AMERICAN MONSTERS
by
Sezin Koehler
Illustrated by Rose Deniz
I dedicate
this book, my first,
to Wendy Soltero.
I love
you, I miss you,
my darling Wendy-bird.
American Monsters
©Sezin Koehler 2011
Images ©Rose Deniz 2011
Smashwords Edition
ISBN: 978-1-4661-9679-7
All rights reserved
For electronic distribution only
No part or whole of this book may be reproduced without express permission from the author or publisher, with the exception of reviewers for quotation and citation purposes.
Images
and cover
design by Rose Deniz, www.RoseDeniz.com
Everything else by Sezin
Koehler, www.Sezin.org.
Executive
Editor: Tim Dedopulos, www.gwdbooks.com.
Copy Editor: Salomé
Jones
, www.salomejones.com.
Represented by:
Ghostwoods
Books
Maida Vale
London W9, United Kingdom
Please do not make a writer’s life any more difficult by pirating this book.
Acknowledgements
An overwhelming wave of thanks to my mother, Marty, for putting me through university and always making sure I had the best education possible. If it weren’t for her I never would have had the means to create this.
A million and one thanks to Jeff Tobin for his dauntless faith in me in completing this project during some of the worst times in my life. His help was indispensable and I absolutely could not have done it without him. Jeff’s never-ending supply of books, articles and knowledge guided me down one of the craziest and most interesting endeavors of my life. He continues to be an inspiration in my life to this day.
My fantastic team of editors and first-draft readers were vital to the huge rewriting and layout process. I can’t offer enough gratitude to them: Stacey Rapp, Stacey McKenna, Matthew Petrarca, Helen Southcott, Salomé Jones and my mom, Marty. You are awesome.
I would also like to thank the following incredible beings whose creativity inspired me greatly. In no particular order: Abra Huff, Sarah McDowell, Rosie Mariscal, Martha Ronk, Gabrielle Foreman, Jessica Parlanti, Tom Burkdall, Elmer Griffin, Monique Taylor, Jane Jaquette, Sarah Nussbaum, Sara Clinehans, Rob Kopiac, Artineh Samkian, Sasha Hallisey Sajovic, Rachel Brubaker, and Kirsten Westby.
And of course, many thanks to my beloved husband, Steven Koehler, without whose encouragement I never would have gotten up off my butt and finally gotten this book finished.
Finally, a monster thank you to Tim Dedopulos of Ghostwoods Books for taking a chance with my story and to Rose Deniz for bringing the characters to life. You have both made a dream come true.
Even though I wrote this book ten years ago, I must make a special mention of Lady Gaga, the woman who has singlehandedly made the world a monster-friendly place. Finally my monsters and I can comfortably call this world our home. Paws up!
CONTENTS
Author’s Note
Part 1: Fiction
The Succubi Sideshow
The Phantastic Carnival
Part 2: Non-fiction
The Night the Sky Opened Up: The Murder of Wendy Soltero
The Compiler: An Essay on Truth and Synchronicity
What Horror Means, an Essay
Can There Be a Feminist Ethnography?
Afterword: 10 Years Later
Inspirations & Essay References
Author’s Note
This book’s format is a bit unorthodox, so a few words of explanation are in order:
The first volume, The Succubi Sideshow, is a horror comic script introducing a number of different characters. It very occasionally ranges into movie script. The second volume, The Phantastic Carnival, is a horror movie script with all the previously introduced characters in action (and then some).
Also, this book, with the exception of “The Night the Sky Opened Up” essay and the Afterword, was put together in the year 2001, and so all homage, obvious and otherwise, relate to film, theory and art that had been released up to that point.
A complete list of my inspirations as well as several essays on the theoretical issues surrounding horror that inspired American Monsters follows the story.
PART
ONE:
FICTION
THE SUCCUBI SIDESHOW
—EXHIBIT NO. 1—
DENTATA
You don’t care that the overwhelming euphoria coursing through your body came from a little white pill with a smiley face on it. You’re in love with the amazing shag rug you are lying on and stroking; you’ve never seen a shade of burgundy so beautiful in your life or felt fur so soft. You can feel the music through the floor, traveling through your veins and exiting your fingertips. You thrum with life and feel connected to everyone in this room in a way you have never ever felt linked to others before. Calmness and peace fill you with a pleasure unlike anything you have ever known as these sensations wash over your body. You are in a dangerous oblivion of ecstasy.
You are newer to this experience than most of the people at this little house party. They are the frequent attendees of all-night gatherings that have been in the news so often recently. You’ve heard horrible things about raves, like when that guy laced sno-cones with LSD, which led to six kids driving off a hill. You don’t know if those kids even ate the sno-cones that supposedly led to their demise, but either way, related or not, acid spiked sno-cones and high-schoolers driving off cliffs are not great PR for any event. When your friends told you they would be having a little happy Be-In at their friend’s home you thought it would be a better idea to try the drug in a comfortable and safe place first, and then see how you felt about actually going to a rave. This was a good idea. You feel wonderful right now. Like nothing will ever be wrong in your life ever again, and all of the petty little problems have melted away. This is perfect. Life is flawless.
Lying on the shag carpet, your violet eyes watching the ceiling breathe just a tiny little bit. Its ululation matches the music, and it is so much fun seeing an animated ceiling. Alive instead of inert. What could it be thinking about as it breathes in and out? You could definitely get used to this. A boy walks over and lies beside you.
― Do you mind if I sit here?
― Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm ...
Is all you can manage in this supremely blissful state. You don’t mind, though. It’s actually really nice to be by someone. You hold hands, he squirts some lotion on his palm and he massages your fingers. As he does this the waves of energy that surge through your body are nothing short of amazing. Who on Earth invented this stuff? You would love to hug them right now.
