Pre-Mortem

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She raced down asphalt on bare feet. Two in the morning, the black road still radiated heat from the sweaty Memorial Day. Pitch pustules, born in the mire of midday sun, screamed for release. In the slow-motion midst of her heartbreaking speed, she was microscopically aware of the minutia. One fleeting footfall burst open an overfilled tarry head and then another. Tacky residue infiltrated the space between the pinky and ring toe on her right foot.

Ring toe?

Yeah, you know–the ring finger of your foot.

That’s not even a thing.

I’m making it a thing. Poor little Piggy always gets none. I’m making him the ring bearer.

Not always none, after all he’s got that blob of tar.

Grace held her breath, hiding from the idiotic chatter in her brain, sounding so deceptively innocuous. She imagined an outsider holding a glass to her head, like an eavesdropping neighbor. The nosybody would be confused, maybe even a little amused, by the nonsensical Wonderland banter. Eavesdropper would have no way of knowing that chasing this tarred and ringed piggy down a rabbit hole would result in carnage. Waiting somewhere, in one of the twists and turns of the burrow, lay a predator both cruel and ravenously hungry. Grace ducked into the shadows of her own mind, shrinking in anticipation.

I hate to break up the Mensa meeting,

Grace cringed away from a familiar snarling tone,

but if you idiots have wasted enough of what’s left of this life, maybe we could focus on the big problem.

Since she could remember, she had entertained conversations in her head. As many lonely children do, Grace had created a slew of companionable playmates to keep her company when nobody else was around. Oddly, growing up in a house filled with people, she had often found herself alone. Her constant playmates carried on conversations, had opinions, hashed out arguments, all in the happy confines of her own little head. Young Grace had never cared if a fight broke out. In the end, she always won.

The nature of her adopted companions had shifted as she matured. By the time she turned twenty, her internal voices had simply become a sounding board for her own ideas: a place to rehearse or redress conversations, arguments, ideas, philosophies. She sometimes wondered if it was strange to have a constant inner discourse but figured that most people did the same. Even if that didn’t, Grace didn’t mind being different. And then That Night

That Night.

In one night, the balance of power had shifted uncomfortably. Suddenly the pleasant small town carnival tilt-a-whirl she had always been riding had gathered momentum, the dips and dives becoming more and more pronounced and loop-dee-loops she hadn’t bargained for were being thrown in without notice. She wanted off the ride. Since That Night, the voices in her head had changed radically. They had become increasingly shrill, angry with an endless round of accusations, constantly reminding her of her failures, small and huge. They mercilessly bickered with her every thought, ridiculing even the slightest misstep. She was no longer in control of her own creations. Since That Night, Grace desperately cared if a fight broke out. In the end, she never won.

Why do you hate me?

She wished for the thought back as it slipped out. The voices were inevitably eloquent on the subject, practiced at the rhetoric of rage.

Really? Do you really want to do this?

I’ll go first. How bout, let’s discuss that hellhole you’re running from.

Don’t forget the delicious company you’ve been keeping. I, for real, saw one of your friends urinate on himself...inside the house. Classy.

I’ve got two words for you: Crack. Pipe. Need anybody say more?

Oh, but there's just so much more to say. What’s with the whinging and mewling about a “slightest misstep”? How is this a misstep? How is this slight? You’ve taken a flying leap into an abomination and taken us all with you. Maybe if you told yourself the truth, we wouldn’t have to.

She hated and feared these former friends who had accompanied her through woods and sand. They had matured into enemies who retained squatter’s rights inside her psyche. So, like the youngest child in a bully’s game of hide and seek, Grace didn’t exhale, terrified to give away her perfect hiding spot in the corner of her own mind. Only, unable to bear the horror movie anticipation for even a second, she made a break for it, running as hard as her feet could take her away from these turncoat hecklers—the mad riot of noise.

But how will you outrun what’s riding piggyback on your brain?

Impossibly, she sped up, in a helpless bid to leave them all behind. The faster she ran, the closer the end of the road came. Sick fast and still the freeloaders hung on like grim death, whispering dirty secrets in her ear. She whizzed by a signpost that read Dead End and responded out loud, yelling to drown out the clamor.

“Thanks for the tip. A little late for that.”

And for the first time tonight the crowd took Grace’s side.

I know right? We should rip that sign up and put it smack in the middle of the hellhouse lawn.

Exactly—like an early warning system.

Then, at least I might have had a chance.

The silent sarcastic ooze that slipped into the space between the voices made her anxious. She wished again she hadn’t joined the dialogue.

Unlikely, more ooze, not even a giant yellow diamond with ominous words in huge block letters would have given you a clue.

Though expected, Grace’s neck still whiplashed with the suddenly traitorous turn. She had been stupid to take the bait.

If I can just make it to the reeds, I can run right through them.

Setting her sights on the barrier that separated the end of the road from a swath of sandy beach, she had a nonsensical hope that some mental passengers might get knocked loose in the wash of reed heads, swept away by the fluffy brushtails. Once she hit the beach she could cross the grainy sliver and see how far her legs could propel her through the water. She could drown the leftover interlopers–just keep going until the water was over her head and wait for the rats to bail out.

“Even the meanest, most tenacious of you can’t survive a drowning.

Then I’ll swim home, free and clear.”

Hearing her voice speak the words aloud almost tricked her into belief.

