Featured Writer: Jackie Waite

Birth Rite

Bethany Krause looks out her kitchen window at the field that lies like a cancer patient on her deathbed. It lays fallow and neglected, overrun with thistles and burdock that look like crusted scars in the evening's failing light.

If she looks hard enough, she'll be able to ignore the peeling paint and caulking around the mullioned windowpanes and the even shabbier décor of her kitchen: the plain wood table with a multitude of cuts and stains, the combination enameled sink and drain board, plywood cabinets and a beat- up linoleum floor with enough pits and scars to rival the most prolific of adolescent skin.

She raises her arm and swipes at the sweat that trickles down her temple, picks up a glass and begins to swab it out, taking extra care around the rim. If there's one thing Harold hates, it's lip marks around the edge. He's pretty picky for an all-around-total-slob, she thinks. She cringes as she remembers the last time he pawed at her; black oily fingers leaving smoky gray smudges on her inner thighs until she'd washed, and the only marks remaining were the bruises he'd left after he'd finished pinching and prodding.

Her mouth sets in a grim line as she reminds herself why it's useless to complain. The last time she'd asked him to wash the auto grease off, he'd backhanded her across the face and her jaw had hurt for weeks. She'd never forget that; the cracking noise her jaws made when she ate would see to that.

"Bethie! Bring me a cold beer, would ya?"

Bethany sighs and dries her hands. She looks at the worn terry cloth with its nondescript design, so faded and worn it's now indecipherable, and compares it to herself. Not so different, she thinks. And just as cheap. It came out of a detergent box, which is probably a good sight better than the box I'll be buried in.

"Bethany!" Harold shouts. "Bring me the goddamn beer before I have to get it myself and beat you with it."

It'll be the last beating you ever give me, she thinks. I wish you were dead. "Coming!" she yells.

She takes a bottle from the old Frigidaire, twists off the cap and grabs a clean towel. Walks out of the kitchen and into the dark hallway and into the living room with its eclectic assortment of ratty furniture and even rattier occupant.

Harold is sprawled on the couch, one hand on the TV remote and the other already reaching for the beer. He stares at her expectantly, a lopsided leer scarring an otherwise unremarkable face, save for the nicotine-stained teeth (the ones he has left), and pasty skin with its roadwork of deep lines that attest he's lived a hard life. "It ain't easy keeping a woman in line," he tells his bar buddies, _"specially one who don't want to put out, and me with my Big Hoss, to boot!"

"Well, come on, woman. Clean off the goddamn rim before I shove it up your dirty old pussy."

Bethany lowers her eyes and begins the ritual she's performed for thirty years. She holds the beer in the crook of one arm and unfolds the towel so Harold can see she's using the part that wasn't exposed to the air, and twists it around the rim several times, each turn with a new section of cloth. Finally, she takes the towel, holds it up against the window so Harold can see the red knot that's sewn dead center, and uses it to clean just inside the rim of the bottle.

She studies the bottle with a critical eye, then holds it out to him as she stares at her feet, waiting for him to take it.

He's on her before she can say, I'm sorry, I forgot (for a big guy with an overabundance of loose fat, he's pretty quick), and his huge fists are pummeling her; slapping her face, smacking her head, and punching her breasts and stomach until she falls to the floor.

"How many times do I have to tell you, woman? You leave the fucking cap on until I see you take it off!" He boots her in the thigh, a quick, brutal kick that leaves her curled up on her side like a discarded fetus.

She cries and whimpers, and reaches for the throw that hangs from the side of the couch.

"Stop crying!" he screams. "For God's sake, use a little self-discipline! All these years of supporting your lazy ass." He grabs the throw out of her hand, flings it to the other side of the room and stomps on her hand, grinding it into the floor with a twist of his boot.

She screams like a woman in hard labor, but what is born is unlike any newborn that any human eyes have ever seen. She can't see it, but she knows it's there; her maternal instincts have not failed her.