His hand travels up your arm and now massages from your shoulder to your palm. On the turn of a dime you begin to feel lightheaded and sick. It’s too much, you need him to stop. You pull your arm away saying nothing, as you don’t want to be mean or hurt his feelings. He grunts and pulls your arm back.
― What’s the matter, don’t you like it?
― Maaaan. Cooome ooooon. I’m waaaay too fucked up, it’s toooo much.
― Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of you. I won’t hurt you.
It is too much to argue. You let him continue. And really, you figure, he isn’t doing anything, it’s just your arm, you know these party people. Wait, you don’t know this guy.
― What’s your name?
― Jason Mars.
― Why are you wearing a hockey mask?
― It’s not a mask, they’re birthmarks. I was born with them.
― Oh.
You are a little creeped out now. The vibe that was flowing from his fingers into yours becomes oppressively heavy. His face takes on an ominous cast, like he has his own bad-guy movie music playing that you can’t hear but you can sense. You need to get away from him.
― I’m going out onto the porch. It was nice meeting you.
― I’m rolling too, man! Come on, I don’t want to be by myself.
What can you do? Just don’t get weird, you say to yourself. Okay? You’ll be fine. There are so many people around. On rising from the carpet you can’t make out anybody. As your purple eyes adjust away from the ceiling you make out lumps dotting the living room. Everyone is floored, and you are getting a really weird vibe from this room. This is a little strange, all of these people on drugs lying like logs on the floor, some stacked, very few moving.
― Is everyone okay?
Assorted grunts, moans, and giggles follow your question. Cool. Yup.
He tries to grab your hand to help you up but you use it instead to push yourself off the ground. You walk towards the door, staggering just the slightest bit as you make your way to the porch. Who ever would have thought walking could feel so good? In spite of your strange new companion, you are positively floating.
The house has a huge veranda that wraps around the right side of the building. There is a hammock, a swinging chair and pillows and blankets lining the ground. More groups of drugged-out ecstatics. You hear talking from the wrap-around side. Good, at least some other people are up. You begin to walk over, careful not to step on anyone when Jason grabs your arm, hard. You gasp and wheel around, violet eyes sparking with anger.
― Dude, what is your problem?
You are so annoyed right now.
― Nothing, can I have a hug?
This is getting ridiculous. You still don’t want to say anything mean because it looks like everyone else is having a brilliant time, and why would you want to ruin their trips?
― You know, I really need a cigarette.
― No. I want a hug.
He glares at you as if somehow you owed him something and he’s expecting payment right now.
― I’m sorry but I don’t think I want to talk to you anymore. Please just leave me alone.
He has death in his eyes and his hockey mask face vibrates with anger. Oh my God, you’re getting scared. What is happening? Did you do something to make him think anything at all? You don’t remember saying much to him, but he has taken something the wrong way. That killer gaze. You can’t look away, you can’t say anything else. You simply stare.
― Give me a hug you little bitch tease.
The death is in his voice now too. Oh my God, are you tripping? Are you imagining this? Why would you imagine such a horrible scene? Did he really just say that? He did. He did. You are shocked silent, the way most good women go.
Shaking, you turn to walk towards the voices and he grabs you by the hair, pulling you to the ground. This isn’t happening. This is not happening. Say something, say something. Scream! You can’t, your mouth doesn’t work. The only thing that seems to be working are your legs, which you squeeze tightly together. He’s tries to open them, you squeeze harder, your hands are pinned above your head. Say something! Say something! A curdled yell issues from your mouth. There’s a monster lodged in your throat who wants to help him do this thing. You scream again, better and louder this time. To stop you he puts his mouth over yours and bites.
The shock of the new attack zone distracts you from your squeezing legs, and as you feel and taste the blood in your mouth, you feel him on top of you, between your legs. He removes one of his hands from the handcuff pose and begins undoing his pants. You try to squeeze him with your legs, maybe suffocate him like anacondas or that part in Tank Girl where she snaps the guy’s neck with her legs. It just seems to make him want it more. He giggles and mutters to himself. You’re still gurgle-screaming, ready for the moment when he gets off your mouth to let loose the mother of all bloodcurdling screams. You hear a rip as your pants are torn, and another stinging tear as he pulls your underwear off.
The drugs accentuate the pain just as much as they accentuated the good that was quickly becoming a dream. As he does his thing you feel like you are splitting in half, and you wish you could just unzip that shell of your body and walk out unscathed. But mostly you hear the sounds of the other people in the house, the laughter from around the corner, the music being turned up and the thumping of dancing feet. The taste of the blood rolls around your mouth, and you almost like that taste, anything to distract you from the pain of his body heaving inside you. You want to kill him.
He finishes and thanks you. You wipe the drool and blood from your mouth and scream. You grab a planter from the porch and throw it at him, hitting him square in the back. He falls on a few people-logs, who screech and ask what the fuck his problem is.
You are screaming at the top of your lungs hurling expletives along with whatever can be thrown, blood punctuating each statement with thick red droplets in people’s faces, on their arms. You launch another planter that hits him in the face. He is down for the count. You rush him, still screaming at the top of your lungs and begin kicking. You kick his face until it is unrecognizable; you kick his stomach, his kidneys, his chest, and most importantly the monstrous space between his thighs that has torn you up in more ways than one.
Someone lifts you off of him. You punch him; he goes wheeling.
― FUCK ALL OF YOU.
You begin to walk home, leaving a trail of blood.
