Her body that day in crimson
And it was lost | A story
I was back in the chair. Sweat clung to my neck and soaked the pits of my arms and I realised that in the proximity of this man I had begun to acquire his same fetid stench. The retreat I had made from the door was missing from my mind, and though the reality that lay beyond its threshold tempted me back, still I remained, deep in the hovel of the old man’s shop. He sat opposite, hands resting on his lap, patient as a rock. It was several moments before he spoke, his mouth pulling into a crooked smile as he readied his words.
“Understand it seeks recognition for its actions,” he said. “It wants to be known for its journey.”
The hours of waiting and listening to this lunatic’s ravings had left me apathetic; I felt no closer to the truth beyond confusion and loss. I was frustrated, sighing as I said: “You talk in riddles, old man. What do you mean, its journey?”
He coughed his rancid cough, hacking up his lungs and wiping their foul contents on his stained robe. He took a sip of his tea—a tea that seemed endlessly refilled—before he continued.
“A man so fallen refuses all that has been set forth. Listen. Listen well. What is written here,” and at this he tapped the stack of books of whose contents he had spent so many hours sifting through, “what is suggested in all the accounts says it has journeyed far. Five faces, five places. It has lived and moved from world to world. Five in total. Precisely five. One world sought for each face. But the fifth…” the old man looked at me gravely, running his hand through the thicket of his beard. “The fifth world. That is Earth. That, friend, is here.” His tone dropped to a whisper and he hissed out the last: “And now it is lost. With no more faces!”
Though I listened and tried to parse his words, I did not understand. “You are telling me this stone has come from other worlds, other planets?” I spat the words in irritation and ridicule and lack of belief. “What are you really saying?”
“It has nowhere else it can go.” He paused, then broke into a maniacal cackle. He rocked and jittered his awful guffaw, expending all from his lungs until there was nothing more, at which point he inclined his head to stare down at the satchel by my feet. “Tell me,” he said without shifting his gaze. “Tell me how you found her.”
I swallowed. To say it aloud was to relive it. To relive a moment already relived a thousand times in the bleak corridors of nightmare. I shook my head, refusing.
“Tell it!” he shouted, slamming his hand down on the table. His cup, its white-brown enamel stained from years of use, jumped from its saucer and clinked as it fell back into place. “Say it,” he whispered. “Say it so I know it to be true.”
So I told him.
*
Mara was motionless in the water, the only movement the flicker of a candle that cast darting shadows across her lifeless figure. Her skin was a sallow white, the lifeblood that once coursed through her veins drained now into the water, creating a sea of deep crimson. On the floor a wineglass was shattered into pieces, the contents it had held now a dark puddle that spread to the far wall. I stood in the bathroom doorway, paralysed by what I saw. I couldn't move; I could neither enter nor leave, and as I remained in place I watched the faucet drip, two droplets sending out ripples to touch at her skin. The waves, miniature in their form, lapped at her body and sought out her arms to dissipate against the edge of the tub. It was almost serene, and though my mind knew what I saw, I did not want to believe. Some sick part of me continued to look on. It had been so many months since I had seen her naked that I felt like I was seeing her for the first time, looking at how she lay there so still in the bath, the way her knees rose like islands, her stomach a sweet ridge that crested the surface, and her breasts, her beautiful breasts cupped by water bloodied and dark where once they had been cupped lovingly by hands. But I couldn't look at her face, for looking might make it real, and the biggest part of me was not ready, could never be ready. This was the woman who had slipped from my grasp. This was my wife. What have you done? I said, the air so cool a faint mist left my mouth, the vapour like that of a departing soul.
I don't know how long I remained this way. It could have been minutes, hours, days. I was paralysed and numb, too shocked to register the passing of time. Eventually, at some distant point, I did move, and as I did I felt it, off to my side. It was there, letting out its slow and inexorable tug. I knew what I would see as I turned; I had, in truth, known as I walked into that awful scene forever seared onto the skin of my eyes. And sure as death, there it was, the geometric oddity positioned atop the sink like some obscure ornament set to pique the interest of guests making their business. I could feel it. I could feel its sadness, its pleading, its proclamation as nothing but a mere spectator of the dead in that frigid and haunted room. Oh but I knew. I knew what it had done, knew how the razor edge of that upper face had sliced through her wrists, two deep cuts through flesh, taking her forever away. Yet there was something else, something unsettling about the sight of that stone on the sink: it was utterly clean. It was unmarked and devoid of blood, perched on the sink as though freshly washed.
*
“She must have put it there,” I heard myself murmur, concluding what I had to tell.
“Did she?” he said, his voice cold. “Or did you?”
To be continued… (here)
Thank you for reading, wonderful dear reader. This is Part VI of And it was lost, a retelling of a story I tried to write some time ago. The tale is almost concluded. Just one more part to go. Unless, you know, I decide to write more than that. But no, I don’t think so. I feel there is just one more post to eke out what there is left to say.
There are a number of parts to this now, so perhaps it is best if I list them all, should you wish to venture back:
Wow. I'd love to find a more articulate way to express the punch of this chapter, but I can think of no more genuine response. Such a punch in the gut and so expertly done. Bravo, Nathan. It's such a magic trick you do with every one of your pieces. They stand alone and yet hold the greater arc of the story without touching directly what came before or after.
If I must choose one passage, this would be the one, the foreshadowing ;
“Tell it!” he shouted, slamming his hand down on the table. His cup, its white-brown enamel stained from years of use, jumped from its saucer and clinked as it fell back into place. “Say it,” he whispered. “Say it so I know it to be true.” “So I told him.”
This entire chapter is my personal favorite. Every nuance captured in word. I was reading as if it played out in front of me on the big screen. Like a scene from a movie that always stays with you.Especially the bathroom. Ten years, twenty, sometimes a lifetime. Such intensity. Seeps into my skin. No amount of scrubbing will remove it. (Jeez , I hope not). I’m going to remember your name. And how I used to read everything you wrote on some venue, (I won’t remember the name Substack).Back in the days before you became a well known author. I don’t often go to the theatre to watch Sci-fi, but I’m making an exception. Pass the popcorn🍿, I’m not leaving my seat.