I wrote this one for a contest themed "The Kitchen". Some of this is based on actual events, unfortunately.
Deeply Wrinkled
The blade slices through the threads that hold the buttons onto Marian’s shirt, one by one, with agonizing slowness, until she is left exposed and breathless. As unwavering hands tear her blouse from her shoulders, she lets out a gasp. Norma tries to call out in her defense, to stop her mentally challenged son from whatever he is about to do. Instead, her voice comes out a low, inconsequential gurgle as she struggles against the restraints that bind her. The blade continues, now on Marian’s bare skin, winding up her side, circling around her breast, scraping against her ribs as they jut in and out with her ragged breath. When the knife reaches the hollow of her neck, she tries to scream, but the tip has plunged into her soft flesh far enough to render her mute.
Marian bolts upright in her bed, sweat pouring down her face. At once, she feels for her throat. Although there is a slight ridge of a scar from when she had her thyroid removed years ago, her neck is still whole. She sighs deeply, her relief tinged with an unyielding sadness.
“I can speak,” she says, just to be sure. She recites her morning prayers aloud more to hear her voice than anything. There is really nothing left to pray for.
It had only been a matter of minutes before Marian would have lost her voice completely at the hands of her neighbor’s insane son and his very sharp knife. It was a good thing the worker from the landscaping company was insistent on collecting for the week and called the police when he heard strange noises coming from within the house. It had been too late for poor Norma, but Marian had been saved. For reasons still she can’t figure almost a year later, her life had been spared. Only now she has the pleasure of reliving the horrible ordeal every night in her dreams.
Kicking off the stifling covers, Marian steps onto the cool tile floor, avoiding looking at the alarm clock entirely. She doesn’t remember the last time she’s gotten a decent night’s sleep, and it isn’t worth being shocked by the early hour anymore.
She heads to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. As she reaches for a towel, she notices the sheet that shrouds the mirror has partly fallen away. She tries to replace it without even a quick glance, but as she stretches to secure the corner, her reflection scowls back.
She quickly looks away, feeling shame for being unable to bear even a glimpse of her own face. The wrinkles that formed in the past several years are now enhanced by the scars Dooley carved with his knife. He’d said he wanted to cut the wrinkles off of her, to make her pretty again. He told her that she reminded him of Lydia Lydia
The surgeries have created smooth parts between the deepened wrinkles, which makes everything look even worse. Marian didn’t think that was possible, but the mixture of the two surfaces is shocking at best. The doctors insisted her appearance would improve after a few more procedures, but she has finally given up. It was senseless to continue with those painful laser sessions when she’d never recapture the beauty she once possessed. Dooley’s knife and her advancing age would prevent that no matter what steps the doctors took. Her husband was already gone and he was the only one she ever cared to impress with her appearance anyway. Besides, the scars within were much more damaging, and according to her therapist, they were the ones that needed her attention most.
Marian throws her towel onto the mirror. Much better, she decides. Her first inclination is to wallow in despair over what has happened to her. That’s how she usually copes with things.
“No!” she shouts to the taunting mirror. “I won’t do it!” Her therapist taught her to fight against those debilitating feelings with verbal refusals. Instead, she knows she must come up with a plan so that she doesn’t fall into the inescapable abyss of depression that tends to swallow her whole and spit her out completely shattered.
“Today I will do something different!” She feels foolish for talking to herself, but who is really around to know or care? “Today, I will take down every damn mirror in this whole house! I will put away all the clocks. And then, I will make some nice pasta and sauce and have a wonderful meal!”
Her orange tabby bounds in silently, rubbing against her leg, purring his approval. “That’s right, Whiskers, I will not be terrorized today! You have my word on that!”
Marian returns to her bedroom and quickly dresses. She grabs her recipe box from the kitchen on her way out. It has been awhile since she cooked anything, and she wants to make sure to get all the right ingredients. Maybe she’ll even make a second batch of sauce and freeze it for Saturday, when her son Jason and his family will be coming down for a visit to celebrate her seventieth birthday. They will surely enjoy gnocci or some meatballs. Yes, making her hearty sauce is indeed a good idea.
Marian steps out onto the porch, the frigid December air swirling around her ankles. She glances at the house across the street, a constant reminder of everything that happened. She looks away. There are so many things to avoid that she cannot safely look anywhere anymore. Maybe she should move after all. Although she doesn’t want to part with the home where she and Jack spent so many wonderful years, constantly facing Norma’s old house is still too painful. Jason and Pauline have repeatedly invited her to come live with them, but she has never agreed. She doesn’t want to become burdensome and relishes her independence. However, she could find a nice apartment near them. Her grandchildren have gotten used to her new appearance by now and have stopped asking her about it.
She is feeling particularly brave today, so she makes the decision that she will finally move forward. After she prepares her meal, she will call a realtor and put her house up for sale. The alternative is to remain a prisoner, shackled by the horrific memories. She might as well be dead.
