Give Name to Me | Teen Ink

Give Name to Me

December 3, 2011
By WishfulWisp BRONZE, Sherwood Park, Other
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WishfulWisp BRONZE, Sherwood Park, Other
1 article 0 photos 2 comments

Favorite Quote:
Writing is my heart-kill it like a wild beast and I will be killed with it. Rip it from me and it will die with me. But tell me what weakens it and I will make it prosper.

Author's note: This was originally a rewritten myth, but I fell in love with Melissae and she needed me to tell her story: The story of how she and I both got a name.

She saw it.
Melissa saw it coming.
The way he was constantly agitated when his wife was not getting pregnant. How he loomed over her with the menacing aura of a tyrant, waiting for a sieged land to produce everything he ever wanted from itself. Almost everyone in the city was aware of the mayor’s obsession with having a child. He only wanted a boy.
Considering the size of the city, this was exponential. Although maybe in his case it was not so peculiar- it was his city, after all. Everyone knew the mayor-Christopher Beautre: he did everything he could for the city. Sometimes he was so active he seemed to be in more than one place at a time. There was, however, one area where his perfection failed him: dealing with children. About a month after his position was secured, any company with interest in bringing the mayor and children together gave up their quest entirely. Though during his campaign he had spent time enough with kids; daycares, elementary schools, adoption agencies and the like were regular visitations of Chris’s, he never seemed particularly fond of the little things running around his feet, each one shouting louder than the last, spitting the graham cracker pieces that did not end up down their throats at his face. After he had won the election, he would not do such as watch a child without a disdainful smirk playing across his lips like a satyr playing to a young woman. Though he did his best to hide it, his political and social actions displayed his one failing plainly.
Which is why those who were familiar with him, as in ninety percent of his city’s population-were so surprised when he announced, along with his wife’s conceiving, that he was holding a massive party for the baby. Bizarrely, he seemed happier than ever before. No one saw anything amiss for they merely thought their dear mayor had had a change of heart.
It is different when it is your own, they all corroborated in whispers. All except for one. While elderly women chuckled over his exuberance and young men iinventedlarities regarding how love brings ruin to the lives of males, she watched him trace complex lines strategically over his wife’s exploding gut. Local news stations called it sweet, and wives chided husbands for their lack of enthusiasm over their own families. She called it ominous, and chided herself for not noticing something was wrong.
Everyday the eccentric onlooker passed by their home on the way to her work, and every day she saw something that made her think more of a poem she knew from somewheree, somewhen, when she was someone else. Be it a paper splattered with a fluid just a shade too crimson to be benign, or a murderous whisper issuing from the basement window late at night when she was walking from her midnight shift, she knew somehow the poem was written for her warning:
Monsters walk among our Live
Not all burn in Sun or
Monsters walk among the Died
Turn to stone at Rise
Monsters want everything
So hush yourself and lie in wait
From everything that it is not
For never shall their wants satiate
Monsters shall come upon you
Wait for nothing but one call
And never will you be the same
You will know right from wrong.
So she watched him grimace as she stepped on her way to the beehive she worked at with an ancient, forlorn tune haunting her mind and lips.
Where do you go when you do not know what to do? When the stomach of a careless woman is ready to erupt with a child doomed to face fate all alone? What do you do when you see the dark horse on the sea’s horizon, but have no weapon? How do you know what to do when you can do nothing, but must do something?

Melissa, a girl with a name meaning emptiness, did not have any idea. No one had ever noticed her as a child and, unlike her body, that fact had not changed as she grew to adulthood. She was never like her sisters, regardless of their shared heritage and race. She had always been the fastest to mature, always the nimblest in the trait of gentility. Always the slowest to be noticed by men, and always the quickest to be maligned by man. It was perhaps why she had come to be the one left to the things deemed lesser in life. She had rented an apartment owned by an aged woman until the poor lady had been laid to rest by a spirit who was on the verge of losing a bet over the woman’s lifespan. Selfish things they were, perhaps a bit too similar to humanity. What man gives care to whether a mouse has any others who rely upon it, when they carry out its limp body from the inside of their home? This need not have been a concern for it who caused the Madam’s passing, for she had none but a woman whose face would slip from your mind the moment you glanced away from her. It was Melissa, or Melissae in the old language, the slippery image girl who buried her. Not with her own hands, but with her own heart did she pull away at the roots in the soil. The dryads shrieked at her for disturbing the pleats in their gowns, but she paid no mind, for it was her pulmonary arteries which pulled at the soil rather than the claw of the iron machine. She had lost all that had ever mattered to her, and it was that night, when Melissa was alone in bed, when the drop of clear, liquid gold slipped from her eye. It flowed down her cheek meekly, as if afraid to leave the warmth of her insides. When it reached the point of her chin, it clung to the cleft as if its tiny drop of a spirit depended on it. If you had licked it, it would have been sweet to the tongue and syrupy to the lips.

There was once, a long time ago, in a world not our own, a girl turning woman like Melissae, but her name meant something else. Something that made everyone think of a glistening sweetness, falling like dewdrops from crevices in trees and fay dancing on lilac flowers.