It is the offspring of systematic abuse and degradation toward another human being with a gestation period of thirty years. Three decades of shaping and forming to become a creature independent of DNA. It has been born of extreme emotion, and exists in that realm, experiencing life as only it can know and understand. Yet like its ethereal umbilical cord, the connection between it and its mother is undeniable.

With its birth, it becomes aware of what it is and why it is. It is an intelligent being of pure emotion, and Fear and Hate are the catalyst to its birth.

The air is thick with Fear and Hate. Yet there are also other emotions that make up the whole of which it is. Anger, Shame, Helplessness. And something else . . . Love.

But there is no love for Harold Krause.

Harold's emotions are out of control, on the verge of a mutinous revolt against the others. He needs to be punished for his imbalance.

But Harold's not in a very receptive mood. It'll take a little time for the entity to grow and become accustomed to its new environment, like a fawn finding its legs before it can run.

It looks down at its mother. Bethany wasn't exactly discarded, just displaced for the time being. Usurped until her passive nature regains its original and beautiful form it had when she was born, when it naively looked forward to a future of promise. Before she was beaten and trod upon by a human whose only redeeming quality was that of All-Around-Total-Slob. And now the roles are reversed; the child will protect and nurture the mother.

It grasps the elusive emotion of Humor from the thick atmosphere, and absorbs it into its ethereal body with the eagerness of a hungry infant. Bethany moans, semiconscious in the dim room, and it's just as well; Harold is preparing to strike out if she gives him cause.

The newly emerged force takes an inventory of itself, categorizing and prioritizing each emotion, until it understands its makeup. Bethany's library of reference calls it the id; the part of her psyche that is the source of instinctive energy and dominated by the pleasure principle and impulsive wishing.

Id. It feels . . . Appropriate.

"It's your fault, Bethie. You made me do it," Harold says into the silent room.

"All these years I worked for you. Gave you a nice house and food on the table, and how did you thank me? Sat on your fat ass and complained, is what you did. Couldn't even give me a son!" He looks at her and spits a gob of phlegm on her exposed face. It slides from the bridge of her bleeding nose, and into the shallows of a closed eye. "You could at least have given me a little bitch to fuck, you whore!"

Rage and Self-Pity manifest in toxic waves.

Harold throws up his arms in Frustration and then slaps them down on his legs. "Look at you," he hisses, his fleshy face contorted as he circles around Bethany's limp form. "All meek and mild, as though you didn't have a thing to do with this!" He bends over and grabs a strand of hair and yanks on it. Bethany moans.

"Shut up!" he roars, grabbing a thicker tress and yanking it back and forth like a cat shaking its prey. Her head flops from side to side, spraying blood from her nose and mouth in wide arcs. He crouches over her and releases another gob of phlegm, letting it ooze out of his pursed lips to fall in slow motion upon her slack mouth some of it sliding over and down her cheek, while the rest seeks the lowest level and enters her mouth.

He jumps up (and it's a good thing, too. Disgust was about to make itself known in a more outward fashion as it stared at the crack above his belt. Then Harold would have found out about Id, and that would have spoiled all the fun later on) and paces the room, strands of his wife's hair still clinging to his fingers.

"I know what you're doing, Bethie. You want me to pity you, don't you? In fact, I bet you're waiting for the mailman or someone to drive up our driveway and find you. Aren't you?"

Bethany isn't listening. Her face glimmers in the gloom from pools of Harold's saliva and her own blood. He stops his pacing and studies her. "That's it," he whispers. "You're fucking the mailman when I'm out making a living. Admit it. You are, aren't you?"

No response.

Harold screams. "I said you are, aren't you? You're fucking the mailman!"

Harold's fists clench, nails digging into his palms until they bleed, and suddenly he slumps to the floor, weeping.

Harold sits up and leans toward his wife. "You had this planned all along, didn't you? You wanted me to discipline you so you could blame it all on me. Why, Bethie, why? You know I love you," he sniffs. "You're all I got."