—EXHIBIT NO. 2—
JASON MARS
You are lying on a porch, bloody and oozing. You were invited to a house party where everyone dropped little pills and you waited to find a woman with whom to mate. You have been unsuccessful in your attempts for a few days now and you felt an almost painful desire to procreate. You finally did, but the woman reacted differently than others afterwards. Usually they just cried and cried, and if the ritual occurred anywhere other than their homes, they have run off. But this one hurt you, she actually did. It makes you want her again, but you know it is a useless venture. This ritual has no end result. These women are not of your kind, your presence here on this planet is an accident and now you must suffer an unfruitful life.
Doctors held you in a laboratory for years, performing test after test, poking and prodding at your alien body, trying to find the secret to your healing powers, but all to no avail. In the end the Doctors decided you were a threat to no one, and since they are unable to send you home, they comfortably set up your life on Earth.
But freedom has compounded your urges, and what you were once able to control in the sterile lab can no longer be contained. You have no idea how many females you have tried to copulate with, but it will never be productive. The seed is incompatible, but the craving remains.
You lie on the porch, stunned. People have crowded around you; they ask you if you are okay. You have blood in your mouth, which you swallow. You gurgle a response and wait as your wounds heal themselves. You don’t worry about what these people see since they are all on drugs and will assume this part, if not the entire scene, was some sort of chemically induced mass hallucination. You swallow a few more mouthfuls of blood, enjoying its crisp metallic taste. You feel healed. You sit up.
― It’s okay. I’m fine. I’m fine.
― What happened man, there was screaming.
― There was?
― What the fuck man, we heard it, we all heard it. Didn’t we?
Assorted voices reply in affirmatives.
― It’s nothing, really. She’s having a bad trip or something and freaked out, then she just ran off. I don’t know, I didn’t do anything to her.
― Whoa, that’s some good shit, huh?
Assorted affirmatives. The party carries on as before. You got what you came for and decide to go walking. You notice a trail. Is it blood? You kneel and rub your fingers in it, then raise it to your nose to smell it. Yes, blood. It peters out ahead of you, so you walk around where it ends, wondering if the creature stopped bleeding or is close by. There is a park ahead, so you decide to look around.
You spy a woman lying supine. You aren’t sure if she’s drunk, or homeless, or both. You think, what good luck to find two accessible women in one night. You walk over quietly and peer down at her with your strange and pale spotted face. She’s awake, her eyes widen in fear: It is the woman you had at the party.
― What the fuck are you doing here.
It is not a question and she has murder in her voice. Her violet eyes flash with rage. You feel an uncertain tingle of fear emanating from between your legs. Her eyes. For the first time since you arrived on this planet you are afraid. You are not immortal. You have healing capabilities, but that’s the brunt of it. You cannot regenerate, evidenced by your missing toes and the pinky finger of your left hand. You do not have super human strength. But neither does she, and she has no weapons.
― Well, we meet again. What was your name?
― Fuck you asshole.
She begins getting to her feet. Her face is streaked with tears and blood.
― You stay the fuck away from me or I swear to God. I. Will. Kill. You.
― Really now. It certainly would be fun to see you try.
It’s sweet, to you, actually. You have not seen a female with so much spirit. What’s the word...spunky. She doesn’t want to give up. It’s refreshing to you, it makes it more like a game.
You push her down again. You know that her bottoms are already torn, this won’t even be much work and a second go would be exhilarating. You can’t even remember the last time you copulated twice in one night. What a treat!
Just as you thought. Easy as a pie. You look down at her and you are terrified. There is something in those plum-colored eyes that makes you uncomfortable. What is it? Is it that she isn’t afraid this time? There is no fear. What is that in her eyes? Then, out of nowhere, you feel something resembling pain.
All of the muscles in her body have tightened. She is clenching everything, you can feel it from inside her. You wince with a discomfort that borders on agony. The space inside her is getting smaller and smaller. You must get out, you must get out, she is doing something inside, something is happening inside! You begin to pull your hips away, you tug at your pelvis. She won’t let you go. She is still staring at you with those violet eyes, she’s daring you to get out, the bitch is daring you. You violently yank your pelvis, as hard as you possibly can, pushing off of her chest for support.
The sound of your penis ripping from your body echoes through the trees and ricochets in your ears. That grotesque sound, the burning heat of your loins transformed into an amputated pain. Now it is you who lies supine, tears streaming from your eyes. She gets up and stands over you, one foot by each of your ears. She bears down on her hips and spits a chewed lump of flesh into your face. You scream and try to turn away as blood and mucus stream into your mouth, your eyes, your nose. There is a cunning smile in her violet eyes.
― Was it as good for you as it was for me?
She walks away as you choke on your very big mistake.
—EXHIBIT
NO. 3—
THE RAVING TWINS
The twins are sitting and talking in a trashed living room, their sparkling tops revealing the expanse of flesh where they are joined at the hip. They wear huge baggy pants that might almost be mistaken for skirts, beaded bracelets halfway up their forearms, sparkling glitter faces, and huge bags under their eyes from having been up for the last two days. SugarBear contentedly gnaws on a pacifier. SnuggleBear sucks a grape Blow-Pop while reading a psychedelic fluorescent flyer for an upcoming rave. The twins have been smoking marijuana since their return from a gathering early this morning.
― SugarBear, oh my God, we have to go to this party on Halloween! We totally have to go, it looks so awesome.
― Wait, which one is it? The Motel Chain one?
― What? No. This one is called FULL LUNACY. It’s a full moon party in the city, they, like, never have those.
― Yeah dude, that’s the one that the crazy Motel Chain guy is throwing, at his mansion house on a hill in Hollywood! It looks so twisted!
SnuggleBear looks very confused. She also looks really stoned.
