and the way she stared at me. Marabel had removed her eyelids, but left the rings of eye shadow, not knowing how much was makeup and how much was caked blood from the sloppy wounds. Marabel had covered her body with a dirty old blanket that she must have found in the attic, in one of the old boxes.

I asked Emma what she wanted me to do, since I'm just some dumb kid who found her. She shook her head back and forth. She didn't say anything, but she was crying. I cracked the door open a tiny bit when I heard footsteps down the hall coming. It was Selene, but I wasn't completely sure it wasn't Marabel, so I didn't move, and I prayed she wouldn't come in, but my heart just about stopped when she pushed the door in and found me and Emma, who started kicking the sides of the tub, scared it was Marabel coming back to hurt her more. But the thin frail girl stood in the doorway, looking at the two of us that was in a way unreadable, so distant that it seemed she was watching us through a telescope. It seemed there was blood coming down the inside of her leg, running down to her slipper, staining the white cotton, and she smoothed my hair in a way that I knew it was Selene, and she eased me from the room so gently, told me there was stew ready in the kitchen, and so I walked away, knowing Selene would take care of everything. I noticed the sound of the door locking, I couldn't help not feeling it reverberate through the hallway.

I never saw Emma again.

Doorway

This is a Doorway.

Someone had seen fit to staple wallpaper to the piece of plywood covering the doorway in the closet in my bedroom. It kind of matched, but not really. You'd look at it and know it was a half-assed job, the way the fixture in the room twinkled off the staple backs, set into the paper in no apparent pattern. No one would say who did the patchwork over the door, but it was understood that I was not to pull off the wallpaper and move aside the wood to expose the small door, only three feet high and almost as wide, small enough for a child, but an adult would run the chance of being trapped in the enclosure should they decide to uncover the door and try the latch that held it closed and stepped over the threshold.

They told me to leave it alone, and so I emptied some boxes in the closet so I could make a dummy stack in front of the door, easy to move when I knew I could work in silence, in peace. My progress has allowed me to preserve the visual integrity of the wallpaper, where in reality it came off in one whole piece, adhered by old wads of chewing gum. The board was not nailed to the wood beneath it, and the first time I moved it, I came away with a deep splinter in my left hand, which ran from underneath the webbing of my thumb through the top few layers of skin, and it left a black outline as a reminder.

There is no door knob, but rather a small latching lock mechanism that somewhat resembles the trigger of a revolver, and when you slide your finger in and fire, the door swings inward, into deep murky nothing that I dare not enter. There's something down there, something wholly unpleasant. I don't understand whose bright idea it was to close off the entryway to something malign with a quarter-inch slab of plywood and a big swatch of flaking plaster paper covered with yellow sunflowers. But I've opened it three times, and looked in long enough to hear something moving deep within the passageway. It sounds like it could get hungry, but I don't know what it prefers to eat.

Diana taught me a new game to play. She calls it Bloody Mary. To play the game, you go into a dark room, without windows, with a mirror and a candle. You light the candle and stare into the mirror, and once you're ready, you repeat Her name three times. You will see her reflection, standing behind you, and you must remember not to turn around in fright or surprise, because she can steal your soul from your body and then inhabit it, taking over while you exist in limbo for the rest of eternity. When you see her, you must stay calm, and you can ask her a question, any question at all, and Bloody Mary will tell you the answer. She can see the future, and she can change it too if you want her to. Mary will take care of whatever you want.

I conjured Mary, with the closet door closed tight, the rest of the house fast asleep, and with my back to the covered up door I called her name three times, and in the dark I saw her, the face of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her hair was black and hung past the border of the mirror, and her eyes were tiny explosions, sparkling like a chemical fire. I closed my eyes for a second and I felt something like tendrils easing past my body, as if I had been floating through thick seaweed, and she waited for me, waiting for my question. I knew what I wanted to ask her, but I was too scared. She told me to close my eyes, and when I did I saw her standing next to me, but it felt like she had extended past her own physical boundaries and had somehow swallowed me up in the flutterings of her flowing dress, individual threads pulling away and bringing me closer to her, in the darkness of my closed eye imagination, she showed me the doorway behind us and somehow it had been uncovered, and the entrance seemed alive as she had me try the latch. It opened, and as the door swung inward we were drawn into the opening like the water swirling down a drain, and we slid down through darkness into a long tunnel, the two of us locked into a tighter and tighter embrace as we sunk downward with the slope of the tunnel, like some forgotten vestigial air duct.

