A little help from Maria Germaine

My back aches - my wings are gone and I can feel my flesh through my pajamas.  The shadow's up near the ceiling, holding my wings in whatever shadows use for hands.  They're dripping blood at their tips where they were once a piece of me.  I wish it had eyes or an expression, so I could know what it was thinking.

There's a reality show on my television - something meaningless and stupid that makes me happy.  Sometimes, I feel sort of like a moron because I like reality television.  The contestants all look more attractive than me, with bigger biceps and hair that's all still in place.  The woman look well constructed, but they're not really my type.  Ever since I can remember, I've only been drawn to the girls whose smiles looked a little broken or who tried much too hard to pretend like everything was okay.  Bombshells and beauty pageant girls don't do it for me at all.

I didn't really know where I am going with this.  The shadow was always there, always stronger than me.  Year after year, he'd ripped one feather off after another, leaving me oozing blood and pus and slowly fading in my own eyes.  Was I really going to try to stop it?

Forty-five years old and I might as well have been worthless.  I tried to be a lawyer, but dropped out of law school in my second semester.  Rip!  I tried to be a good man but did something so wrong that my fiancé left me for somebody else.  Rip!  Rip! Rip!! 

I close my eyes and I try to look down into my deepest thoughts, like a well.  I strain really hard and try to grasp the truth of who I am.  The realization makes me feel tired, like velvet has spread out from the couch, wrapping me inside a soft and comfortable casket.

Here it is.  I am empty.  Down into the hollows, the nooks and crannies of where my soul rests hidden, I am a vapid creature without any song or any hope. 

The shadow animal stirs, shimmering or blinking, the feathers shaking as my furniture is sprayed with my own ancient, congealed blood. 

It must be laughing.  I can't imagine that it would be crying. 

In that moment, I remember something. 

When I was a little boy, I used to spend a lot of time traveling between babysitters.  My parents were never happy for very long with any of the people who watched out for me.  But, there was one that we all liked – Maria Germaine.

I picked up the remote and turned off the television.  For a second, it seemed possible for me to rise up from my soft tomb and I managed to sit up.

Maria Germaine.  How did she get into my thoughts after so many years?  I think I fell in love with her right from the first time she sat me on her lap and told me a story.   

I closed my eyes hard and tried to remember.  Maria was always brave, always comforting.

“Maria,” I whispered, gritting my teeth.  For a second, I got dizzy and had to sit down.  I was surrounded by a strong smell, like grass after it rains or jasmine tea still steaming in a cup.

“Hello, Peter.”

There she was, sitting on the far end of the couch, holding a cup in her hand, smoke rising up from it like a fleeting white cloud.

“Maria?”

She smiled and then I remembered. - haunting blue eyes, so lonely but so loving.  She never looked quite happy or sad.  She was just Maria.  Her soft brown hair was on her bare shoulders.  Her white dress had a pattern of lacy circles, with a thick black bow around her waist.  Four or five strings of pearls, each a different length, encircled her neck.

“Are you going to the prom, Maria?

Her small lips pursed, forming an almost perfect circle.  It was a look of retribution, softly handed out.

“I know you used to pretend we’d go to the prom together.

She remembered, but, I remembered something.

“I never mentioned that to you.”

Her cheeks flushed and she looked trapped inside of a realization.  Or, was it me who suddenly realized?

“You’re not real,” I said, sighing and sinking back into my tomb of worn brown fabric.

“No, I’m not, but I can still help you.”

Maria of my mind stood up and carefully set her cup down on the table.  She walked  over to me and lay a hand softly on my cheek.  As she did, the shadow faltered, blinking in and out and losing its density.  For a moment, I could see the corner of the ceiling that it had been obscuring.

Maria’s cheek bones were softly contoured, not quite prominent.  She picked up my hand, laying my palm on her face.  Her eyes closed and she looked up, moving her head as if hearing a soft and familiar melody, once loved and nearly forgotten.

“But, you’re not a real person,” I whispered, feeling a relentless pounding erupting from the inside of my chest.

“Close your eyes, Peter.”

“Okay.”