He looks around, mouth curved down in a child's pout and says, "I never let you leave here for your own good. If we lived in town instead of in the middle of no where, you'd be all over the neighborhood, spreading lies and rumors." He shakes his head. "I couldn't let that happen, Bethie. I just couldn't let you do that. Then everything would be ruined."

Be patient, Disgust. Denial, exercise restraint.

Harold rises to his knees and pokes Bethany's elbow. "Did I hurt you? Ohhh, nooo! I wouldn't hurt my little Bethie! I disciplined you!" He leans over and grabs the half-empty beer bottle and smashes it on the tip of her elbow, creating another wound that seeps a wellspring of fresh blood.

Bethany cries out, and then is silent once more.

Id is indignant. Anger roars in Rage.

The dim room becomes darker; as though a heavy cloud has covered the late evening sun, and Harold leans closer, fascinated by the way his wife's blood erupts from chipped bone and ragged flesh. His head tilts back and forth, observing the effect from different angles.

He stretches out on his stomach, propped up on one elbow (at least his elbow isn't chipped and bleeding), and closes his eyes, sniffing the air. He leans closer still, inhaling a deep lung full of the coppery scent, a frown on his face.

He taps the floor with long bulky fingers; a discordant drum roll in a thickening pool of blood.

"Where have I smelled that before, Bethie? Let's see now. I helped butcher cows and chickens when I was a kid . . . No, that's not it. Piggies? Nnnnoooo, I don't think so, but you do look an awful lot like one. I got it!" he shouts, snapping his fingers and rising to a sitting position. He points his finger in the air and says, "It was when I killed that salesman who came to the door about a year ago. Yeah, that's it," he says, grinning. "Do you remember that guy? He said he was selling vacuums, but I knew better. He was the guy you were fucking behind my back. But then I made you fuck him in front of me, and then I killed him."

Harold slaps his forehead and giggles. "I keep getting the vacuum salesman mixed up with the Jehovah's Witness guy. Now that was funny! Pretending to be a happily married man with kids. 'Course that was his excuse of why he couldn't get it up. So, I did what any other man in my position would do. I chopped it off! Thwump! Now you see it, now you don't."

Harold pokes a finger in the blood and draws little designs; circles and stars, squiggles and squares. He sticks out his tongue in childlike concentration and swipes the floor clean with the fleshy side of his hand and starts over. This time he writes Harold & Bethie inside a heart with an arrow through it.

The room becomes darker and black storm clouds pile up and run into each other beyond the living room window (in this case, it could more adequately be called a barely living living room), with a strong wind buffeting the glass, shaking it against the frame.

Harold looks up from his art project and studies the approaching storm. His dull eyes are squinting at the window, and he thinks, It's not supposed to storm. The weatherman said smooth sailing from now till the weekend.

He glances down at his still sleeping wife. The weatherman! When did you meet the goddamn weatherman?

A sudden gust of wind hits the window and it breaks, jarring Harold's nerves, and he screams. A clap of thunder snaps the air and he jumps to his feet, turning in circles, looking in every direction. "Who's here?" he shouts. "Who's in my house?"

Lightning cracks, emitting the acrid smell of ozone, and Harold twists around to look out the window again, looses his balance and slips on his wife's blood. He lands on his back, emitting a loud "uhhhmmph" as his lungs empty like a bellows, and he lies still as though rigor mortis has set in.

Only his eyes move as he searches from his limited vantage point. A dry leaf blows in through the broken window, sailing in on errant wind to spin erratically before disappearing beyond the arm of the sofa.

He lifts his head from his wife's leg on which he is lying and props himself up on his elbows, ignoring the pain that shoots from a dozen places along his body. The room is dark now, but still light enough for his eyes to glimpse the aberrant shadows that flit through the room.

Harold's eyes squint then widen as dozens of black comma-shaped objects that look like wisps of smoke dash about the room in erratic flight patterns. They fling themselves in every direction, some racing toward the walls and furniture, but mostly disappearing from view in the darkening room.

Thunder booms again and the house shakes, rattling the windows that are still intact. shattering the remaining shards that cling to the broken window, falling to the floor in an ear-splitting jangle.