Somewhere near the center of the universe the passage ended, in a long empty room whose walls went on forever. Mary untangled me from her tendrils and affixed me with a cold stare. I felt so scared of the thing that was sleeping down at the other end of the room. I couldn't see it, but I could hear its heavy breath, lumbering as if it were having a hard go at the task of breathing in and breathing out. Mary led me by the hand into the dark, and we got closer and closer to the other side of the room, but I couldn't find the beast. Mary shook her head in sad desperation. She told me the truth, and to hear it made my lungs explode in an awful wail and I fell to the floor and beat my tiny fists in the dirt. I didn't mean to turn and look at her, when we were upstairs. I just got a little scared, spooked enough to jump and kick the candle over, and in the act of pulling away Mary caught me falling and pulled me through the doorway. It was the only way out for me, when the carpet caught fire and it spread to the empty boxes, and it quickly turned into a tiny inferno. She said the flames ate me up, and I knew she was telling me the truth. I felt my burnt limbs a whole lifetime ago as they turned to ash inside the closet.

Sometimes I can hear things, at the other end of the passageway, and I will go to the opening and stare in, wondering who's at the other side of the closed door. I wonder if they did anything to close it over, so no one will ever find me here in the bottom. I shriek and make a racket hoping they will hear me but I don't think I'll ever be found. Even Mary went away after a while. I tried to follow her down the passageway but something kept me from getting very far at all, and she disappeared into nothingness. But, she kept me company for a while.

Menses and Menarche

I didn't start out wanting to be a writer. I wanted to be a professional wrestler or a child evangelist before I had the urge to write. It wasn't until I was in the sixth grade and had Mrs. Carlson for my English teacher. Somehow I had decided to write a story around that time about a murderous deck of playing cards (titled, effectively enough, In the Cards…) and I showed her my hand-scrawled pages and she read them and told me she'd type out anything I hand-wrote, so I kept writing weird tales and got weirder I think, but she kept up through my sixth year of school. It did something funny to my imagination to have an opportunity to make things puppets and the arrangement of the tragedies and miscommunications was a mystical thing for me to do. Soon after I confiscated my sister's word processor and wrote notebooks full of cryptic broken poetry with no rhyming scheme or pattern, just lines of what looked good to write. And I made stories, and pamphlets and leaflets for a long time, like I was creating an arsenal.

It allowed me, in part, to live outside of my own life at times, allowing the escapism of it all disappear me into fantasy and daydream, and the recollections were my journals. And writing has flickered on and off throughout my life, leading me into the occasional odd headspace or neurotic fugue but then flowing out with the shower water. But, I want to put down somewhere what I have in my head, dumping out the contents onto an unmade bed and just sort out the shit and get it over with, maybe, but more like put it on a petri dish and watch it squirm under the heat of the halogen lamp. I have an obligation to myself, to pursue this and to allow this mess to be read and misunderstood, but it is what I have to share and something worth pursuing passionately.

So, if I may have this indulgence, I will share my words with a semi-invisible elect who will judge and justify with reason, things and recollections and maybe just a feeling, but just something somewhat regularly. I have every intention to be punctual, but truly I say I can't imagine being faithful to a clock in number.
Sometimes I will find something from my archive to not only share, but to interpret the interpreter, so to speak, and write of the aura around these experience.

I find my thoughts these holiday seasons turned to the departed, from one's inception forward, those who have gone away but never all the way really. We really do wear the imprint of those who's lives we have touched. They linger with us there, in the still, in the times most trying, in their most joyful. We never really ever forget the dead, except through neglect of memory, of the threat of a cold front passing before the moon to obscure her beams. We know they are there for us, there so close, here but not here in the in-between, there is a conduit that connects us still. And we honor them, and yet we can feel so distant performing these rituals and perhaps there needs to be something to stir the monotony of repentance and regret and somehow allow a spiritual reconvening in your life this winter season, maybe just to revaluate and seek the guidance lost to this generation and lost to so many others. Is this ancestor worship or just threads keeping the web from falling apart? Is this anything else but just a provision, just perception, isolated to a single strand.











How long was this meant to last?



I'm not so sure anymore.