She was silent for a moment and I could feel her warm breath.  Then, while I waited, she quickly reached around, pressing against me as she gently brushed her fingers up and down across my sores.
“Don’t do that,” I said.  She ignored me and started to press harder against the raw and blistered skin.  As she did, images began flashing through my thoughts, quick and short, each bearing little detail but a heavy weight of emotion.  Each time she touched a sore, I wanted to scream from the searing pain.

Image after image.  My ex, Paulette, her eyes black, laughing with her lover, my younger self shrunken and frail in a blurry classroom, my corpse, dry and brittle, pressed against an enormous white wall that curved off and away into infinity.

“Open your eyes.”

My living room was gone, replaced by large familiar looking room, filled with bright light that flowed in from large windows on three sides.  A boy, with curly hair and a full set of feathers sat on the carpeted floor, smiling up at a woman I knew to be Maria. 

“I didn’t see myself with the feathers then.”

Wasn’t it later that I began to think of myself as a dove, imagining my feathers being torn off by circumstance and time?

“Don’t irritate me, Peter.  Just listen.”

“Okay, okay,” I mumbled.

Though we observed the scene from a distance, I could hear every word.

The boy me climbed onto Maria’s lap, laying his head on her shoulder.

“Tell me the story of the boy who fell into the well.”

That had a familiar ring to it, I thought to myself.

Maria twirled a finger through my curls, smiling brightly.

“But, you’ve heard it so many times,” she protested.

“Again,” he insisted.

“Alright then,” she replied, hugging him tightly.  “There was a little boy who lived in a very large house with his parents.  His parents were the most important people in the whole village and well loved by all.  The boy himself was as happy as any child could be.  He had every toy that any child might want and servants so he didn’t have to do any chores.”

“Do you remember this story, Peter?”

“Mostly.  Wasn’t it about the boy who fell in the well and almost forgot who he was?”

“Yes.  Listen again.”

The Maria holding the younger me had just gotten to the best part of the story.

“After he fell into the well, he thought so much about his parents and his house and his life.  He realized how much he had lost and regretted that he’d never understood its beauty.  He had become obsessed with exploring the well in his backyard, even though everyone had warned him of the dangers.”

“Was he a bad boy?”

“No.  The truth is that almost any boy would have done the same thing.”

“Tell me how he escaped again, please.”

“Well, as time went by, he slowly began to forget things.  First, he forgot small things, like the name of his favorite pony and which toys he liked the most.  But, then he began to forget more important things, like the names of his friends, the servants in his house and, finally, the faces of his parents.”

“Can that really happen?”

She nodded.  “Not only did he forget all those wonderful things, but, something even worse happened.  One day, he woke up and was surprised to find that he had couldn’t  remember his own name.  At first, he cried, but then he started screaming, looking up at the sky and praying for his memory to return.  Just then, as if his words were heard, a large white dove circled above the well, finally landing on its edge.”

“Sir dove, the little boy shouted, could you please come down here and save me from this lonely well?  I have been down here so long that I have finally even forgotten my own name.”

“The dove said nothing at first, preening its feathers with its beak.  But, after a few moments, it looked down into the well, seeming to study the boy.

“Little boy, it finally said, speaking with a gently tone, I do not have the strength to lift you from the well.  But, if you want to escape before it is too late, there is something that I can do for you?”

“Anything, sir dove, the boy exclaimed.”

“I can share my essence with you and you will become like me.  You will be like a dove with feathers and wings and the ability to fly.  But, to offer you such a precious gift, you must agree to something.”

“Anything!”

“You must agree to guard your new feathers, to protect them from the mutilators and the vile of this world.  If you don’t, then you will slowly begin forgetting who you are again and return back to this dark well.”

Before the scene could unfold any longer, Maria tapped me on the shoulder.

“Close your eyes.”

Though I wanted to hear the end of the story, I decided to do what she asked.
When I opened them a few moments later, we were back in my apartment, both sitting on the sofa.

“So that’s why I’ve thought of myself as a dove all these years.  I’d forgotten.”

Maria looked up towards the ceiling where the shadow had made a return.  Her eyes narrowed and she clenched her jaws.  She raised her arm and motioned to the slithering darkness with her hand. 

