Ink

She looked down at the hard winckles in her hands, now brittle holding the old tattered book-contemplating how many years it had taken her to get this far. The cover was old and the pages clung onto the ancient glue for dear life, a wrong tug would end it. It sat still in her calloused hands, making them slightly drier, the crusty feeling of old bread against skin (the kind of books she felt when she was a young girl.) Years had gone by, too many too count, yet she still couldn’t stop believing in the power of the book. She tried to comprehend just how many times she had read it, but that too was lost in time, a wrinckle, just like her hands now.

A soft sigh came on the air, one she hadn’t known that was being held inside her. These were the same thoughts that occupied her mind every time she picked it up. A feeling of hope, or dread depending upon how she looked at it. Each angle made her dizzy, and her old age didn’t help much either. It worked both ways when it came to passion and love.

Her true love came in 1974. She was wondering around a used book store in Charleston, North Carolina. It was small and quaint, and she could still smell the dust of a thousand old books reaching out to her as she sat in the old rocker now. It reminded her of old newspapers and bubble gum wrappers, the kind you got at the thrift store down the street. It lingered over her thoughts, a tangible item in a sea of grey swirls. Her breaths came uneven at the thought of the memory, or perhaps it was the twenty or so years of endless smoking (two or three packs a day, she didn’t keep count.) She started at fifty, and it didn’t take long for the emphysema to catch up with her now at the ripe age of seventy one. She didn’t mind much, welcoming the pain with each gasp. The book, now sitting in her lap, reassured her that she at least had lived her life.

Sixteen agreed with her then, softening her beauty into conscience realism. Most didn’t know why she spent her time in that book store, she never told them she was looking for something more, some world beyond her wildest perceptions. An escape from a mundane life.

Her thoughts drifted back again.

The light shown through the dark empty bookstore, where no one could hear or bother her. Little flecks of swirling dust casted on the air, catching around her thick yellow hair. A crystal, hanging on the outside window was a beacon, casting the midday light upon a shelf of books. One book in particular shone brighter then the rest, it spoke in the soft light of a rainbow. Still, in it’s little spot, almost calling to her, speaking her name in tongues and voices.

Her hands tightened on the old book slightly more just thinking about it.

She could still see it now, ominously shinning in the sun. It trapsed across her memory. She must have stared at it, for nearly an hour. Her body immobile, her hands still at her sides. The book sat cramped between an old shitty second edition of Charlotte Bronte ‘s Jane Eyre, and on it’s right, a squished copy of Gone With the Wind. None of which did the book in between them any justice-at least no how she saw it now.

It was hard back, bound in a tan color. The words scrawled sideways on the text read Carey, underneath, Stephen King in red ink.

Her fingers hovered over the binding, only contemplating picking it up, not sure if she should. Yet she did feel strange in the presence of the book store, as if something ominous was hanging over her actions. It frightened her a bit, so instead of hesitating any longer she grabbed the book off the shelf, relishing in the small sound it made sliding between books. Her then soft hands, grabbed hold of one of the last tangible things she would ever hold (not that she knew it at the time. Life was all a game then.)

At a young age it didn’t matter anyway, she was a new player the old game she couldn’t win. It was the still the same today. Considering her fear was too much to handle, she would rather wait for the end of days solemnly then with some sense of projection. It was part of what her mother said, or perhaps her late husband, she couldn’t remember at the moment; To concur fear was to concur death. She imagined Carey in this same fashion, a girl on the brinks of insanity holding onto the only thing life gave her. It was madness, but it worked the same way everything else did. It was something to hold on to, plain and simple. Crack the whip, make it happen. A design of the world as she knew it. Carey never let fear overcome her, instead she took matters into her own hands, gripping hard- never letting go. She saw her life in the exact same fashion, concurring anyone who stood in her way. Malice and pias had been her friends. A small chuckle emitted from her throat, as a smile planted lines in her old cheeks. Pressing wrinkles upon wrinkles together, (it was not a pretty picture.) Her smile even more sour then her breath.