― [SugarBear exhales sharply.] Ugh. Don’t you keep up with this scene? From what I’ve heard, the Motel Chain guy is totally whack. He’s bitter because he made bank off of all his Motel Chain, but no one knows who he is or anything ...
― What’s his name again? [She is so stoned]
― I don’t know. [Looks at her funny] Dude, you are so out of it. He made that Motel Chain, I don’t know what his name is, why would I know what his name is? I mean, it’s a pretty lame thing to have a motel chain be your life accomplishment, you know. I’d probably be bitter enough to buy a hill in Hollywood, which is what he did.
― You can’t buy a hill in Hollywood. There have to be laws against that or something. Either I’m just really faded or you’re making it up.
― Money has more power than God, you know [in her know-it-all voice]. He apparently gave all the people who were living on this hill all kinds of money, and it was enough for them to have a reason to leave, so then he bulldozed over all their houses and he’s been building for, like, ever. Years and years! It’s crazy, dude, I heard that the house is on top of the hill and he’s been growing a labyrinth that leads up to it, with car paths and walking paths!
― No shit! Like that movie with David Bowie and the girl who has to solve the labyrinth to get her brother back from goblins and creatures ...
― [As she waves her sister’s words away] No, it’s like the woods in Twin Peaks and the Blair Witch Project. It’s a labyrinth of trees. It’s so huge and intricate they’re going to give out a first map at the gate to the hill so you can even get to the house, cuz you wouldn’t be able to otherwise. And then at the door of the house you get a second map because inside it’s all fun-housy, with different carnival rooms, and tunnels and secret passages and crazy shit like that! Pretty freaky, huh? It’s going to be so huge
― Oh right on, [looking at the colorful piece of glossy paper] the flyer says “Curiosity killed the cat.” What the hell does that mean?
― Oh my God dude, I bet he’s so fucked up. He probably has children locked in the basement, or he beats his wife and has her locked in the basement or maybe he has them all trapped in iron maidens like that Johnny Depp Sleepy Hollow movie! Mad amounts of children and babies and women and stuff he has down in there. Dude, you have to wonder about these things. It’s pretty weird to buy a hill and then throw a party there. No one wants even wants us having parties, why would he build a house with that sole purpose?
― Well, considering the fact that hostility fucks you up, man, I mean, maybe he just wants to get in touch with the youth of today, seeing that if anyone will remember him for anything, it’ll be us. We’ll be around for a while longer to spread the word about how cool he is and how incredible his party was.
― But what if it’s something else. Something more. [She giggles] Like, what if he’s working with the police and the government and it’s a plot to kill all the party kids! He might be planning on catching us all in there so we can be wiped out in one fell swoop!
― Or maybe [giggling] the house is alive and must be fed every few years!
― No dummy he just built it! [She gives her a “duh” face and even thumps the side of her hand against their chest to punctuate.]
― How do you know that the hill doesn’t have something about it? [Defensive tone and posture] Maybe people go missing every year and no one ever finds them. Maybe he knows there is something supernatural about the hill, maybe that’s why he bought it. [Totally defensive] Or maybe even the hill is a burial ground of some sort and needs sacrifices to the unrestful dead.
― Oh, good one! You know that could be possible. I’ve heard this city, this area, used to be all Native American lands until priests came and killed everyone who wasn’t Spanish or who wouldn’t convert to Christianity and now I bet there are a lot of angry spirits out there. Wandering around, looking for revenge. Payback! Hell yeah! Maybe they made Mr. Motel 6 buy the hill and build the maze and the house because they are the ones that want to kill us!
― So you want to go?
― Fuck yeah! Halloween night, baby! [A thoughtful pause] What are we going to wear?
—EXHIBIT
NO. 4—
DR. JOHNSON, THE DENTIST
You vividly remember the day you first saw your mother naked. The shock of her castrated body was so traumatic for your five-year-old mind that you instantly diverted your gaze to her mouth. You wonder sometimes whether your decision to become a dentist was somehow motivated by that accidental sighting. But the thought of that, like the thought of your mother naked, is too much for you to bear.
You brush it out of your mind, like always.
When your parents sat you down afterwards to explain your mother’s body — that she wasn’t missing a widdler, she just had a different place inside of her, a place where babies are made — well, you weren’t listening. You were staring at that mouth, the teeth, the voice, the little drops of spittle that sprayed into the air as she spoke. You weren’t listening because you already knew where her widdler was: it was hiding inside her body. And like her tongue that kept snaking out in her nervousness to lick those lips, her widdler comes out of her. And like those teeth it is very sharp, and you began to feel scared for your father. Scared of what your mother could do to him.
You remember, also, seeing a horse at pasture. A big huge horse, and all of a sudden, out of nowhere it seemed, its widdler emerged, huge and throbbing and ultimately the most terrifying sight to enter your mind as you imagined your mother’s widdler, creeping out of her body, looking for prey, wanting to devour anything in its path.
You became a dentist because you decided that the female body is wrong, and you know you aren’t the only one. You saw a movie, Dead Ringers, about two gynecologists who also believe that the female figure must be fixed and they invent all manner of tools for operating on women/mutant monsters.
At this point, where we find you now, you believe all women to be mutations, with their retractable widdler. The big secret they keep from all men because then, one day when you least expect, it it’ll slide out and cut you to pieces!
You never got to the end of the movie, though, when you would have seen that the grotesque tools were not for fixing mutant women, but were instead for separating Siamese twins. That wouldn’t have changed your views on this mutant women subject anyway. You are convinced (and afraid) that women are killers by nature, and so you decide to kill them first.
