The Night the Bell Tolls
Copyright © 2007 by Heather Payer-Smith
The mound of blankets heaved and moaned. Twisted swatches of aged cotton, torn and stained from years of restless sleep and night sweats, rustled in protest as the body beneath them slithered and writhed. The stench was unbearable.
One pale, crooked finger curled over the seam of the comforter, followed by another and another. They gripped the cover, pulling it, exposing the rest of the knotted hand. Then they were still. At last, still, but only for a moment.
The hand contracted to reveal a small portion of her face; one sky-blue, tear-stained eye darted about the room. Untrusting and hateful of what it sought, the eye hesitated to blink, giving in only when the biological instinct succumbed to the stinging scorch of hot, dry air.
“You go away, now. I’m fine where I lay.” The eye shifted in my direction, pupil dilating in the heavy darkness.
They always fight.
“You hear me? I say go away.” The face disappeared as the hands and fingers recoiled beneath the security of the blankets.
They always hide.
I referenced my timepiece. It mattered to me. Time is of the essence. There I waited.
She began to hum, coughing and choking as the restless tune forced its way through her nostrils. The low drum of her chords thumped in my ears, deafening the precious quiet that once comforted my senses. Her raspy gags impaired what may have been a doting melody, transforming it, instead, into her own requiem. Then, silence.
The stink remained, as did my watch on the blankets. They were not still. They gave away everything like a restless child holding a noxious secret.
She sat up with a start, draining the last of her energy. Grunting and struggling, she pushed herself back against the wadded, lumpy pillows, burrowed in her protective shell of blankets, but exposed enough to face me properly.
Her eyes dulled as a crooked, gummy smile wormed its way across the wrinkled mass of flesh that clung to her jaws. The look was innocent, naive as she searched throughout the room. A fierce scowl broke her childish expression.
I folded my arms.
“I say I ain’t going with you, so you can just move along.” She tugged at her blankets, folding the upper portion neatly over her lap then smoothing its new surface. She cupped her hands in one another, resting them on her nightgown, occasionally picking small bits of lint and hair from the frayed ribbon that laced the front.
She smiled again. Her eyes locked in on my figure, squinting.
At last, she sees me.
“You really ought to be more friendly,” she chastised. “It’s bad manners to come in the middle of the night, expecting me to go just ‘cause you say so.”
I remained still. A bell tolled in the distance, too low for anyone to hear.
“Boo!” she spit in my direction, eyes wide, trying her best to imitate a spook. Decay foamed in her mouth, spilling forth into the putrid air.
I was not amused. “It is unbecoming to dally.”
Her eyes shifted as she gritted her fleshy chops.
I checked the time again. “I’ve more to see. Are you ready?” A rhetorical question.
“I said I’m fine right here!” Her blue eyes paled. “You can’t take me while I’m still breathing.”
“I will wait.”
She recoiled in horror.
They always deny me.
She forced a laugh, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I can’t even say good-bye? Let me write a letter,” she pleaded.
“You have no paper. And no one to write.”
She lowered her gaze. Tears slid through the cracks and wrinkles on her face as she shook her head. “I suppose not.”
They always pity themselves.
I moved in her direction.
“No, no… no,” she protested with her hand, pushing at me though I was scarcely in proximity to her motions. “No, not yet. Just, not yet.” Her breathing was low, labored, but intent. “Can’t you go get the others first? Let me rest for a while longer?” Her chest quivered with each exhale.
“No.”
Her gray cheeks flushed. “Whyever not!?” I see no reason I can’t be postponed for a few hours. Damn it.” She planted her hand firmly on the bed. “I’m not ready to go,” she declared once more, her eyes an icy white.
The odor subsided.
“You resembled your mother,” I offered, motioning to the faded portrait in a chipped and tarnished frame. It stood neatly on the bedside table. Strange comforts. “I remember her well.”
Her anger melted into a fury of more tears. “You’re just saying that.”
“I do not lie. It makes no difference to me. It simply seemed appropriate to tell you.”
Those sagging cheeks puckered. A chuckle and sniff curled behind them.
She laid back, folding her hands across her chest. Sighing deeply, she wiggled and squirmed beneath her covers, straightening her gown and hair, smoothing the blanket. Seeming satisfied, she refolded her hands. “How do I look?” she asked taking a deep breath. “I’d hate for them to find me in a mess.”
I didn’t tell her that her efforts were in vain. They never know when they really die. “You look appropriate.”
Her body was crooked beneath her torn gown and disheveled blankets. Her hands were clenched, arms bruised. Her mouth lay open, her hair gnarled and unflattering, but I didn’t tell her. She didn’t need to know.
“I suppose I’m ready then,” her words clung to her throat, hesitant to reveal themselves for fear of what may happen next.
“Take my hand.”
She closed her eyes and extended her frail, withered hand in my direction.
“This won’t hurt,” they’re always afraid of pain, “but it will feel different.”
I grasped her hand. Her existence faded from that realm, pulling and twisting in all directions. I could feel her laughing, crying, singing… fighting.
They always fight.