***
The rhythm of cooking soothes Marian into a somewhat content state, almost causing her forget her nightmare. She chops and stirs, shakes and rolls, until the sauce is simmering and the pasta is ready to be boiled. She sets a large pot of water on the front burner and then busies herself cleaning up the mess she has created. She’s just about to carefully drop the pasta into the boiling water when the phone rings.
She hurries to the living room. Tripping over her own feet in her haste, she sprawls across the sofa as she grabs for the phone. “Hello?” she asks breathlessly, trying to upright herself.
A familiar voice is on the other end. “Mrs. Delancy? Are you alright?”
“Hello, Detective Archer. Yes, I’m fine. It’s so nice to hear from you.” Raymond Archer had been a savior, aggressively going after Dooley and making sure all the evidence was properly collected. He was very supportive throughout the grueling trial and called Marian regularly to check up on her even after Dooley was sentenced to life in prison without parole.
The detective’s voice is muffled by loud sounds. “I’m sorry for all the commotion. I’m still at work.”
“That’s alright. How’s everything with you and your family?”
“Marla and the girls are doing well.” He pauses as someone shouts something in the background. “I’m sorry I haven’t phoned in awhile. It’s just been so hectic lately.”
“No apology necessary, Detective. You’ve been so wonderful through this whole ordeal. I certainly don’t expect you to keep calling me. I know you have so many other things on your plate.”
“Think you can get rid of me that easily?”
Marian smiles as she usually does when talking with the detective. “Thank you, my dear. I’m dealing with things as best I can. Right now, I’m making some nice pasta and sauce. I’ll save some and send it over to the station for you tomorrow.”
“That sounds fantastic. Listen, I have something important to tell you.”
A loud hissing sound drowns out the detective’s voice. At first, Marian thinks something is happening on his end, but then she realizes the noises are coming from her kitchen. The pasta! She’d completely forgotten.
“Oh no! The water is boiling over! Detective, can you call me back? I have to go get the pasta into the water!”
Marian slams down the phone and runs into the kitchen. Foam is pouring from the sides of the pot. As she rushes forward, she doesn’t notice the puddle on the floor. She slips and falls onto the hard linoleum, at once hitting her head and feeling a sharp pain shoot down her leg. The scalding water continues seeping down the front of the stove, inching toward her, but for some reason, she cannot move away.
The judge is standing at his bench, banging his gavel, trying to restore order. The large audience is excitedly murmuring since the jury has returned.
“Order in the court!” he bellows again. Finally, the bailiffs head into the crowd to get everyone quiet.
The jury foreman stands and reads the verdict.
Dooley is found guilty on all charges. Pauline squeezes Marian’s hand while Jason folds her into a hug. However, Marian only feels sorrow for her friend Norma who had been terrorized by her schizophrenic son for years. She had told Norma it was a mistake to let Dooley live with her when he was released from the mental hospital, but Norma insisted he was on his meds and would be fine. Marian desperately wishes Norma hadn’t had so much faith in her son.
The bailiffs swarm around Dooley to take him back to his cell. Marian stands on shaky legs, trying to look anywhere but at him.
He breaks free, rushing at her, coming within a few feet before the bailiffs wrestle him to the ground. They roughly haul him to his feet.
“Don’t you close your eyes even for a second, Lydia
Dooley licks his lips suggestively and laughs loudly as the bailiffs drag him away.
Marian’s eyes spring open, and she stares at the mist that is rising toward the ceiling.
Where am I? she wonders. Pain swells in waves through her legs, over to her hip, and around to her back, but nothing compares to the throbbing at the back of her head.
She tries to move, but her body is uncooperative. She attempts to call out, but she hears nothing except the hissing of the pot of water on the stove above her. Recalling her nightly dream, she commands her hand to move. Slowly, it rises to her throat. She finds it unmarred and exhales slowly.
She fades in and out, and soon she finds herself on a bench in the park, eating a jelly sandwich, enjoying the fresh air for a change. She has no idea how she got there, but the sunshine feels nice on her skin. A little girl walks by and points. Her mother looks at Marian’s scarred face and quickly pulls her daughter away. Marian finishes the sandwich and picks up a newspaper someone left beside her.
The second she unfolds the paper, Dooley’s awful face stares back at her with his jeering grin. She’s tempted to throw the paper into a nearby trash bin, but the headlines jump out at her, forcing her to read.
PRISONER CAUSES RIOT AND ESCAPES!
The short article describes how Dooley organized a riot and broke out through a hole in the prison yard fence along with three accomplices. This happened two days ago, and the foursome are still at large.
Marian drops the paper, deciding she’s read enough. She isn’t sure if she should go home, since that’s the first place Dooley will come looking. She decides to call Detective Archer, but then she remembers he has just called her.