You opened your first dental practice 30 years ago and you change location every few years to keep people from figuring out what you do to your different female patients. If anyone had followed up on any of them they would have found a string of incredible sicknesses, unfortunate mishaps and many a suicide, but none of which directly relate to you, Dr. Johnson, and your practice. It’s just icing the cake to make a new start every few years. Indeed, it is a sacrifice, the loss of spatial stability, but one that you are willing to make for the sake of a greater cause.
You have ways to make the female body correct, as it should be in nature: dead or so deformed the only place that women could call home would be the sideshow freak tent at a circus carnival. Either way, life will be woman-free. You have the poisons and the diseases and an amazing cornucopia of substances that, if mixed correctly, can create just about any desired effect, or dis-effect, rather.
It doesn’t matter that no one knows about the service you provide by relegating these monsters to the lower echelon of society where they belong. You are a man, you have the real widdler, the one that doesn’t hide and trick and manipulate. Women have killer widdlers. Kill the widdler.
You stare into the splayed mouth, head resting on your black leather chair. Number 87. You will have to make a note of it later. She looks at you with her eerie gold eyes and you feel nothing but fear. You tell her to open wide, that this will help the bleeding in her gums after brushing. In your hand you have a vial of bright pink liquid. If you look close enough, you’ll see that the bubbles travel downwards. You’ll see that the liquid is making its way up the glass vial: It wants out.
― Here rinse your mouth out with this.
She complies and that gold stare is averted for a tiny reprieve that makes you realize you have almost been holding your breath.
― Now spit.
―EXHIBIT
NO. 5―
LILY’S MOTHER
TIME: 20 years ago
PLACE: The Dentist’s Office
THE PLAYERS: Dr. Johnson, The Dentist; Lily’s Mother
A tracking shot surveys The Dentist’s office. Like most, it is immaculately clean. Sparkling, like the teeth of his clients. There is a door leading to the waiting room, and another door leading to The Doctor’s medicine cabinet: a plethora of odd shaped bottles and herbs. The room is spare of decoration, save The Chair in the center of the room.
Lily’s Mother enters. She is one month pregnant and she glows, fluorescent green eyes sparkling.
Dr. Johnson is waiting. He is nervous and stays as far from her as possible. She’s been here before, she’s used to his quirks. There is never the polite chit chat of other doctors. He gets right down to business.
Dr. Johnson:
Have a seat. Lean back please. Open. Hmmmm. Aaaaaah.
Lily’s Mother:
Just a sec. Um, you know, I’m pregnant and I’m wondering if there is anything I would need to do to from your side to make sure my baby is healthy? I mean, I’ve been seeing a gynecologist and everything and they said to take vitamins, I don’t know, I just figured since I was here I would ask if you had any recommendations.
He recoils on the word pregnant as if she had bitten him instead of speaking. The camera picks up the beads of sweat that appear on his forehead.
Dr. Johnson:
Yes. I have something. Wait here.
He is increasingly agitated. He mutters under his breath. “Kill the widdler, kill the widdler,” a mantra, his calming technique. He enters his medicine cabinet and begins reading the labels until he comes upon this one:
If administered within the first trimester this lily will prevent the brain from splitting into two lobes.
“Perfect,” he mutters. He’s not actually killing the widdler this time, but he’s never tried this medicine. If she’s having a baby it might as well be a monster.
He snickers to himself but quells it. Sometimes when he comes in here he thinks about his quest and he finds it hilarious, he loses control. This is no time to pass out from hysterics. He removes the bottle from the shelf, replaces the glass bottle with a plastic medical standard.
He exits.
When he returns Lily’s Mother smiles with her kind viridian eyes.
Lily’s Mother:
Did you find something?
Dr. Johnson, wincing at the sound of her voice:
Uh, uh, yes. Of course. Here, lie back. This will help the child’s uh, teeth and gums. It is an herb I have uh, heard to be uh, effective at uh...here. Drink this. Okay, rinse. Now, let me uh, take a look in here...
His voice drones on, punctuated by “uhs” and the occasional wincing start as Lily’s Mother speaks or moves. She feels the medicine burning her stomach. Something is not right.
CUT TO:
A hospital delivery room. Lily’s Mother is screaming in pain. The doctors wheel her into the room. She’s flushed, sweating, and not taking any pain medication. Her screams get more and more intense as her contractions get shorter. Her usually fluorescent jade eyes have turned a forest green where the irises have almost disappeared from pain.
Finally, it’s beginning. She’s dilated, the baby’s head is visible, coming through, coming through, screaming all around, and there she is: Lily, covered in blood and tissue. Her mother continues to scream as the afterbirth is expunged.
Quiet now. The nurse gasps and almost drops the baby. Lily’s Mother is faint from pain, the nurse takes the baby away when her mother passes out.
A day later and Lily’s Mother is still recovering from the birth. The doctors tell her there are some complications with the baby and she can’t see it yet. They use that word: “It.”
Lily’s Mother:
But my baby, I just want to hold her for five minutes. Please, why can’t I hold her.?
Doctor:
I’m sorry but it’s not stable, there are complications. You must understand. The child must remain where it is.
Lily’s Mother screaming:
Why? Why? I need her, I need her right now. Bring me my baby! NOW!
Doctor:
Nurse, I need some sedatives. Calm this woman down.
He leaves. Lily’s Mother never sees him or her baby again. The nurses tell her the complications were so severe that her daughter died in the night. Her daughter.
Her eyes never return to their fluorescent green. They remain clouded with a forest pain until a year later, when cancer closes her eyes forever.
