In the Mouths of Insects

By Shelly Wass

SPRING 2005 EXCEPTIONAL SHORT STORY CONTEST WINNER - FIRST PLACE

So long, world.

I can see the sky from where I lie. The moss is making its lifelong and arduous climb up the trunks of the trees around me. I must be on my back. I can feel the earth moving under my right arm, stretched out at a right angle. My other arm is twisted under my head, cushioning. What are my legs doing? They, too, are out of shape. One bent with my foot almost touching my thigh. The other stretched straight, ankle wrong. I think it is broken. But I can't feel it. All I feel is the movement under my right arm. Must be the worms.

I fear the worms the most. They attack unmercifully. They will nibble and gnaw until I am no more. So long, world.

I remember the fall. Head over heals and arms circling like pinwheels as I somersaulted my way to this place. There was a gentle push and then this. But there was also laughter, sinister and final.

I remember other falls. Not me tumbling but the tumbling of leaves falling softly to come to rest on their own death bed. A bed of places like this, quiet, forgotten, alone. They are reborn through the process of decomposition and new forestry growth. I, too, will contribute to the growth of the trees that shelter me.

What beautiful trees. Everything is so green. There is a rectangular opening and then there is sky. Wisps of cloud float by. I don't think it will rain today. I don't try to move. When the sun is above me I don't think I will shade my eyes. I will remain, misshapen and bent until the worms come. I will go softly long before they come. So long.

My husband must be putting up the posters.

* * * *

"Don't call me so much, Mom. Every time the phone rings I think it's her." He sets the phone gently into its cradle. The way they fit together makes him think of the way he fit snug with his wife in bed.

"Ok. Thanks for coming. I sectioned off the map. Everyone pick a section and go in groups of, how many people are here? Three, groups of three." He hands the first of the posters to his brother. The picture is from their wedding day. She smiled broad in her clean white dress. It had been taken in three sizes. She looked like a model in a wedding magazine, helpless and small.

"Ready?" They file out the door. He doesn't think to lock it. He feels that he no longer has anything inside to protect.

* * * *

He always told me to lock the door. He always told me this area has the highest number of serial killers because it is so easy to hide a body in the overgrown forest.

* * * *

The train stretched the length of the curve around the hill. She rested her arm on the rail, her head on her arm. There was nothing but green and it was everywhere. The trees at the bottom of the hill fell all over each other and the bushes at the bottom reached toward the tops of the trees. The wind from the momentum of the train blew her hair off her forehead.

"This is where I'm going to dump your body when I kill you," he said.

"You couldn't pick a better place, really." She didn't lift her head, closed her eyes. She could feel the freedom of the growth of trees and sky. It closed on her like a fist, tightening and releasing.

* * * *

We joked about these things. We laughed because those things were so foreign. We laughed because we knew one day I would be here with the sky stretched before me, after a long, treacherous fall and that the worms were standing at attention, ready to feast. We joked. And then the next moment he would tell me,"I live my life trying everyday to do something special to remind you how much I love you. If I can continue to do this, we will always be happy. You will always feel loved."

My husband wouldn't let me take the dog out at night. He wouldn't let me carry the groceries up the stairs because my hands are fragile. He protected me from every conceivable incident of horror. He made me aware that without him I was vulnerable. Walking out to my car alone became dangerous. Walking to the mailbox alone was inviting tragedy. On this day, he was not there to protect and love me. He slept while I left for class. He slept as I approached my car. He left me vulnerable and alone and he left me to face my fate. He slept.

My keys, I think, are all that's left of me. They sat lonely on the ground next to the spot I was taken. I regret leaving my memory in such an object. I would rather there be nothing.

* * * *

He sits, resting his head and holding the keys. They are always either in his pocket or his hand. He hates jasmine tea and there is a cup of it on the arm of the couch, next to him. It smells like her. She loved jasmine.

"Do you need anything before I go?" his brother asks.

"I need a lot of things." He closes his eyes and he closes his fist on the keys. They dig in and leave impressions on his palm.

"Call me in the morning, we can put up more posters or do something mindless. Let's go to the zoo."

"Maybe we could go for a walk, or a drive. Let's go for a drive," he says without opening his eyes.

* * * *

I remember the sound of a car, the opening of the door, the shoving, me kicking and now this. I dropped my keys. Not on purpose, but from the shear force of the shove that landed me in the car that brought me to my resting place here in the woods.

That man was cruel. Cruel like a blizzard in March. Yes, cruel like unpredictable weather. There was something innately unnatural and callous. Like a storm he scooped me up, threw me around and pushed me over the edge when he was done with me.

"We were meant to be here together," he said. He stank of cigarettes and desperation.

