Dreams & Schemes: “Like Red on a Rose” Chapter Two, Part III
Rudella and Talullah chatted routinely on the phone after the party, about everything and nothing. Then a crush turned into a like. Rudella thought of asking her out, but that was quite the commitment. Along with the typical threat of a wounded heart, Talullah lived in Rockford. A two-hour drive northwest, on a good day, from Indiana’s border to Wisconsin’s. Rudella loved fantasy and those Fast and Furious flicks, so she didn’t mind the idea of long journeys and cars. But that’d be a drive through Chicago. More importantly, Chicago traffic, which only had worse days and shit days. The joy of ending her vehicular suffering in Talullah’s arms was worth it, so Rudella asked her out. They would date the following Saturday afternoon.
Loaded up on Dream Theater albums, Rudella made the bumper-to-bumper journey in her Civic and best fishnets. She picked the Progressive Metal band since they kept her focused and mellow, a great combo on this worse day. When she finally arrived at the park Talullah told her to, she almost proved herself wrong. They wandered and talked and swooned, and Talullah suggested they go back to her house. In her living room, with desire between them, she made another suggestion. Rudella took a knife, and hacked at her left foot until it was a mess of blood and dedication. The more you suffer, the more it shows you really care. Right?
Days passed, and Rudella mutilated and humiliated herself through them for Talullah. One night, Talullah cradled what was left of Rudella, head and arm and torso, while they waited on her porch. Her remains were hung from the awning like lanterns of mangled flesh. Rudella asked if she could finally have a kiss. Talullah stares at her. Rudella, crying, asked again. Talullah remained still. Rudella, angry, asked again. Stone. Rudella plunged her only hand into her own chest, her ribs breaking with each enraged, hopeful tug until she ripped out her beating, artery-tethered heart.
“IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT?!”
Talullah’s attention drifted to the street with a warm smile. Rudella’s Friend had taken the bait. Talullah excitedly ran to them, the two kissing passionately under the streetlight. Rudella’s Friend thanked Rudella for getting them together before disappearing into the night with a new paramour.
Rudella could only fade away.
With My Skin Define
The first thing Rudella noticed was that she wasn’t cold anymore.
What was left of her. Next was the flora bound to the grave. Wilted. Feeble. Desolate. Save for a final bloom. She thought of whispers regarding Talullah and her Friend she was too self-loathing to acknowledge. Talullah left Rudella with much anguish, but she was at least spared the shame of having a clown college drop-out’s fingers inside her. The chuckle that escaped her choked the rose; its dry petals tickled her face as a fond farewell.
Rudella felt there was another grievance to vanquish, so she couldn’t bathe in her schadenfreude for long. There was the dilemma of her severed limbs, and her heart in the palm of her hand. Careful as she was, she couldn’t avoid cutting herself on shards of broken bone as she put her organ right where it belongs. How would she seal the wound, though? Fumiko Hayashi said that she loved the pathetic tenacity of human beings who carried on living in the infinite vastness of the universe. She would have an affection for Rudella as she reached for ivy, though Rudella wouldn’t consider herself pathetic. Not with what she was psyching herself up to do.
Her maimed ends screamed almost as loud as she did with each desperate, fruitless grasp at ivy. She sometimes took breaks to cry, partially burying her face in snow. From pain, from frustration. When she finally grabbed her prize, it was almost by accident. So much so that she almost let go. She didn’t have enough strength to pull, so she rolled away, letting gravity do most of the work and hoping she didn’t lose her heart in the process. The ivy gave, then snapped. She chewed off a stretch around a foot long, then chewed either end to as fine a point as she could muster. By then, she screamed herself hoarse, so the sounds she made as she onehandedly pierced and bound her flesh shut were cracking gales through broken windows. Her scattered limbs anxiously waited for their turn.
Her sinewed deed done, Rudella encouraged her arms and legs to do what they’re meant to, finding ambition in thoughts of Piri. It was when she noticed how stained the snow was with her blood that she heard something in the air. A voice and melody that she couldn’t place, yet their intentions were clear. To lure. To shame. Lure, so she could find her next gravestone. Shame, since she knew who waited for her. It was a syren’s song, and this song’s for suffering.
Rudella used the memorial of Talullah for support. Standing on freshly-stitched legs was a chore. Walking on them more so, her limbs slid at their wounds, but she had to learn quickly. The song made intrusive demands. It also brought up thoughts of Brigitte. Rudella did with her something she thought she never had in herself: she stole her from a friend. The still-there shame flowed from the song, through her body, and she could move with ease. Move she did, with ivy stretching and the wet clapping of her wounds, while blood from where she lain spread outward to snow below and above.
Shame gave way to hatred, and Rudella’s wounds sealed completely to make her a fully-formed, patchwork woman. Her hatred was aimed at herself because, after she and Brigitte were over, she finally realized the terrible thing she did. Not over the act itself, but because she didn’t care that she hurt people. Hatred opened its doors to acceptance and her rationalization that her infliction was no different than what she received, and her act was simply a symptom of the universe. Then she hummed along with the song.
Crimson smothered all traces of white from the dreamscape, and Rudella wrapped herself in a blanket of cruelty as she thought about why she broke up with Brigitte. They were together for a few months, already traded I-love-yous. Happy, a life of wonder ahead of them. One day, Brigitte was about to take a shower and called Rudella in the bathroom. She couldn’t remember what the conversation was about, but her following thought was clear, years later. As Brigitte readied the water, Rudella looked at her and knew she could do better. The fallout was quick as a shutting door, messy like mascara-stained tears, and over like a blocked number.
From Brigitte’s ruin to the ruin of herself. The syren was a red-crowned statue of Rudella, it’s song from a dilapidated speaker at its feet. The statue, posed as not to tell if it’s hiding or waiting, was marble and onyx. The minerals steadily pushed for majority; you may have made her mistake by assuming their conflict involved morality.
The blanket of cruelty became a new skin for Rudella. It protected her from and caused her pain, and would make Joel-Peter Witkin salivate. She didn’t feel cold… or anything. Not even that her name was hers.
She chose to be “Disease”, then went into herself.
Available in paperback and ebook September 3rd, wherever books are sold.