—EXHIBIT NO. 6—
LILY, THE
CYCLOPS
TIME: 15 years later
PLACE: The Sanitarium
PLAYERS: Lily; The Supervisor
You never knew your mother. They told you that she didn’t want a monster child and gave you away, but you have a feeling that is a lie. You’ve dreamed about her. She sings to you. You know she’s watching over you somehow. And she seems like a really nice lady. Sometimes, though, when you look in a mirror you understand why what you tell yourself could be the lie.
You are a 15-year-old standing an inch shy of six feet, with your one huge eye, a fluorescent aquamarine. You don’t know how you manage to live with yourself.
Well, actually, you don’t mind yourself too much. What you mind is how people look at you: with fear and hate and anger and disgust at the sight of your existence. That the world would be perfect without you. They blame you for being ugly, they blame you for being a freak, and being in anyone’s space makes them aware of how different you are, and they hate you. They hate you so much sometimes you think your heart will shrivel up from their poison revulsion. It chokes you. You refuse to speak. You sit in the corner with your head down, always down so you never make eye contact. But it’s no use, you can feel their eyes on you.
You feel surrounded. You feel trapped. The only person that says even a word to you is The Supervisor. But he frightens you. When he forces you to look up you see something dishonorable in his eyes. Something mean and nasty. You hate looking at him more than anything. The worst part is that you don’t know well enough to know exactly what it is in his eyes as he looks you up and down. You don’t know. You don’t understand.
As you sit in the corner, tears fall from your green eye. This is your ritual, to sit here and let the tears catch in your regulation blue tunic. You make up stories of the patterns your tears create. Stories where you have a mother and a family. Stories where you are happy. You sit in the corner until bedtime and then you lie in bed and cry. You can’t remember the last time you slept, you don’t feel safe. But you just don’t know why. You are so young.
The Supervisor comes up to you, touches your head, and asks you what’s wrong.
― I’m just thinking about my mother, you say as tears continue to streak your tunic. Do you know what happened to her?
― Well, not off the top of my head, little darlin’, but I’m sure with a bit of askin’ I could find out for you.
Your green eye turns a sage color and lights up; for a moment the tears stop.
― Are you serious? I would do anything, anything to know where she is.
― Well, you know it’s quite a bit of work. Eyup, it’s a mighty big bunch of extra effort for me, I’m a busy man. What’ll you do for me?
― What? You don’t quite grasp fully what he’s asking. — I told you I’ll do anything.
― Anything? You sure?
― Yes please just tell me.
― Come with me.
He takes you to his office, the only place that has no windows looking out into the lobby.
― The color of your eye is just magnificent. Has anyone ever told you that?
You shake your head no.
― It reminds me of the sea from above. Clear as an angel’s bell and full of mystery.
He begins to stroke your face and your eye closes instinctively. It is the first time in your life that someone has ever touched you in a tender way and for once you feel human. He caresses your face, moving his hands over your neck and shoulders. He pulls you closer to him in an embrace. With your face against his chest he smells of tobacco and fast food. There is something foul underneath it and you pull away from him.
― Don’t be scared. I want to do something with you.
― What?
― Just relax. I want to show you how beautiful I think you are and when I’m finished I will do everything I can to find your mother. Okay?
He lifts your tunic and runs his fingers over your underwear. His breathing gets heavier and heavier and the stroking turns into pulling and poking.
― OW! STOP! OW!
He covers your mouth with one hand and pulls your underwear down with the other.
He’s hurting you somewhere that you don’t understand; the pain fills you with red. You don’t understand why he’s doing this. You don’t even understand what he’s doing. You are 15 years old, you’re big, full grown, but that doesn’t change anything. He’s hurting you and you realize you are bigger than he is. You raise your eye, which has turned a violent malachite, sharp and flashing. You trap his gaze.
You stare deep into him. You stare deeper and deeper where the pools of fury begin to boil. You are furious that someone would hurt you this way just because you are ugly, because he thinks you are a monster. He’s the monster! You stare with your eye while the anger bubbles to the surface in pine-tinged spots. Your eye finally seeing what is not acceptable whether you understand it or not. The pain fuels your anger, the anger fuels your stare. Your eye burns and in a moment his face turns gray and hard as stone.
His entire body stiffens, his expression one of shock as the slate travels through him, turning him to stone.
You remove yourself from his hard and twisted embrace. He looks kind of funny this way. You giggle and then nudge the former warden, now statue. He falls and smashes into dust and pebbles. You did this! Your eye did this. You are not a monster, you are powerful. If you are a powerful monster then that’s what you’ll embrace.
You escape from The Sanitarium later the same night. You are going to find your mother.
—EXHIBIT NO. 7—
BARREN
Your gums bleed every time you floss, and sometimes even when you brush your teeth. You’ve noticed that you have a difficult time drinking a fresh cup of hot coffee and you have to let your ice cream melt before you can begin enjoying its sweetness. You have weekly appointments with the dentist to get a special gum treatment, and though you think it’s pretty strange to go to the dentist once a week, it’s become a part of your routine.
About three weeks into the treatment, you start spotting between periods, and then bleeding heavily, even though it’s another three weeks before your time of the month. Since your weekly dentist appointment is in a few days, you decide to ask him whether the treatment has side effects. You really should have asked him sooner, or rather, he should have told you if there would be weirdness during the treatment, but in any case, maybe there have never been side effects before. Maybe you are just having an off cycle this month. Who knows.
You go to his office for your 10:30 appointment. You get a very bad vibe from that Dr. Johnson. Sometimes when he looks at you, you are convinced that he hates you more than anything in the world. And sometimes when he’s working in your mouth, he smiles a toothy shark smile, and seems to enjoy when you are in pain. But then again, most dentists seem to be like this so you don’t think too much about it. You are going to ask him about the spotting, though.
