The Unwilling Possession

By , Quinlan, TX
Propping herself upon a pruned and soapy wet hand, Emily gently presses the pads of her finger tips to the newest edition of decorations that her husband had gave her. He loomed menacingly over her, his once comforting build of a soldier that at night had held her nice and tight, now in an attacking position, heaving, the ever present bottle of alcohol resting in hand. A swift kick to the ribs sent her rolling away from him.

“Bloody useless thing,” he spat and with the grace of Ichabod Crane, he stumbled out slamming the massive oak door behind him. The echo thundered throughout the silent house.

A sob escaped Emily, a small snivel at best. She didn’t return to her standing upright position. Rather she curled into a ball, wishing she could disappear. Tears crept down her face in trickles. Her body began to wreck with sobs, her breath heaving with the straining effort to be silent. Her efforts however were in vain. As a technique of self-comfort, she cried furiously and rocked herself back and forth. Her ribs ached but she no longer felt the sting on her face.

She cried. She cried for what she and Baron once had. The conversations, the comfort, the love between them before the alcohol took her place. She cried for the beatings she received for upsetting her husband even though she never knew what she did wrong. She cried for the baby she lost and how Baron blamed her.

After her wallow in sorrow, she grudgingly removed herself from the cold hard ground. Taking note of her rib, she trudged to their shared room even though she was the only one to occupy it most of the time. Not bothering to change to her dressing gown, she laid on her opposite side, and fell into an uneasy fitful sleep.

When she awaken, her groggy eyes rested upon the horrendous sight of her madly drunken husband. His breathing was labored and another bottle was resting in his hand, squeezed almost to the breaking point. His eyes were red and puffy, showing just about how much alcohol that he had consumed.

“Where is my breakfast,” he shouted throwing multiple punches. Without thinking of the consequences, she threw up her hands in means of protecting herself. This only angered her other half and he began to hit harder. She begged for mercy, to be spared of his torture. In a rebuttal, he grabbed a handful of her long auburn hair and chunked her against the opposite wall. She crumpled to the ground like a pile of laundry. She managed to rearrange herself in an upright sitting position. A feeble yelp escaped her clench lips as he smashed the bottle next to her head, a spray of clear glass shattering over her. With his mighty strength, Baron flung her almost weightless figure out of the door and into the little room that served as a kitchen. With much practice, her nimble hands grasped the ingredients that would sever as Baron’s make do breakfast. A simple egg and toast with a mighty helping of sausage. She faded into the bland wall while Baron took a seat, devouring the make shift morning meal. She cringed at the sound of his scarfing and he reached for another bottle that was already in place on the table. With a monstrous belch, he heaved himself from the dinning chair and stalked out of the cottage once more. With the weight of boulder in her heart, she collected the dishes and prepared for her daily duties as an average housewife.

It was about midday, the summer sun was beating down on her merciless. Her hands were crusted with dried dirt from the hours of tending the garden. Wiping her sweating brow she relaxed on her heels, sighing. Baron would be here soon. She billowed into the kitchen, washing her hands slowly, as in a trance, in the lukewarm water. Sighing, she prepares the luncheon. Taking her place within the comfort of the white-washed wall, she stood motionless. A resounding thud, the intimidating oak door slammed shut. She jumped at the surprising sound, she hadn’t heard him come in. The large soles of his booted feet drew closer to the tiny room, in search for the food. Again he sat in his table space, placing a bottle of the inebriating liquid beside him in easy reach. She shuddered at the sight of the amber colored fluid. It had caused so many troubles between the once happy couple.
Once again, he said nothing to her as he finished his meal, only stalked out the door to return later. She collected the used china as always, and afterwards continued with her duties.

It was late and her husband had still not returned. Usually he was lounging in his chair, flinging insults towards her. While the change from the violent atmosphere was comforting, it bothered Emily a bit. Regardless of the situation, he was still her husband after all. Thinking that maybe he was stumbling his way home in a drunken haze, she persistently chopped the vegetables that would be making an appearance in tonight’s stew. Her ribs ached dully from this morning’s activities, throbbing occasionally announcing their presence. A large hand suddenly gripped her shoulder and swung her around. Not thinking, Emily and turned with the knife in her hand.

