101 Words

A small creature darted across the floor and under the bed. I peeked over the edge of the mattress. The thing growled. Startled, I dove underneath the covers, praying it didn’t see me.

Gurgling, slurping sounds emanated from underneath the bed. My stomach churned and cramped.

The noises grew louder. I felt the sheets quiver slightly. Sweat dripped from my forehead.

The covers tore off and the contorted face of a helpless, wounded child materialized before my eyes. Its bruised, bloodshot eyes paralyzed me with fear.

“You see,” it moaned. “Remember this the next time you eat spicy chili before bed.”

King Francis glared at his court jester, Triboulet.

“The Queen does not like the way you mock her and her ladies. You are to leave them alone. If I hear any more complaints, your punishment will be death. C’est compris?”

“Yes, your Highness,” Triboulet responded.

“Good!” the King said emphatically.

A few weeks later, King Francis demanded Triboulet’s presence.

“Triboulet, the Queen has complained again. You’ve been a good jester for many years. I will let you choose how you will die.”

“Good sire, for St. Nitouche’s and St. Pansard’s sake, patrons of insanity, I choose to die from old age.”

He is young, but there is magic in his heart. A discarded cardboard box, to him, is a tool with which to explore. He ties a sheet to the top then stands in the box on top of the sofa, and with a little shove, the box becomes a hot air balloon. He removes the sheet and closes the flaps, sealing up his submarine. Peeling the flaps back, he makes wings to fly out of the water and up into the stars.

But twenty years later, as he takes his seat in his tiny cubicle, a box is just a box.

I never close my door anymore.

No matter how I try to close it with ease and grace, it still slams. Echoes of Mother reverberate around the house, the finality of the front door slamming, the stillness that followed. The words that rose before the slamming. Hamster wheel, constraint, tired. A cracked voice that I pitied and hated and loved.

Sister Nancy tells me we’ll be fine. Fine, what a hollow word.

The house remains still and we traverse emptiness.

What I don’t say is if I slam my door, I’m also alone. Very alone.

I open the front door too.

When he saw me eating the apple, his mouth hardened, as if carved in stone.

“Get out.”

It was a lot of fuss to make over fruit, but I crawled back. He leaned on the locked garden gate and said I must earn forgiveness.

Later, he made more rules. Dress modest. Don’t question.

Between tantrums he was sweet, all manna and rainbows.

Once he burned two cities to prove a point. I told myself he knew best.

What he did to the Galilean girl, I couldn’t forgive. She was just a kid.

He promised me heaven. It feels more like hell.

I hear her coming closer. Breath. No. Quiet. Stop. A splinter from the jagged wooden door and I stifle a sound. If she knows I’m here she’ll become me. I’ll become her. She turns, I can see the whites of her eyes. Next second I am there and sickly black smoke slips past my lips. She goes to church and smiles and I see everyone smile back. Hands on her broken twisted back and they talk so much they don’t notice the slurred tongue and incoherent sentences. I breath. Can’t think. Be quiet. Just stop. Wait. Blank eyes. Slip out. Hide.