The tolling of the bell faded as we disappeared into the night.
The mound of blankets heaved and moaned. Twisted swatches of aged cotton, torn and stained from years of restless sleep and night sweats, rustled in protest as the body beneath them slithered and writhed. The stench was unbearable.
One pale, crooked finger curled over the seam of the comforter, followed by another and another. They gripped the cover, pulling it, exposing the rest of the knotted hand. Then they were still. At last, still, but only for a moment.
The hand contracted to reveal a small portion of her face; one sky-blue, tear-stained eye darted about the room. Untrusting and hateful of what it sought, the eye hesitated to blink, giving in only when the biological instinct succumbed to the stinging scorch of hot, dry air.
“You go away, now. I’m fine where I lay.” The eye shifted in my direction, pupil dilating in the heavy darkness.
They always fight.
“You hear me? I say go away.” The face disappeared as the hands and fingers recoiled beneath the security of the blankets.
They always hide.
I referenced my timepiece. It mattered to me. Time is of the essence. There I waited.
She began to hum, coughing and choking as the restless tune forced its way through her nostrils. The low drum of her chords thumped in my ears, deafening the precious quiet that once comforted my senses. Her raspy gags impaired what may have been a doting melody, transforming it, instead, into her own requiem. Then, silence.
The stink remained, as did my watch on the blankets. They were not still. They gave away everything like a restless child holding a noxious secret.
She sat up with a start, draining the last of her energy. Grunting and struggling, she pushed herself back against the wadded, lumpy pillows, burrowed in her protective shell of blankets, but exposed enough to face me properly.
Her eyes dulled as a crooked, gummy smile wormed its way across the wrinkled mass of flesh that clung to her jaws. The look was innocent, naive as she searched throughout the room. A fierce scowl broke her childish expression.
I folded my arms.
“I say I ain’t going with you, so you can just move along.” She tugged at her blankets, folding the upper portion neatly over her lap then smoothing its new surface. She cupped her hands in one another, resting them on her nightgown, occasionally picking small bits of lint and hair from the frayed ribbon that laced the front.
She smiled again. Her eyes locked in on my figure, squinting.
At last, she sees me.
“You really ought to be more friendly,” she chastised. “It’s bad manners to come in the middle of the night, expecting me to go just ‘cause you say so.”
I remained still. A bell tolled in the distance, too low for anyone to hear.
“Boo!” she spit in my direction, eyes wide, trying her best to imitate a spook. Decay foamed in her mouth, spilling forth into the putrid air.
I was not amused. “It is unbecoming to dally.”
Her eyes shifted as she gritted her fleshy chops.
I checked the time again. “I’ve more to see. Are you ready?” A rhetorical question.
“I said I’m fine right here!” Her blue eyes paled. “You can’t take me while I’m still breathing.”
“I will wait.”
She recoiled in horror.
They always deny me.
She forced a laugh, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I can’t even say good-bye? Let me write a letter,” she pleaded.
“You have no paper. And no one to write.”
She lowered her gaze. Tears slid through the cracks and wrinkles on her face as she shook her head. “I suppose not.”
They always pity themselves.
I moved in her direction.
“No, no… no,” she protested with her hand, pushing at me though I was scarcely in proximity to her motions. “No, not yet. Just, not yet.” Her breathing was low, labored, but intent. “Can’t you go get the others first? Let me rest for a while longer?” Her chest quivered with each exhale.
“No.”
Her gray cheeks flushed. “Whyever not!?” I see no reason I can’t be postponed for a few hours. Damn it.” She planted her hand firmly on the bed. “I’m not ready to go,” she declared once more, her eyes an icy white.
The odor subsided.
“You resembled your mother,” I offered, motioning to the faded portrait in a chipped and tarnished frame. It stood neatly on the bedside table. Strange comforts. “I remember her well.”
Her anger melted into a fury of more tears. “You’re just saying that.”
“I do not lie. It makes no difference to me. It simply seemed appropriate to tell you.”
Those sagging cheeks puckered. A chuckle and sniff curled behind them.
She laid back, folding her hands across her chest. Sighing deeply, she wiggled and squirmed beneath her covers, straightening her gown and hair, smoothing the blanket. Seeming satisfied, she refolded her hands. “How do I look?” she asked taking a deep breath. “I’d hate for them to find me in a mess.”
I didn’t tell her that her efforts were in vain. They never know when they really die. “You look appropriate.”
Her body was crooked beneath her torn gown and disheveled blankets. Her hands were clenched, arms bruised. Her mouth lay open, her hair gnarled and unflattering, but I didn’t tell her. She didn’t need to know.
“I suppose I’m ready then,” her words clung to her throat, hesitant to reveal themselves for fear of what may happen next.
“Take my hand.”
She closed her eyes and extended her frail, withered hand in my direction.
“This won’t hurt,” they’re always afraid of pain, “but it will feel different.”
I grasped her hand. Her existence faded from that realm, pulling and twisting in all directions. I could feel her laughing, crying, singing… fighting.
They always fight.
The tolling of the bell faded as we disappeared into the night.