“What do you,” Baron grumbled but was cut off as the knife sliced his hallow red cheeks. Only milliseconds later did a small stream of blood flow down his face. With a shaking hand, he reached up to feel this new sensation on his cheek. In turn, Emily cupped her hand over her mouth, eyes large with shock. Silence between the both of them. Nobody moved, nobody spoke, and Emily did not breathe for her life. Her eyes were fixated on his and she watched them slowly transform from shock to utter rage. His eyebrows furrowed together, teeth clenched so hard that his upper lip began to twitch with the effort. With a mighty roar, that a lion would have been proud of, he lunged at her, going in for the kill. Emily screamed, closing her eyes tightly and held the knife awkwardly in front of her, hoping that it would somehow provide the means of self-defense. Nothing happened. A small force had shoved her back, but nothing happened. A gurgle, like someone rinsing their mouth echoed in her ears. Finally, she opened an eye only slightly, but the other joined widely. Baron sat perched on the knife in the same position as a taxidermy bear, his eyes open. She stared transfixed at the sight. The knife had gone right through his heart, and with the effort he used to attack her, she brought the knife through him. It was the epitome of his demise. Not knowing exactly what to do, Emily gave the knife a small push, sending the body crashing down backwards to the floor. Only then did she register the sickening amount of blood that escaped from him. Bathed in blood, Emily resembled Lizzy Bordon.

Leaving her husband to his bleeding demise, she scrubbed fiercely at herself, ridding herself the red madness. Her skin was raw with the efforts but clean. Curling herself in the fetal position, she contemplated on what she had just done.

“Killed him,” her voice hoarse with lack of use. She swallowed the forming lump in her throat. Hyperventilation sat in, her chest rising and falling rapidly. No tears had been shed, but with an agonizing scream of horror, she collapsed and fell to oblivion.

Bright sunlight warmed her face, forcing her to wake. She groggily rubbed the sleep from her eyes. With a sharp intake of breath, she rushed out of the room to cook for her husband before he repeated yesterday’s morning’s activity. Before she made it to the kitchen however, she slipped and fell screaming. Baron remained in a pool of blood, untouched. She felt herself begin to hyperventilate again but forced it away. She stood to inspect him. He was about as dead as dead could get. Realization hit her like a carriage.

“What am I going to do with the body,” she spoke wringing her hands. Her eyes shifted to the lake that sat motionless behind their quiet little hovel. Pools of ocean blue shifted to an old forgotten tire swing that had remained through many seasons. A plan began to formulate within the depths of her mind. What to do with the hefty quantities of blood?

Emily never thought that Baron was this heavy. She heaved with the effort to put his decaying body into the wheelbarrow. One...two...three... Heave! She mentally instructed herself. Finally, his body sat in a slumped position like the many times he slipped into a drunken state of unconsciousness. She wiped her brow with a smile, proud of the accomplishment. Wheeling him outside to the long forgotten tire swing, she collected large rocks to hold his body at the bottom. She could not have pedestrians strolling along coming upon a floating body now could she? Placing the body into the tire swing upon his belly, she slipped the rocks in various parts all over him. Trouser pockets, jacket pockets, and a bag full of them tied to his bloody chest. The tree groaned in protest at the intrusion of extra weight. She prayed that it would only hold until it hovered over the deep part of the lake. Her tiny hands grasped the rotting tire and pushed forward and back, forward and back, like a mantra. Soon it got to the point where she only had to stand far back and push when it got farther and higher. The rope showed no signs of breaking anytime soon, but still the tree groaned with the promise that it would break a limb. Sadly, nothing happened for the longest time. Growling in frustration, Emily stormed to the shed looking for something that maybe she could toss to cut the rope. Her eyes scanned over the meager amount of tools they, she possessed. Deciding on an old small scythe that easily fit in her hand she marched back determined that this was going to work.