― Doctor, um, this is kind of a weird question, but, um, are there ...side effects with this treatment I’ve been taking? I mean, because, well I’ve been, um, bleeding, and I’m not supposed to get my period for three weeks and...
Your voice trails off as he stares at you with the most sickened and disgusted look possible on the face of man. He looks about to vomit.
― Are you sure you haven’t been killing with anything down there?, Dr. Johnson asks.
― Excuse me?
― Are you sure you have the [clears his throat] dates right?
He looks ready to clean his mouth out for even responding to the question.
― Yes, Doctor. I’m sure. I’m on the pill so I know exactly when I’ll be getting it.
This time he does in fact go over to the sink, reaches for the soap and proceeds to wash his mouth out, slowly and methodically, making sure to reach each hidden corner of his toothed orifice. You are completely bugged out. And what the fuck was up with that weird-ass question: Have I killed anything down there?
You can hear him mumbling under his breath: ―It’s working. It’s working. By God, you’ve done it. You’re killing the widdler. Kill the widdler. Kill the widdler.
― Excuse me Doctor, what? If the treatment is working why do my gums still bleed? Why am I bleeding other places now? Doctor Johnson, what the hell is going on!
He will not look at you. Well, he never meets your gaze, but he is being obvious about it this time.
― This is an interesting side effect. I have not seen this before. This side effect I mean. I have not seen this before. It must be a result of the uh, of the uh, bleeding uh being transferred it is a very uh, rare condition uh, yes the bleeding was transferred from the gums to the uh...
He leans over and begins washing his mouth out again. He can’t even say it. Is he even a proper doctor? you begin to wonder. He seems to be afraid, but you have never seen anyone react to anything quite like this. You have no idea how to read the situation. He’s fricking washing his mouth out with soap!
And then you begin thinking. The bleeding hasn’t gotten better in your gums either. Kill the “widdler”? What the hell is a widdler? Is this a biological term? Could it be what is causing the gum bleeding? Is he completely psychotic? Widdler sounds like a nonsense word. Is he trying to poison you? This is complete madness. You are pissed.
― Show me that pink stuff I rinse my mouth out with. Show it to me right now or I’m going to take some of my profusely spewing blood and wipe it on your nice clean white jacket!
His eyes widen in fear, his fists are balled up at his side as if at any moment he will start stamping his feet in a temper tantrum. He hugs the wall as he gets the juice from the cabinet. He doesn’t hand it to you: He tosses it from across the room. You examine the bottle to see that the bubbles do not go upwards, they go down. And as you hold it, you notice the pink gooey stuff is climbing up the sides of the vial trying to get out!
― What the fuck IS this shit!?, you scream in his face.
― No! I’m only trying to help, I swear, you have a widdler and it kills and I am helping you get rid of it, the bleeding means it's dying. It’s dying! I’m saving you from that horrible monster that lives inside you and it comes out ...
And it dawns. He has been poisoning you. You remember overhearing a gender studies major talking about male castration anxiety and you didn’t pay much attention at the time, but this must be what she was talking about. He is afraid of women because he thinks they have teeth in their vaginas that want to kill him.
Your breakfast, the two cups of lukewarm coffee, and the acid churning in your stomach all begin gurgling.
― What is this supposed to do?
You stalk towards him brandishing the vial of freakish pink liquid. He is terrified, quaking in his doctor’s shoes.
― It’s supppposed to kkkill that thing (gulp), that thing down in there.
― There IS nothing in there, you ass! What. Does. This. Do?!
― It kills everything (cough) down there.
He looks pained. But not as pained as you, as your stomach is. It roils up a storm. You feel faint, your throat closes up. You can feel retching coming on. It has a rhythm, a contraction, contraction, relax, relax, relax. Contract, contract, relax, relax. Your womb. Contract. He’s been trying to kill your womb. Contract. That poison was alive and trying to climb out of the bottle, contract, contract, contract. You know, you just know, he’s done irreparable damage. The anger roils with the food, and you can feel the rage stomp its way from your uterus through the rest of your body. Contract, contract, contract, contract. And just like in Stand By Me when Lard Ass Hogan puked up a lifetime supply of blueberry pie, your mouth opens and out spews the acid and breakfast and coffee all over Dr. Johnson’s surprised face.
He screams as the vomit begins dissolving his skin. You scream as his face melts away like in some cheesy horror movie, and all of a sudden there is nothing. His head is gone. The white coat and a twitching body crumpled on the floor are all that remain of Dr. Johnson, the dentist.
You carry your hands over your uterus as you leave the building, and you tell no one of what happened.
―EXHIBIT NO. 8―
SKREEM
You suspect that your husband has been molesting your daughter. She’s seventeen now and you aren’t sure how long this has been going on. To make matters worse, you have no idea why you didn’t notice it sooner.
Tonight at dinner he kept touching her face, and she looked tormented and disgusted as she shrunk away from his touch. It can’t possibly be any other thing. You pluck up the courage to ask him what is going on. You screw up though: you get all hysterical and shrieky, which he hates, and so with a condescending smile he pats you on the shoulder saying nothing. He smiles that disconcerting smile that makes him look like a stranger, someone terrifying you’ve never seen before. You wonder where the man you married has hidden. He goes off for his after dinner cognac and cigar, leaving your daughter with silent tears, and you with a heart full of fearful questions.
What do you do? Economically you depend on him, and you have always trusted him. Where did you even get this idea from anyway? It’s probably nothing, you know. Lana is a beautiful girl, maybe you are just confused and reading too much into her father’s affections. But the tears... the disgust on her face. No, something is wrong. You need to call someone... but whom? This is not a big town, what will people say? It gives you shivers to think about your family being the brunt of gossip, especially if it is the talk that goes on about inappropriate relations between a father and his daughter. When does he do it? Has he been leaving the room at night? Have you ever even noticed? Oh God, this is too much.
