Unearthed

The rich smell of damp earth woke me, and I opened my eyes to a velvet darkness so deep it pressed against my face. I tried to touch my cheek, but the back of my hand struck wood. Solid wood. I realized I was lying down, surrounded by a bare wooden box. I also realized I wasn’t breathing. I wasn’t breathing, and that didn’t bother me.

Muffled squawks and thuds sounded above me, and the measured words of a man I knew as my father. I tried to draw breath to cry out. " . . . "

Nothing. I slid my hands up to fist against my bosom, a breathless sob trapped inside my chest. Oh, God. My palms pressed against the wood, fingernails scratching without my command. I tried to stop, but discovered I needed to keep going. The harder I clawed the better I felt, the purer my desire, the deeper my calm. When I slowed, I felt panic settle into my bones, a swarm of angry bees buzzing and stinging the marrow, seeping into my blood until I imagined I would lose my mind if I continued to resist.

My clawing turned frantic, the scrabbling and splintering magnified in the close space and shards of wood filtered into my hair, my nose, my mouth. I felt tiny drifts gather in my eyes, but blinking seemed unnecessary. I worked my tongue around my mouth, a serpentine explorer, and sliced the tip open on one of my teeth. Fangs? Did I have fangs? I paused in my efforts to finger one of my front teeth. Sharp, pointed. Blood seeped out from the corner of my mouth, the sweet copper liquid my link to life. The scent drifted into my skull, and the memories washed over me in a tide of dread and pain, taking me back to the night before.

I laid injured, dying. Soft earth cradled me and firelight flicked shadows across my vision. My own screams ricocheted inside my head as the bocor sat on my chest, filing my teeth to points. His lips clamped together, he dripped sweat into my face as he worked, and I could not move. I could not bite, or turn my head, or express my anguish. I could not even look away. But I could feel everything. I could smell my own blood as it pooled under my head, flowing from shallow slices in my cheeks and forehead, evidence of dark ritual magic, the blood a conduit for the voodou priest’s power. The throbbing bone ache radiating from the torn stump on my hand echoed the steady work of the bocor. I smelled my own blood from deep inside my body, more black than red, birthed through profane violations upon the Virgin. My mind skittered away from those memories. Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes as I realized I wouldn’t see my thirteenth birthday. I tasted my own enamel as it flaked onto my tongue and down to rest against the back of my throat. My jaws were propped open with forked sticks carved and oiled for such a purpose. My gums underneath the edges were shredded, the roots of my molars exposed. Never have I endured such agony. My vision turned gray, and I faded after only a few moments.

I returned to myself in the box, shaken by renewed grief. My hands took up the directive once again, working to free me for my new purpose. I didn’t know what he wished of me, but that hardly mattered. I was his now, more than I ever had been in life.

My fingertips were bleeding, sliced and gouged, my tender flesh frayed. Several fingernails separated entirely and stuck in the slick wood, dropping to land amidst my clothes as I kept working. The pain meant nothing. I felt the sensation, but not the reflex to avoid it. My only emotion was annoyance at this confinement. I felt the moon's irresistible call.

After I’d exposed bone on three fingers, the wood gave way, and hundreds of pounds of pressure forced fresh earth inside the box. Every crevice filled with soft granules, the smell both comforting and terrifying. I couldn’t close my eyelids, as the soil had settled into my sockets and eased itself against my flesh. I was immobile and for a moment felt true peace, my humble remains returned to the earth. Then the urging returned, insistent, and I knew I must keep going. I forced my knees up, leveraging my heels against the back of the coffin, and shoved until one of my kneecaps cracked. Tendons stretched and split in a tortured chorus, and still I struggled.

I inched upward, face first, hands digging, scooping earth behind me as I squeezed toward the surface. I sensed the moon above me, and longed for the night breeze to lift my hair as it once had. So long ago, it seemed. As I straightened, standing on what remained of the coffin, surrounded by the soil and its tiny inhabitants, my fingers touched air. I knew not how, but I emerged, born again through earth’s womb and christened an Unholy wretch by my Master. A beetle hitched its way from my hair to the freshly turned earth of my grave.

I lay there, half unearthed, my funeral dress torn and sloughed off one shoulder. I needed no breath, but my lungs remembered the need to catch it, to feed on nutrients they no longer craved. I stared up at this man I’d known since my infancy, and could only wonder. Why has thou forsaken me, Father? I knew my face held no expression, my heart no true emotion but only the shadows and hints of what used to beat in my breast, but I retained the ability to seek answers. I also knew the futility of the search, and for what purpose I’d been summoned. He had been my father, but he was now much more than that.

He leaned against a neighboring gravestone, smoking a cigar. His eyes studied me, avoiding my gaze but taking the rest of me in as a rider measures his steed. Small white feathers wafted on the night breeze, settling in shallow pools of blood, nestling against the still bodies of sacrificial offering. The sharp tang of rum clung to the air.

“Rise, Simone. Rise and greet me.” He stood and stepped close, reached out his hand to take mine, which rose to meet his. “We have Ghede’s work to do, you and I.”

I pulled myself to my knees, and then to my feet, my movements measured. Obedience clamped onto my body, bands of iron about my limbs and mind. My thoughts settled, and I could focus only on one sound: my Master’s voice.

He circled me, and stopped to face me. He blew smoke in my eyes and smiled, his teeth white and strong, his skin blue-black in the full moon. The white of his eyes glistened in the light filtering down upon us. He pointed and my gaze followed his finger to alight upon a man. He was trembling, stripped bare and slumped on the hard ground, his back up against another gravestone. The stench of terror broke from him in waves, his hands and feet tied, his eyes closed. I watched his lips move as he steeped himself in rapid, sweaty prayer.

“You see that man, Simone?”

I nodded.

“He is a bad man, girl. The worst.” Master held up his open hand, and I saw a finger resting on his palm. My thumb drifted over to rub its ragged neighboring stump . He closed his fist tight, and shifted to point at the bound man on the ground. “Do this one task I ask of you, Simone. Take this righteous revenge,” he paused, gripping my severed finger so his hand trembled. “And visit it upon this devil man.”

My head swiveled to face the weeping prisoner, and I did see. I saw inside him, past his skin and flesh, into his black beating heart. I saw what he did to that schoolgirl, what she—I--suffered by his hand; my body battered and broken, the splash of my womb's blood onto cold virgin soil, his triumphant howl as he drove deep inside me first with his fists and then with his cock, the animal frenzy in his eyes. Yes, I knew I could deliver this punishment. At that moment, this man lifted his face and gazed upon me. His mouth opened so wide I expected his throat to crawl out onto his chest. I smiled, showing my teeth, and he screamed.