The tire had begun to slow so she rushed to return it to its flying glory. After doing so, she waited to see if perhaps now that the rope would snap. Nothing. With a shrug, she pulled her right arm back waiting for the tire to swing once again over the lake. In the meantime, she prayed to whoever was listening to give her strength to make this work. As the tire swung back over the deep part, she swung her own arm forward with a mighty force letting the scythe slip from her grasp watching it spin to the desired object. Some deity took pity on her and she watched the rope snap, the body plummeting into the murky depths. With a satisfied smile, she glided back to the house with the weight of the world off her diminutive shoulders. However, she was faced with the problem of the blood that pooled in the middle of her kitchen and more. Grabbing a bucket of warm water and broom, she released the water over the still sticky stuff and used the broom to push out what she could. She was thankful that it was close to the rear exit. With the easy stuff out of the way, she grabbed the best cleaning supply that was in her possession and sat to work on the stained floor.

The sun had begun to set when Emily placed her hands on her waist, inspecting her work, neat and tidy, like nothing had happened. She fixed her a small dinner, savoring each flavor as if it were her last. She felt like a new woman, this was just a fresh start for her that was well overdue. Afterwards, she went throughout the house disposing of all the abhorring elixir that her husband had oh so conveniently kept around the house. She threw the multicolored bottles away relishing in their breaking. With a smile that had never reared its head in two years, she prepared for bed, knowing that no more harm could come to her. No more life threatening situations or beatings, no more inequality, life was good.

The warm water felt lovely on her face as she did a final scrub before her meeting with Mr. Sandman. Keeping her head bent downward, she reached for the green rag that sat on its own little hook by the sink, patting her face dry then lifting it up. A scream of unadulterated horror ripped her through her like a chainsaw. Baron stood behind her grinning sadistically. His eyes were narrowed, hatred filling them, teeth clenched in a sick demented smile that would surely put the devil himself to shame. She spun around armed with an old straight razor. Nothing. She felt the air in front of her with a shaking hand. Nothing. She slid down the wall, hugging her knees to her chest, sobbing. His deep laugh echoed in the house. The once deep baritone that would comfort her, insult her now expressed pure sardonicism. Sobs painfully racked her body as she rocked back and forth in place, hands covering her ears so they could not hear the mocking any longer.

She did not know how long she sat there. Climbing up on stiff legs, using the wall for support, she slowly stumbled out of the small bathroom. The intensity of the sunlight blinded her shortly. Collecting her wits, she closed the curtains, submerging herself in darkness. She sat on the edge of the bed cradling her head in her hands.

“Emily,” a harsh whisper breathed into her ear. Gasping, her head shot up and took in her surrounds. Nothing again. There was always nothing there. She stood cautiously giving the room another glace over while slowly making her way to the door. So far so good. An invisible force forced her into the wall on the opposite side. She yelped when her back made contact. Choking, she felt like she was choking. Something was trying to force its way down her throat. Her hands flew up to her neck in an automatic reaction when Baron used to do the same. Her hands rested on nothing but something was slowly killing her. It stopped, as if nothing had happened. The lump or whatever it may have been disappeared opening her wind tunnel once more. Not one to stick around for things to get worse, she scurried out of the room and into the kitchen. Surveying her surrounds like helpless prey, her back was pressed to the counter again. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Pushing the hair from her face, she made some tea that would relax her. Sipping it contently, she sat on an old stump staring towards the lake. The sun shimmered over the water like a diamond mine. Emily smiled at the simple beauty that nature offered. Her eyes fixated on the lake. It was smooth as glass, not a ripple disturbed the surface. , her eyes remained transfixed on its surface. What done couldn’t be undone. What is dead is dead. Then what was going on?

A rotting milky white hand shot up through the surface of the lake. Dropping her cup in fright, she raced back to the house, locking it. When she faced the window, the hand was gone. The lake was still in its glossy glory, untouched. She pounded on the wall in frustration.