Still, that quiet day she found the book, had changed her entire existence. One book, one lifetime poked her mind. She didn’t know at the time what it would do to her insides, the gunk, junk, and whatever other black shit she had in between. Carey was screwed up. She liked that about her, most didn’t embrace the dark side, the long sides they kept hidden from others and themselves. We all have it she thought. Most pushed the feelings down until one day they would erupt, exploding on helpless victims. Those who did embrace it ended up in jail or worse, injected. The lines of a Gretchen Wilson song rang inside her All Jacked Up. Yes, it was funny.

The man had a solemn look on his face when she brought the book up to the counter. She could tell his dislike for the cover before she even set it down on the overstuffed register area. Her insides churned at the look he implored on his face, asking without a word Do you really to buy this? She spoke back to him with contempt in her body. Yes filled the silence. He knew she was different, which made her keep asking: What was his first clue? If only he knew then the ramifications he set in motions when he sold her the book. He might have tried to stop the purchase, but, then again, maybe he too had the sickness within him, which was probably why he didn‘t stop her. Little girls, little girls, weren’t suppose to play with matches. Giving her the book was like giving her the lighter fluid. She already had the match, one spark would cause it all to explode. Yet she walked tall out of the store, clutching the 423 pages between her greedy arms. Proud of her little accomplishment. It was like buying drugs or alcohol without an I.D., both parties knew what the situation entailed, both didn’t care. It was as if they both got off on the situation. It gave her a rush, (the kind she only assumed came through drugs) but she had been wrong. The rush was better, more exhilarating. She imagined any person who passed her on the street, seeing her knee high socks, appropriate dress length, and blond hair would assume her to be a typical normal teenage girl. No, more then that, a great person who went to church every Sunday. If only they knew. Things inside her had already begun to change that day, yet she hadn’t even read the book.

It wasn’t until two days after -when she had finished reading the sick story of little twisted Carey, that she knew how different things really were. Her innocent smile held more behind it’s lines of cute and amiable expressions. It hid a disturbed little girl, she knew this all too well. It didn’t bother her when she pushed her younger sister Sherry down the stairs in an attempt to rid her of having a boyfriend before she did. The guilt was washed away, and she found it all through Carey, who’s hate fueled her own. Carey who lead her through the dark, to light at the end of the tunnel. Carries pain and sorrow become her own, until one day they were one in the same (the only difference being that she could move objects with her mind.) It made her glad however, because her mischievous nature almost gave it away anyway, she didn’t need to be floating things around with her mind. They were indeed two of the rarest jewels in the bunch. Any other person in the world didn’t seem to make sense to her, which is why she ended up killing everyone she met.

No one suspected her, not once. It was her innocence perhaps, or the good natured façade she personified every day. It might have even been the superb nature of her lies, or in how she told them. Most likely, it was her impeccable cleaning technique. She couldn’t have killed her boyfriend Scott, because she had, in fact, been washing her hair at the time of the incident. It was all loads of sitting shit of course, but no one doubted it. Thinking back not one person questioned it, (even though her ex-husband should have. Her mother could not have died by an overdose on her own.) It was his stupidity- plus that fact that he didn’t like her cooking, and he was bad in the sack- that had caused his own poisoning at dinner. It was quite amusing, "It’s been a rather nice . . ." he didn’t get past that, before his entire face collapsed into the tomato bisque she had prepared for him.

That thought gave her a small satisfaction, at least she had been good at her job. No, superb. The cops never suspected anything, the autopsy showed he had died of a massive stroke. It was all news to her, however, she didn’t tell the cops that that was one of the side effects of the non traceable drug she used on him. It gave her a thrill each time. But in these last lost hours of her life, she had wished that someone had caught her, taken her down. It would have made it all worth it. She would have been labeled crazy instead of just feeling it.

She didn’t need a happy ending, what she wanted was dissonance. Little girls, little girls shouldn’t play with matches. The box was empty and yet, she still felt she wanted to keep lighting the world up. These people all needed something, and she needed her fix. Those on drugs would know nothing mattered, not breathing, not eating, not love. All that mattered was the fix. Once you had it, immediately you wanted more.