Marian’s eyes flutter open, and she sees steam wafting toward the ceiling. She hears a loud tapping at a window nearby. Her heart leaps out of her chest. Dooley is there, as he promised, ready to finish what he started. She struggles to move, but still, her limbs won’t listen. She remembers that she keeps some items in a low drawer on her right. A rolling pin and a meat mallet, she thinks. She reaches as far as she can, but she cannot quite grab the handle. Frantically searching around, the only thing she can find is a dish towel that has fallen to the floor. She flings it toward the drawer, but it is too limp to do any good.
As glass shatters in a nearby window, Marian stretches again toward the drawer. Somehow, her fingertips reach it, and she pulls it open. She grabs for anything hard. Her fingers find the meat mallet. She grasps it and turns back in the most defensive pose she can manage.
“Thank you,” Dooley says, leering as he stands over her. He wrestles the mallet from her clenched hand. “This will come in very handy for later.”
Dooley lifts her over his shoulder like a bag of feathers. Every muscle in her body screams. She feels the sickening sensation of something crunching in her leg. The fear paralyzes her mind, and all she can do is focus on the ground as it bends and changes from tile to concrete to upholstery. She lies face down in a truck, and as it revs to life and speeds away from her house, she decides she doesn’t care where they’re going. She has no fight left in her.
***
The cabin is crudely constructed of oddly-fitted lumber. The floor is bare save for a table, two chairs, and a mattress. Dooley pushes Marian toward a chair and she sits, wincing as pain shoots through her hip.
“You sure know how to play hard to get,” he says. “You flaunt it all over the place, but then nothing. Not a scrap. After all this time, Lydia
Marian remains silent. Nothing she can say will change her fate. She knows better than to try to reason with a crazy person.
“Why do you do that to me?” he screams.
She still says nothing. He slaps her across the face.
“Why?!” he cries, coming toward her and shaking her in her chair. She braces herself, clamping her eyes shut, hoping her demise will happen quickly. He continues shaking her, calling her name, shaking her until she can’t take it anymore.
Finally, she opens her eyes. Detective Archer is staring at her. “Marian! Wake up! Tell me you’re okay!”
He continues shaking her. She nods as tears fall down her face.
“I – I fell. Slipped on the water, I think.”
He examines her burned leg. “Can you move?” he asks. She shakes her head.
He whips out his phone and calls for an ambulance.
“I thought you were Dooley. That you took me to some cabin in the woods.”
The detective gently strokes the old woman’s scarred face. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
Marian takes his hand in hers. “I haven’t wanted you to know, but I’m not handling this as well as you think. I have nightmares every single night. I cannot even look in the mirror. He is with me all the time, no matter what I do.”
“Really, you don’t need to worry about him. Ever again, in fact. That’s what I was trying to tell you. But, you hung up before I could.”
Marian was still half in her dream. “Don’t let him get me! I can’t take it anymore. I’ve tried to be brave, but I guess I’m not.” She clings to his muscled arm, hoping he can protect her.
“He’s dead, Marian. I’ve been trying to tell you. They found him last night badly beaten and hanging in his cell.”
Marian blinks a few times, wondering if she’s losing consciousness again. “Did I hear you right? He’s really gone?”
The detective smiles. “Yes, you heard correctly. You’re safe. He will never hurt you again.”
***
Two days later, Marian awakes to beeping sounds. She looks around, unsure of where she is. Everything is white, and the beeping is starting to annoy her.
“Hey Mom,” a voice says. She looks over to find Jason beaming at her. “You’re finally awake! I’m so glad.”
“Unicorns!” Marian says.
Jason wrinkles his brow. “Huh?”
“Unicorns! Pink and white unicorns jumping over clouds.”
“Should I get the nurse?” Pauline asks.
Jason stares at his mother, trying to make sense of what she’s saying. “What are you talking about?”
Before she can explain, Detective Archer strolls into the room. He’s holding a bag, and he’s smiling until he sees Jason’s concerned expression.
“There were unicorns!” Marian says again, and the detective’s face mirrors her son’s as they stare at her in confusion.
“Don’t you see? I dreamt of fuzzy unicorns! For the first time, I didn’t dream of Dooley!”
“Oh, unicorns!” Jason and the detective say at the same time.
Marian looks to the detective. “That must mean he’s really gone?”
Detective Archer nods. “Would I lie to you?”
Marian smiles brightly. “You never have. So, what do you have there?”
“Well, my wife felt so bad when she found out what happened, she made enough pasta and sauce to last you a lifetime!”
Marian’s stomach groans. “That’s very nice of her.” She looks down and notices that her leg and arm are both in casts. “However, and please don’t take any offense, I don’t think I’ll be eating pasta again for quite awhile.”
The detective looks at the nearly broken women. “Well, I also know from your son that you love peanut butter cookies. Do you think you can manage a few of those?”
“Absolutely!” Marian says.
That night she dreams of making peanut butter cookies for her grandchildren while they ride unicorns over the rainbows in her yard.
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