“Don’t!”

But, Maria ignored me, continuing to focus her attention on the formless cloud hovering above us with blood feathers in its hold.

Nothing happened for a few seconds and then something seemed to change.  The creature gradually began to drift towards us, across the room, coming to rest on the floor at our feet.  The feathers fell to the carpet, their barbs crooked and matted, glued together by clotted blood. 

Maria quickly spun around, grabbing my collar as she raised her arm and delivered a violent slap across my cheek.  My entire head seemed to burst as I fell to the floor, my face just inches from the tip of a feather.

As I dragged myself to my feet, I saw a swift motion from the corner of my eye and felt another explosion of pain as Maria struck me again.    Before I could understand what was happening, she’d grabbed me under my arms and pulled me to my feet.

“Look in your hand,” she ordered.

“What?”

“Look!”

I looked down, seeing a metallic glint in my palm.  Before I could react, Maria grabbed my hand and raised it to my face.  Through a dizzy fog, I made out my fingers wrapped around the handle of a long black blade, with a striking silver tree etches along its edge.

“Kill it, Peter.”

“What?”

She moved to my side, leaving me to face the shadow that had become immobilized in place, within easy reach of my arm.  From this close, I could see specks and vague movement within the dark mass.  Familiar moans and whispers, echoes of my own long lost sighs and grief, emanated from the softly churning vapor. 

“It’s me.”

Maria raised her arm again and dropped it when I flinched.  Her eyes softened and she hugged me again.

“Just kill it,” she said, whispering into my ear.

Of course, the symbolism wasn’t lost on me.  I knew that I’d created this animal and that it somehow represented everything that kept me from success and happiness.  It hated me because I hated myself.  It was strong because my impulse to collapse was strong.    But, how could such a thing be murdered?  The concept was ridiculous. 

“Kill it.”

“No.”

Maria seized the knife from my fingers.  Without flinching, she thrust the blade deep into the cloud.  As she twisted the blade, I fell back to the couch, invaded by a torrent of thoughts and emotions. 

From a distance, I could see myself standing on a hillock, overlooking a placid and shiny lake.  Next to me stood the silver tree from the blade, its thick, gnarled branches outspread, like a faithful friend standing by my side.  In that moment, I met the eyes of my other self and I shuddered.  This was not the lifeless, dead creature that stared back at me every morning in my bathroom mirror.  No.  This man was a warrior, not cocky, not angry, but simply ready.

From the mist, I felt my hand fill with a cold, hardness and I instinctively thrust forward, striking again and again.  I didn’t think at all, repressing any second-guessing and doubt.  As I continued, the vision of myself on the hill faded away and I stood alone again in my living room, the television still tuned to my favorite reality show. 

I raised my hands, turning them around, looking for blood or the imprint of a blade in my palm.  But, they were empty.    When I looked up towards the corner where the shadow had once lived, I realized that the creature was gone.  Maria was also gone and when I touched my cheek, I didn’t feel the sting from her slap.

“I need to think,” I said, out loud, walking over to the kitchen and opening the refrigerator door.  There was a half a can of soda in the door with a piece of napkin stuck into the hole to stop it from getting flat.  I pulled out the napkin and drank what was left of the soda.

I didn’t want to believe any of it, but, I also didn’t want to admit that the pain in my back was gone.  I hated the idea of being free and of having to change anything, but there it was.  I walked back into the living room and dropped onto the sofa. 

As I picked up the remote control, I noticed a silver glint from the window.  When I walked over and moved the curtains, I saw that the light came from the large neon sign in the motel across the street.  I smiled, watching the front door of the small place, hoping that a few guests might arrive and talk loudly or look up towards my window. 

My bedroom door was open and I could see the time on the small clock on my nightstand.  I turned around and began walking towards the bedroom, knowing that it was bedtime.  To my own surprise, I grabbed my loafers from under the bed and quickly put them on. 

As I threw on a jacket, I smiled, thinking that my pajamas were just fine for a night where neon signs and dark streets seemed like an open invitation to a few moments long awaited.