She pushed her lips together hoping for someone to come and help her in the task. Her thoughts were answered when a nurse entered into the room. All that was heard were the small clicks from the air now being forced into her nose, and the small squeaks of the nurse’s sneakers, rubbing against the sweat soaked socks inside her shoes. Because she couldn’t speak, she already had the upper advantage of the situation. The wheel chair bound her to her place making her seem even more invulnerable, only she knew different. She looked at her victim’s brown shiny, and calm demur. It made her glad to know her last minutes would at least be in peace. Her breaths came a little uneven now even with the breathing machine. Anticipation took over as she stared that the young girl of twenty.

"Hello Isara, how are we feeling today?" she was too chipper. She knew the old woman couldn’t respond , which only made the hate stronger. The bitch needed to be put down. The way she said we wasn’t right.

It surprised her that the nurse didn’t run screaming, her body alone emitted one word over and over: Kill, Kill, Kill. The room reminded her of one of those old slasher flicks, you know, the one where the heart wrenching violins come in, at the same moment the victim gets murdered. The soundtrack to her life would have been playing those violins right then- if there were such a thing.

The nurse started checking her stats and blood pressure. All mumbo jumbo. The nurse stopped when she noticed the book in her lap. One she had never read, but one she had always wanted to. The bold script on the cover with one word; Carey.

"Oh goodness" she spoke. "Where did you get that? I tell you, I’ve always wanted to read it." the nurse made like she was going to grab for it, but then decided not to. A wise choice she thought. She got a glimpse at the name tag above her right pocket. Becky. Ha that was a laugh. She wondered what disillusioned mother would name her child Becky. Then she looked into Becky’s greedy little eyes on her book and knew. She had known a Becky or two in her time (she imagined she had killed at least one of the two that crossed her path back in the 80‘s), they were both bitches, and she was proud of her previous assumptions. The look on Becky’s face suggested that she would try to take her book when she was asleep (not that that would ever happen. The nurse didn’t know who she was dealing with. Well she would find out soon enough.)

A small whisper emanated on the air almost to inaudible to hear. She tried speaking through her collapsing lungs. It sounded like eendooo. It cam twice from her mouth. It took a second for the nurse to realize it was coming from her. Great she thought again this one was stupid along with being greedy. It was her lucky day.

"What was that sweetheart?" the nurse spoke

"Inndoow" she said again.

A look of confusion spread across Becky’s face contemplating what she was saying. It was followed shortly by a look of astonishment, the bitch had finally gotten her meaning.

"Oh," she said "Would you like to sit next to the window? There is a lovely breeze outside today. It couldn’t hurt to have some fresh spring air."

Yeah it couldn’t she thought. Only she meant it to be for the nurse and not for herself. At least Becky had finally gotten the message. She wheeled the chair near fifth story windows. They covered the west wall admitting the scenery of mountaintops and the clear blue of the sky.

The short walk to the window seemed a lifetime for her, as her heart started racing a million beats a second.

"Here, let me just open a couple windows for you." she said this as she locked the wheel chair in place. This braod didn’t have a clue.

Becky turned her back around to face the windows. Her hands giggled with the locks a moment before they creaked open. She pushed the windows far, her butt sticking out like a rabbit in a whole. This was too easy.

It didn’t take much effort. The first second was spent lifting her leg from off the chair. The second, second her foot was on the nurse’s butt. With one push of blunt force, Becky fell out the five story window.

All she could hear in the seconds that followed, were a soft thud and a scream from outside. She wished she could have seen the blood, but it didn’t deter her from the high that now surged through her brain.

She wanted someone to suspect her, but in the end she knew no one would. An old woman, in her sorrow filled life. Damn, it was as easy as it had been when she was sixteen. She closed her eyes, seeing grey swirls once again. Flashing back to the book on the shelf- the book now laying in her hands now. A memory she would cherish the rest of her life. The memory that had started it all.