We sat huddled in the back of his car, parked at the top of a lonely hill. I protected my body by holding my legs to my chest with my duct-taped hands. He stroked my arm and the hair rose in defiance. The tape on my mouth restricted the breath coming in through my nose. If I could speak I would tell him about my dog. My dog and my family. I have people who love me and will miss me. I know this is my final connection with any human being. I know this. But I would plead if I could.

"I've been watching you," he slobbered in my ear and he lifted my arms from around my legs. “I know what you like. You sit on your balcony and drink coffee. Do you remember the last time you did this? Do you know it was the last time you will do that?"

I sat, wide-eyed and silent. The only sound was the sound of my labored breath. If he had been watching me he would know I was loved. In my mind I thought of the scenes that unfolded in my home that anyone with a good eye and patience could witness. My windows were always open as though inviting people to observe my life from a distance. I thought of every move I made in my house. I thought of the times I had taken the dog for a walk at night. I thought of the little things. Making macaroni and cheese beside the kitchen window. I thought of my husband. We were not alone when he held me on the couch in front of the television. He walked by me as I sat, reading, on the bean bag chair. He would kiss me on the forehead as he walked by. Nothing we did was ours. Nothing we did was just for us. We were always watched, I thought.

* * * *

"What would you do if something happened to me," she asked over the counter separating the kitchen and living room. She was washing the dishes from dinner.

"I would probably marry my girlfriend," he said. She could just see his head, peaking over the counter.

"I'm serious. I think we should make a plan."

"You want to plan our deaths? It's not exactly like talking about retirement," he laughed in his throat. He knew she was serious. He didn't like to think about it. He had spent thirty years looking for her and now that he had her he didn't want to plan on losing her. He had spent enough of his life thinking he would die alone.

"I would kill myself, is that what you want to hear?" He was standing now, serious.

God, no. I just think that we should prepare ourselves for tragedy. I don't want to be caught off guard," she shook the soap bubbles off her hands.

"Prepare yourself for tragedy, if you want. I don't want to think about it."

She shook her head and smiled. She had a streak of bubbles on her cheek. They formed a line, straight as a razor.

"Ok, forget it. Let's just plan on killing ourselves together before we get too old," she said.
“ Deal," he said. He came around the side of the counter and wiped the bubbles off her face. He kissed her on the forehead as they stood in front of the black-dark kitchen window.

* * * *

I thought of my wedding night as the man slid my jeans down my awkward legs. The car was cramped. I thought of my wedding night and the rose petals and candles that my husband's sister had decorated the room with before we arrived. We ate pizza on the floor and slept maybe an hour that night. I thought of gentle caresses compared to the rough assault of this awful man. I closed my eyes and thought of my husband as my head rhythmically hit the window of the car. I knew it would bruise and I knew it didn't matter. The bruising would have no time to heal before nature carries me away piece by piece in the jaws of beetles and ants.

* * * *

Window open, he rests his head on the car door. The car winds around the curves, holding the road and the road holding it. He looks down ravines, always looking. He thinks he can spot the place where she lies. He knows she lays waiting for him. He thinks he will lie down with her when he finds her and hold her, transforming the spot into one of joy.

I know a great place to hike up here if you're interested," his brother says.

"Sure." He doesn't lift his head, runs his hand over the keys in his pocket.

They stop at a pullout. There is a brown and yellow board advertising proper trailhead etiquette. There is a sign on the board about leaving trash on the trail. They ask that you don't do it. Pack it in, pack it out.

At the top of the trail he stops.

"I can't do it. I should go home in case someone calls," he says.

"Whatever you want."

They get back into the car and make a u-turn on the road. As they drive he sees a tree full of bluebirds. There must be at least fifty. They flutter together and sing in harmony. He can hear their rustling as they pass. His hand goes to the keys in his pocket. They are cold and hard against his sweating palm.

* * * *

A small bird plunges from the tree on the left to the tree on the right with such precision. Nature is methodical. Nature is our nemesis. We return to it just as we are born to it. No one is exempt from its fury and rage. No one will die any more gracefully than I.

I think he gave me a choice at the top of the hill. My hands were untied before my fateful plunge. Maybe he knew it would hurt more to have more limbs ready to break. Maybe he thought I could climb out. Either way, I can't move. I have grown into the ground already.

All I have to do is close my eyes. I won't have to see the beauty of the world that is about to consume me. I can close my eyes and think of my family, of the joy I experienced in the minutiae of life. If my arms and legs could move I would try to climb. But they can't and I won't. So, so long, world. I give myself back to you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Shelly Wass is a graduate of the University of Montana’s Creative Writing and Literature program. Currently she attends graduate school at Reed College in Portland, Oregon.