You brush your hair before bed, staring at your face in the vanity mirror. Nothing is the same. These wrinkles, this worry and fear in your eyes, you never had these before. Your hair too. It’s limp and the curls no way near as bouncy as they were in your youth. Like your breasts. You think about Lana’s breasts, so full and unfettered by all these years of gravity.
Bob stands behind you and hands you your nighttime glass of milk. Something is different tonight: He has a biting intensity in his eyes. He watches you carefully as you drain the glass, doesn’t leave until you do. Even putting his hand up to the glass to make sure you drink each drop. Instinctively, you hand the glass back to him instead of placing on the table. He seems to be waiting for something. You lie down.
There is a funny taste in your mouth. Bitter and medicinal. You can barely keep your eyes open, so tired, all of a sudden, so, so tired. You close your eyes and the spiked milk knocks you unconscious.
You begin dreaming that something is not right. You watch a man walk up a familiar flight of stairs. He feels you watching and turns to look. He sees no one. You see your husband. He continues his ascent. He gets to the door and opens it. You see Lana in bed. She’s awake, her eyes are wide with fear.
― No. Please no. Not tonight. Just please, leave me alone.
He says nothing to her. Moves to sit on her bed. She shrieks and moves as far away from him as possible.
― Please daddy, please stop. Please stop doing this to me.
― Now honey, don’t cry. I’m not trying to hurt you, I just love you so much. Can’t you let me show you how much I love you? Don’t you love your daddy? Don’t you want to be a good girl?
― Daddy, no.
Lana sobs.
― Please, daddy. I won’t tell anyone, please just stop.
― Stop acting like this, right now. You don’t want daddy to get mad, do you? We know what happens when daddy gets mad, don’t we?
Lana begins whimpering, just as do you in your comatose sleep. You feel like vomiting, but you know if you do, you could choke. You need to watch, see if there is something you can do to help her. And at least now you have no more questions. Now you know.
He unbuttons his shirt silently. Folds it and places on a stool near the bed. He begins to take off his pants.
― I heard around town talk of you running around with boyfriends. Not just one boyfriend, but a few of them.
Lana whimpers and shakes her head. He’s told her before if anyone else touched her, he would kill her.
― Now, Lana, I’m going to trust you on this, but if I hear that again I’m going to cut your tongue out, you hear me? Cut it right out of your head. You’re mine, do you understand? You are mine. Lie down and stop crying.
Back in your bedroom your eyelids flutter. You cannot even begin to believe what you are seeing. The fury is exponentially increasing in your body and spirit. You are shaking, as if wracked with electric seizures. You see him climbing on top of your daughter, your daughter!
Your silent scream begins. The scream begins in your toes and moves all the way through your body until it reaches your brain and in a burst of energy that scream of rage and hopelessness surges into his head. He puts his hands to his temples and falls backwards. Lana gathers the sheets, crying, and covers herself with them. He falls to the floor, writhing and moaning, while you continue your breathless scream. He stops moving. You see a trickle of blood from his right ear. It pools on the floor.
Lana is shaking. She has no idea what has just happened. Nor does she have any idea of how many times her father has come to her room. She is trying not to think about it. She wonders if he’s dead. She wonders if she did it. She wonders if it is over.
You watch your beautiful daughter in her confusion. She gets up out of bed and quickly dresses, crouched on the floor where she can’t see him and vice versa. She begins crying again. There is a railroad of scratches along her arms where she has been raking her nails over and over. So that’s why she’s only been wearing long sleeves, you think.
She goes into the bathroom and begins running a bath. She goes through the medicine cabinet, takes out a packet of her father’s razor inserts and places one by the bathtub. You watch your daughter, your only baby, the one you haven’t truly seen until this day, as she prepares to kill herself. She is still crying.
NO!, you scream. HONEY, I LOVE YOU, DON’T DO THIS.
She sits on the toilet waiting for the water to fill up. You wish you knew what you had done to her father, you wish you could call on it again, you want to save her, God damn your body, God damn your husband.
Lana climbs into the bathtub, tears streaming, and picks up the razor. In your dream you reach your arms out to her: they are so long, stretching through love and space, but still they are not long enough to reach her. You graze her shoulder as her body slumps over, and the tub fills with red.
You wake up in the morning, feeling oddly refreshed from your long sleep. Even though your dreams were nightmares, they are over. You look over to Bob’s side of the bed, and see he’s not there. An icicle of fear lodges itself in your throat. You begin shivering. You walk upstairs to Lana’s room. You find Bob, where you left him in your dream last night, the pool of ear blood on the floor.
― LANA!!!, you scream and scream as you run to the bathroom. The door is locked. You throw yourself at it until the lock gives, you feel a detached pain where several ribs and a clavicle just broke. There is your baby, in the bathtub. The razor is on the floor having tumbled from her bloody fingers. You pull her from the water and continue screaming until the neighbors call the police and send an ambulance over.
―EXHIBIT
NO. 9―
SLASH
Yesterday you were a prepubescent boy. Today you wake up with your pajama bottoms covered in a sticky white substance you had never seen or felt before. Somehow, everything inside you has changed, although it’s not quite clear how or why.
You grudgingly discuss this with your father, and he, equally grudging, gives you a video to watch that is supposed to make you aware of birds and bees, or something. You don’t really know how birds and bees connect to the white stuff, unless it comes from them, but to not feel stupid, you nod your head with him as if you already know well what he’s talking about.