“I know I saw something. I am not crazy. I’m not crazy,” Emily, repeated pounding her head on the wall. After her short self-mutilation episode, Emily sulked into the living room and curled up on the couch. Neither the bedroom nor the outside were safe. Not knowing what to do, Emily just sat there. If you were not safe in your own home, where would you be safe? The nearest church was two days away. Emily slumped in her chair watching the fire. The ember flames danced with the grace of ballerinas that could transfix anyone’s attention. She watched, thinking. The flames died down as the day passed on and by nightfall, they were maybe an inch tall, occasionally flickering larger.

They rose, almost licking her face. She felt the intense heat on her cheeks. With a scream, she toppled back over the chair. Her head thumped on the hard wood floor. Sitting up, it looked as if nothing had happened. However, her cheeks were warm when she pressed a cool hand to them. With the instinct of a small child, she ran into her room and crawled under the covers.

“Emily my sweet,” the voice spoke again.

“Go away!”
The voice laughed, the sound thundered in her ears to the point of hurting. Covers were thrown from her. Her hands unwillingly flew to her throat, choking herself. Emily struggled. It was as if her hands were under the command of someone else. Her head bounced on the mattress. Then with the speed of someone snapping his or her fingers, it stopped. Emily threw her hands away from her, down by her sides while she caught her breathe, tears snaking down her cheeks. Tenderly, she pressed a finger to her neck massaging it and adding more fingers until it form a hand. Her head was forced to the side by a great slap that seemed too originated from thin air. An invisible force smashed her against the wall. She descended with an agonizing cry. Then again, she sailed into another wall.
She sat there for minuets, but what was actually hours. Nothing more happened. Her eyes trailed to the stream of light emitting from the crack in the pulled curtains. She scuttled to it, ripping the fabric away. The room illuminated with the golden glow. Emily was never so thankful for the light than she was now. She sat basking in its warm and comforting glow. It felt good on her cold pale skin. Epiphany struck her like a slap in the face. Daylight seemed like the only thing that kept her safe from serious self-mutilation, not the hallucinations and from being…possessed! The mere thought of the idea sent her into a fit of panic. Then, what if it was true? Then that means…
A gut wrenching cry reverberated through all the room. Once again, Emily curled into a ball, unsure of what exactly to do. So little options came to mind, none of them pleasant in anyway what so ever.

Regarding her only option, with determination in her eyes, she stood with a purpose and walked again to the shed. Relieved flooded her insides as a large, thick, heavy rope hung on a nail. Collecting that and a chair from the dining room, she drugged the desired items to the old tree. The wind swayed the branches creating an air of peace. This only depressed Emily further. She never really had the chance to experience nature and all its glory, and now it was going to be taken from her again. With a heavy heart, Emily positioned the chair just about under the said branch and tossed one end of the rope over a large branch, opposite to the one that held the tire only some twenty-four hours ago. Three tries later, Emily succeeded in actually make the rope over the branch. She made a knot securing it then created a noose, from the large amounts of practice, in the other end. She watched it sway with the breeze. It almost looked innocent, harmless. Emily glanced at the lake seeing the pale, prune face of her late husband. She blinked and shuddered, looking back. Nothing was protruding from the surface. She looked back and the dangling rope and reluctantly slipped it over her head, moving her hair out of the way. She swung back and forth on the balls of her feet, really contemplating about this.

“Don’t you dare,” the voice growled.
This only fueled her desire in her decision even more. She jumped, at the same time, kicked the chair away. Her body convulsed, her hands flying to free herself from the coarse binds. She coughed violently, red and black spots danced freely in her vision. Suddenly, there was nothing.





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This article has 2 comments. Post your own now!

madm0e said...
Apr. 11, 2011 at 10:31 pm
Deffinitley worth the read.
 
IntrepidRose This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Apr. 6, 2011 at 8:07 am
I love when, every once in a while, I find a story on this site that is vivid, that I can see and imagine all the way through.
 
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