Maero
The woman stares pensively into the bottle’s murky glass. Her aging face, drawn back with weary lines carving deep valleys in its surface, looks back at her. Dry skin and discoloration are visible beneath a poorly applied layer of makeup. Tears fall slowly down her cheeks; their trajectory conformed to her face’s gorges. Eventually they collate with the makeup, smearing into damp puddles. She touches one of the puddles, collecting some of the sticky mass and gazing at it oddly. Her eyes are a brownish green, and startlingly sharp. She rarely blinks.

Despite her age and blemishes, it is clear she was once beautiful. There is nobility in her features, though it is declining. Shades of grey can be seen in her otherwise radiant hazelnut hair. Her cheekbones are high and pronounced, even if they sag slightly. Her nose is keen and pointed, though somewhat warped. Her strong jawline recedes lightly. Her full lips are dry and chapped. A faint sense of decay pervades her.

Grabbing the bottle, the woman pours herself another drink. Absolut® Vodka: 40% Alcohol/Volume (80 Proof). About one-third of the bottle’s original content remains; the label says 750ml. Another bottle stands empty at her feet. When she picks up the glass, it slips from her fingers and shatters on the ground below, splashing liquid and glass all over the dark wooden floor. She rises unsteadily, almost falling: her feet slip in the pool of vodka and she cuts them on shards of glass. She does not seem bothered by this, and starts toward the kitchen. A trail of blood follows her, long red smears drifting across the floor. After what seems like an eternity of shuffling, she stumbles to the kitchen cabinet and pulls its door open and fumbles around inside, knocking over wine glasses and tumblers, until she retrieves another tall glass.

Leaving the cabinet door open, she slowly returns to her chair, ignoring the glass scattered across the floor. Coated in blood, the shards shine menacingly. Wrinkled and cracked, the chair has not aged well. Winish stains spot its surface. Faded scribbles from various colored markers on its backside—a drawing of stick figures playing on green hills, watched over by a large sun with orange and yellow rays extending from its perimeter. It smells musty. Springs compress and squeal as the woman slumps heavily into the chair and reclines. The motor groans as it works, worn down by years of constant use.

A torn leather-bound photo album sits next to the bottle. Vines and flowers inscribed on its front. The woman runs her finger along one of the vines, following to where it blooms. She opens the album and searches for a photograph deep within. When she finds it, the woman fills her glass and takes a deep swill of vodka.

The picture depicts a mother and her son. “February 27, 2005: Will’s B-day” is scribbled in one of its corners. The two lie on a lakeside, stretched out on a large yellow blanket. Picnic baskets and backpacks sit in front of them. A small box, wrapped in glittery red paper, rests in the boy’s lap. His fingers are locked tightly around it. To their left, a large, grey dog is suspended mid-air lunging for a dragonfly. The mother is laughing heartily: her son must have told a joke. Her arm is wrapped around his shoulders, holding him snugly against her side. Their faces shine brightly, they appear comfortable—happy.

The woman fixates on the photo, paralyzed. A flood of tears pours from her eyes. She gnaws 0n her fingers, biting into raw skin left bare by chewed fingernails, tearing off tiny chunks of flesh. Blood swells at her fingertips and drips onto the photograph below. Agony spreads across her countenance. Hands bloodstained, she holds her head and begins to sob, the quiet way, like black-veiled women in stiff wooden pews in the back of dark chapels and Requiem Masses. In the distance, an ambulance siren screams loudly. The photograph is now covered in a mixture of tears and blood, the paper now soggy. When she tries to pick it up the wet paper rips. The woman howls in anger, shrieking and cursing hysterically, and yanks up the album and throws it at a nearby wall, breaking off bits of plaster and paint and making a large dent. Then, ignoring her glass, she brings the bottle of vodka to her lips and takes a long gulp, and chokes, coughing loudly. Vodka sputters out of her mouth and dribbles down her chin onto her blouse.

Somewhere in the kitchen, a phone rings. It is one of those obsolete home phones that ring with banshee-like intensity. After six ear-shattering rings, the phone goes to voicemail. A young male can be heard talking:

“Hi Mom, it’s me, Sam. I know it’s late and I haven’t called in a while, but I want to talk. I’ve been really busy with school and stuff, and haven’t had time. This is my first real chance to call. It’s not like I don’t care. You have to believe me. Dad sent me an email and said you aren’t doing so well. It’s not like I don’t care, even if it may seem that way. Dad said the drinking has gotten really bad. I’m not going to moralize or anything but Mom, you know that...never-mind. Are you still seeing Dr. Schmitz and taking the meds? We both know you need to, and that you don’t want to go back to the hospital. I want to help you. Tell me if there’s anything I can do. I want things to be better. Mom, I know that you’re there. Please pick up the phone. Are you drunk? Is any of this getting through to you? Jesus Christ. Don’t do anything stupid, okay? Please? Mom? People care about you; try to keep that in mind. S***, I’m really sorry but, I have to go. I’ll call tomorrow night. I promise. Okay? I love you. Goodbye.”

It is difficult to tell what the woman’s reaction to the message is. She has stopped sobbing and assumed an empty stoic expression. Above her head, a ceiling fan hums, its long blades slicing through the air and making a whooshing sound that goes on and on and on and on, ceaseless and unyielding. For about twenty minutes, she lies silent and motionless. The only audible sound is the fan’s dull humming; the screeching of the ambulance’s siren has long since faded. Eventually she finishes off her drink and pours another. The bottle is almost empty.