Doubtful, you’re not much of a swimmer. Here’s a thought smarty-pants, why don’t you just walk?

“You’re just scared I’ll drown you.”

This time, her words just sounded absurd bouncing off the empty night air. As if to confirm this, a voice chimed in her head.

Ummm, if you drown me,ipso facto you drown you.

Did I just hear an ipso facto?

She knew she had already lost this vicious game of taunts. Her hiding place revealed, those who were “it” would come bearing down on her with a vengeance. Longing for the simpler days of the paddy-whack machine, she was helpless to prevent the advanced level of punishment meted out to the loser. Retreating into the riotous silence, she continued in the knowledge of futility.

Does it really matter anyway? Whether I swim home, walk home on a stretch of beach or arrive home on a stretcher makes no difference now.

Stretcher, there’s a likely scenario. What are you, at the beach at Normandy?

Please. Shut. Up.

You know that’s not going to happen. Let’s talk about this swim home. Worst case scenario, you’ll cramp horribly in the middle of the bay and sink like a stone to the bottom.

I’m beginning to like that as your best case scenario. Finally released to never drag your pathetic carcass back to the endless party.

One of the voices laughed bitterly. Party. Who knew that a word that held in its childish fist the bountiful promises of crêpe streamers and balloons, puff-sleeved party dress and musical chairs, brightly wrapped presents and sprinkled cupcakes, would mature into a carnal monster whose claws, tail and snout freely probed the seeping abscesses of Grace’s soul, licentiously touching places she had never wanted to find.

Imagine never standing in front of that wide black void of grit slimed window, staring and waiting for the police to come.

Imagine never feeling the agony of eyelids gummed open by chemically induced paranoia.

Imagine never enduring the agonizing anticipation of the miraculous nightmare of mom and dad’s sudden arrival at the house to find your body strung out on the floor.

Imagine it Grace. Free.

As her mind chased the caucus race, her body played a desperate pantomime. Feet moved at supernatural speed in a useless effort to escape. Arms windmilled in a futile attempt to bat away the demons inside her head while propelling her further down the road. Dirty tears finally failed to wash away her pain, the mistakes, the voices. And then there was her heart, beating wildly, faster and faster, a drumroll crescendoing to a climax her body could certainly not sustain. Coming to the end of the road, the uniform rhythm hiccuped, switching to an erratic and maniacal beat inside of Grace’s ribcage: the arm and leg thrashing of an inmate in a lunatic asylum.

Absolutely perfect. My heart, the mental patient.

She had gone too far. She would not be allowed to escape. A crew of cruel white-clad orderlies must be descending. Her heart, the unruly patient, must inevitably succumb to the overpowering strength of Nurse Ratched’s henchmen, to their restraints and ultimately, to a giant glistening hypodermic needle filled with sedative to end the mad struggle. Two more steps and her heart would finally be subdued. Stopped for good. As the cardiac frenzy reached its climax, one foot hit compressed reeds, a hundred erratic heartbeats, the next foot reeds and sand, a thousand erratic heartbeats, the next step landed on pure sand, a millions erratic heartbeats.

Heart unable to pump more blood, legs unable to carry her further, she sank to her knees, scooping the grains of pure sand to her face. Scrubbing frantically, she tried to cleanse away the tears, the stench of pipe smoke, the stink of people who had touched her tonight, the rancid odor of fear. Despite the fury and rawness, she just couldn’t make herself clean. Still stained by her countless mistakes, Grace barely managed to crawl forward to the waterline. There, she grabbed up fists of wet sand. The smell of fresh seaweed and summer water mingled under her nose. So beautiful it made her cry. So many useless tears.

What happened to me? I played on this beach, in this water, making drippy sandcastles. Right here on this spit of white sand, I was the Gaudi of my tiny sunlit domain. How many countless hours did I spend decorating a palace with horseshoe crab pods and empty mussel shells? A moat of black seaweed, like so many piles of yesterday’s shredded tissue paper, erected in a happily futile defense against the inevitable tide. I waited patiently for my lucky wave to wash a smooth swatch of lasagna noodle seaweed onto the shore. Remember how it shimmered like translucent emerald leather when my scavenger’s hand offered it, ta-da! up to the sun before draping it in a final flourish on the masterpiece? So happy, so fresh, so clean. How can I get back there? How did I get here? How can I escape?

Grace contemplated crawling a little further into the bay.

I could let the warm water engulf and enfold me, ending the pain. There are worse things than being immersed in a womb, the best sounds and smells of my memory cradling me to a final sleep. Just ease out the way I came in.

Unmitigated stupidity. Only you would think you eased your way into life.

Let me tell you, the painful ripping, tearing entrance into the world will be nothing compared to the exit. What happens when your lungs start to burst in desperation for the oxygen necessary to lull you back to your precious sleep? There is no such thing as a gentle drowning. You will die in agony, your lungs trying to claw a hole through your chest in search of life-giving air. It won’t be peaceful. It is pain. It is death. And then what?

Grace couldn’t stand when they ganged up on her but it was that last thought that lifted her head out of the water’s edge.

And then what?

She hated to think of it.

Just let me lay my head down and rest. Please give me one moment of peace.

She put her head back down, the side of her cheek lay cooled in the wash of the tide. Spent by the race away from hell, the siren of sleep called Grace by name. Profound exhaustion muscled out surprise as an audible voice sang its delicately beckoning song,

Sleep Grace. Sleep.