He pushes himself to a sitting position, still leaning on weak arms, as his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. But the dark things are still there, black on gray, and constantly moving, whipping back and forth like sharks in a feeding frenzy. He senses their hunger. Feels their out- of-control . . . feelings?

He frowns and shakes his head.

Yellow Fear, thick with a liquid pus, permeates the air.

Humor rejoices and multiplies, and the air becomes darker with its increased numbers.

Harold's breathing escalates to quick sporadic gulps, creating a steady stream of air that gathers to form a river of incoming oxygen. Oxygen inundated with a thicker substance of . . . what, he cannot tell, but it further frightens him and another feeling overcomes his fragile state of mind.

Repulsion! Gleeful Repulsion that celebrates its existence and its obvious influence on Harold in the most perverse way.

Repulsion and Pride rejoice. This is easier than they thought. And so satisfying. Satisfaction urges them on.

Harold screams, "Who are you?" His pasty face now blanches an even paler shade, blending in with his hair that changes from brown to white.

With his quickening breaths, flitting forms enter his mouth and slam against his uvula with a bitter tang, jarring the fleshy protrusion until it vibrates like a tolling bell. He can feel it quiver above the back of his tongue. He gags.

A deafening crack of thunder and lightening puncture the air in a simultaneous explosion, rocking the house until roof and floor joists squirm, ejecting long carpenter nails in screeching expulsions, and the room lights up in a flash of eerie brightness. It is long enough for Harold to see the thick gelatinous form that hovers just above his head.

He shrieks again; this time louder, and much longer.

The house rumbles and tilts, and Harold steals a glance out the window. But the window isn't where it was just a moment before. It cants at an awkward angle off to his left, and Harold has a sudden impression of being in a dollhouse being played with by a maniacal child of immense proportions. A child up to no good; a child with evil on its mind.

There is a sickening sound of wood wrenching against wood, and iron and glass contorting to impossible shapes. Lightening thrusts its glare through the tilted window and between adjoining walls and ceiling. The house is falling apart and Harold's small brain acknowledges his impending demise.

A gummy blanket of air envelopes him, covering his mouth and nose in a strangling caress. And as he falls against Bethany's leg, he realizes the caustic entity that sizzles and burns his skin is also finding great pleasure in his helplessness. He'd scream if he could, but that would require breathing.

The night brightens in a maze of web-like lightening, searing through the air to create a heavenly strobe of pulsing light. The stroboscopic illuminations carry a multitude of wispy black forms that strike the black mass before him, melting and dissolving to become one.

Above the clamor of thunder, wind and lightening, and the bellow of the dying house, Harold can hear the tittering of hollow voices, getting louder as though an audience has finally caught on to the humor of a perverse joke.

It's me they're laughing at, Harold thinks. It's me. His lungs are burning, but he is spared the compassion of passing out. He hangs on, the burning pain clawing at his collapsed lungs. And then he is being assaulted by a volley of bullet emotions striking him from every direction, each one striking harder and faster.

And then something else is buffeting his mangled and disfigured body.

But they slide around and below him and he can feel Bethany's body move beneath him. She shudders and trembles as though awakening from a bad dream, until she sits up and pulls her leg away. His head hits the floor in a dull thud, a sound he can feel but not hear.

She stands and walks before him, looking down with eyes that are void of human emotion. Her eyes are the eyes of a shark, dull and empty. She catches her breath in a sudden gasp, and the suffocating hold on Harold is lifted.

Bethany throws back her head and laughs, an ear-splitting shriek that shakes the room as walls and ceiling crash down and crumble around them.

In the instant before a beam impales him, Harold finds his breath and screams with her, a eulogy of his premature death. "I'm sorry, Beth."

The house falls all around her, leaving a tiny circle of space undamaged and untouched, and she stands in the sudden hush of night, her form silhouetted against the skeletal remains of the house by a solitary beam of moonlight.

"I'm sorry, too, Harold. We forgot to invite Forgiveness."

Jackie Waite

Email: Jackie Waite

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