Sitting atop a stack of magazines on an end table opposite the one with the bottle and glass is a letter written in dark blue ink on a sheet of legal paper. It is addressed to no one. The handwriting is forced, as if highly pressurized and about to burst. In a few spots, liquid has smeared the ink, rendering the writing illegible. Using a chrome-plated pen, one of the cheap but deceptively expensive looking ones given at award functions, the woman signs the letter, and then opens a drawer and retrieves an envelope, putting the letter inside. After licking and sealing its flap, she sets the envelope back down. There is no return or recipient address on its face.

Turning to a small ornate clock on the wall behind her, the woman checks the time: it is 4:30AM. She draws a deep breath, arching her back and raising her chest, and slowly rises to her feet. Her movement is much steadier, deliberate. She picks up the note, anxiously running her fingers along its edges, and moves into the house’s foyer. Glass crunches and clinks beneath her feet. In the foyer the woman presses her forehead against a window beside the front door and stares outside. It is getting lighter outside, the sun is not yet up but will be in an hour or two. A strong, howling wind blows from the west, rattling trees and shrubs and whipping around flags in neighboring yards. Some cars drive past slowly, swerving to avoid something in the middle of the road—probably a dead animal.

Eventually the woman turns and ascends a nearby staircase, leaning heavily on its rickety old handrail for support. Several portraits of children and family photos line the wall adjacent the stairs; the woman glances anxiously at some but for the most part averts her eyes, looking down at her feet. Her movement upstairs resembles a mourner in procession, head bowed in grief. Or a convict headed to the gallows, trudging silently toward death. At the stairs’ summit, the woman moves to her left and opens a door leading into a small bathroom. Once inside the bathroom, she looks outside the doorway. For a long second, hesitation flashes in her eyes. Then steel covers her face, and she closes the door tightly, and thrusts its deadbolt in place. It locks with a cold, hard clunk.

The bathroom is poorly lit. It is painted a noxious, pukey yellowish-tan and floored with dark, muddy-looking tile. Inside there is a mahogany paneled sink cabinet and a large glass mirror with flickering little light bulbs attached to its frame. Across from the cabinet, a small bookshelf stocked with novels and magazines, and a toilet to its right. In the back of the bathroom, a tub and shower system, and a small horizontal window above it.

The woman sets the envelope down in front of the sink. She touches her face, feeling its lines and wrinkles and heavy bags beneath her eyes, and turns on the sink, letting the water warm and fill the basin. In the water she softly massages her scarred wrists and forearms as they turn red from its heat. A maroon hand towel hangs on a bronze rack next to the mirror; the woman soaks it in the water and washes her face, clearing smeared makeup and mucus. She takes off her earrings and undresses, and runs her hands along deep white marks that stretch across her hips. All of this she does solemnly, ritualistically.

She walks to the bathtub and plugs the drain and turns the warm water knob way up. With a start, scalding water gushes from the nozzle and splatters loudly into the tub. Tentacles of steam stretch and hiss serpentinely, and the window and mirror cloud over. When the tub is nearly full and the steam recedes, the woman steps in and gently lowers into the water. From inside a receptacle for lotions and soaps she retrieves a viciously serrated steel knife—it is brutal looking, a knife made for cutting meats with thick ligaments. She holds it tightly as she flexes and releases her arm. Goosebumps appear as she rubs the blade’s flat along her skin, making a soft sliding sound. Too quiet to understand she starts mumbling something over and over and over. The combination of sounds is odd, unnerving.

She wedges her arm between the tub’s edge and the wall with her palm turned upward and brings the blade to her wrist. She closes her eyes, and slices the blade across. A hesitation cut. She does this again and again, each time cutting slower and deeper, until her wrist and upper forearm are hatched with lacerations. Blood oozes from her wounds down into the water, coloring it a violent red. The woman starts to tremble, and presses her head back against the cool tile wall, struggling to maintain composure. She starts to cry, convulsive gasps punctuated by sharp sobs. Her quivering upsets the water, causing low bloody waves to throb back and forth. Suddenly, with a shrill cry she stabs the blade into her wrist and cuts backwards vertically, slowly sawing into her arm as blood spurts and gushes and ligaments and tendons snap and tear and she screams nightmarishly with her head turned upward and mouth agape, a visage of agony and death. Warped and terrible, her screams echo against the walls and seem to shrink and expand simultaneously: lights flash on in neighboring houses. She pulls the blade out and viciously drives it in again, dragging it through the mangled wound. Bloody water splashes out of the tub as she writhes and thrashes seizure-ishly, and forms a dark pool on the tile with arms reaching out through grout lines. Her pulse is sky rocketing, and her heart pounds violently against her chest. She gulps desperately for air, like an animal with its back broken squirming on the ground, lungs punctured by splintered ribs.

Gradually the woman quiets and stills, and the sloshing bloody waves break and calm. She drifts in and out of consciousness, sometimes twitching spasmodically. Her breathing is shallow, her eyes glossy and unfocused, lazily floating around the room. Hideously mutilated, her arm resembles some phantasmal horror of the third world, and the bleeding is fat and pulsing rhythmically, arterial—deadly. Police and ambulance sirens can be heard coming closer, and someone shouts and bangs loudly on the heavy, wooden front door. The woman doesn’t register this as her heart struggles, failing. She falls unconscious and with a loud smack her head hits the wall and her body begins to slide beneath the water. No last words.

It is a beautiful morning as brilliant flames of the morning sun burst violently through the window and policemen shout frantically as they shatter the door with axes and paramedics prepare a stretcher while sirens wail and the wind and dogs howl terribly as the lake of blood ripples gently and the woman’s head sinks beneath the red and she is dead.