Now the girl sat and contemplated everything she knew about everything. The world had always warned her in its own way, with silent looks and hushed words that you did not inquire into things which did not directly influence you at this exact time. So long as you were speechless on the things you were supposed to be shushed on; yet be vivacity itself towards everything insipid and mutable, you would be loved. Passable you would be, accepted by all neighbours, fellow humans and bosses. So long as you did the thing everyone else would do you would be accepted-even if it meant a child of a few days old being eaten alive by his own father for the sake of the man gaining eternal life.
If he was willing to eat his own son, the successor to everything a man was, Melissa’s Grecian great grandmother had told her in a senseless daze on her deathbed, he was to gain the blessing of never dying. Then she had grabbed her granddaughter’s arm, licked it and shut her eyes after the arm had been snatched away. Melissa was about to check for a pulse, when the woman muttered with her tongue lolling out of her mouth, “I cmam’t momv my bodym, som slook im the cufbord swhere myn tonmgue soints. Anf geot thour uncfle su bary sme,” the eyes opened so just a small amount of pale grey was showing, “I dfon’t frust yrou!” Then she had died. Two weeks after Great Grandmother had been buried (by the uncle), Melissa figured out where the dry tongue had been pointing (and what it had meant) when its owner had gone to Somewhere Else. It had been pointing towards the only storage unit in the entire one room cabin. Melissa would not have called it a cupboard, since it did not have a door. The cups it tried to contain fell out once a week, sending edges of porcelain splattering like water from a flooding river.
Once, a lady delivering bread to great grandma had stepped on one of the pieces of Grecian teacupery, and it poked through to the other side of her foot. Grandma had blamed the lady for ruining her decorations. No one came to give grandma bread after that.
Melissa manoeuvered her way through shattered teacups, being careful not to step on any slivers wedged between the rotting boards. She did not want Grandma’s ghost accusing her of destroying her home. What she had found hidden between rows of mostly wooden cups was a tattered piece of paper with a bunch of scrawled Greek writing on it. Melissa scanned over it with a dumbfounded expression. At the bottom left corner, scribbled in letters switching from a terrible attempt at English to a slightly better attempt at Greek were the words: Mulisssae-dis iz oll u get!

After many Greek classes and many more internet translations, Melissa had figured out that it was a scroll describing what her grandmother had told her in her state of delirium, except in much more depth and more well-articulated language. Much of it seemed quite odd, and very unrelated, but what she was able to remember went something like this (in English): eat your baby and you will become totally indestructible so long as you:
Are a man.
Have a baby boy.
Have a celebration in honour of your son the day you eat him. (This part was remembered because of how hilarious she found it.)
At the time, Melissa had found it quite interesting in a sadistic sort of way-both the topic matter and pondering over why her grandma had decided to give it to her. Well, those two and why she had been given anything at all. Her grandma had tried to toss her in a river as a child because Melissa’s hair had been auburn as a toddler. According to grandmother, she was ridding her grandchildren of the spawn of Satan which so happened to come in the form of her nineteen month old great granddaughter. “Just look at her hair!” Great grandma had lectured them more than warned them, “It’s the color of old blood!” With that, she had tried to reach for Melissa again.
Melissa had concluded that the Greeks just had a thing for killing children.
Now, however, Melissa was gladder than ever that she had been given that crazy scroll. More than anything though, she was happy she remembered the part about needing to have a party for your son before you swallowed him. In this case, the son’s name was Silas and Christopher Beautre, Silas’ father, was planning a party. It was a baby shower.
All of the city had been invited, and there was news upon news about the mayor’s new child. Silas was highly sociable from the clips Melissa had watched obsessively from her computer’s screen. It was a compulsion of hers now, learning everything she could about Silas while she knew, she hoped she knew, he would be here. Did he know what could very well be his fate behind those mischievously gleaming eyes? What was he always doing, sniffling at nothing, like he was searching for some scent in the air? Could he know what his own dad wanted to do with his mouth, large enough to encase Silas’ whole head? Was he trying to make the whole city fall in love with him, so they would not leave him alone at the baby shower?
Could it be, did the child have a plan?
No! He was three days old! How could he know of the cruelties and superstitions of the world, let alone expect them to reside in his own kin? She was allowing herself to be fooled by her own cowardice, using arguments more ridiculous than any singular or combined statement that her own psychotic, paranoid great grandmother had ever used. She would not allow such a thing to happen. Never would she sit aside for the sake of not wanting to be misunderstood. It was then Melissa’s mind became impossibly made up of nothing but determination to save Silas from his crazed father. Whether it cost her her life, she would rescue him. It may not be for long that he would be safe, and it may make her a wanted criminal. Regardless of all this, she would save Silas. She would be deemed insane for her reasoning. She would be sent to an asylum, and barricaded from the world for the rest of her miserable life. If ever she was released (which considering what she was about to do, would be highly unlikely) she would probably never be herself again. She soothed herself from the impact of this last thought. Then she went to pick out her clothes for the baby shower. And while she did this, she arduously hoped this meaning would not come to be literal. She did not want to experience a shower of baby.

It would be lovely to think that had Melissa known what would come to pass at this usually jovial occasion, she would have went. Truth be told, part of her would have remained at home, cowering in a corner. This is the part that we like to call the mind, the body and the heart. The part of her that would have gone would be something we like to call the soul. It always did go farther than the rest of us ever would dare to.
She waited outside on the grass until a group of people around the same age as her came. She did not want to appear conspicuous, although this was probably not the best way to do so. She walked in with them, and a maid greeted them. She had not thought of maids. She had also not thought of how to get the boy. This could be a problem. With a deep inhalation she reminded herself that she had to.
This one reassurance was all that she had to comfort her, and it was a reassurance with nothing but a foundation of sand. If it did have any foundation at all, it was of sand. Melissa was not the sort to go into action without thinking, yet here she was. Here she was.
Melissa sat and waited for hours. Frankly, she was beginning to wonder if the guests were leaving through the back door and then circling back to the front doors just to see how many times the door-maid of sorts would let them in. In response, the basement and second floor were opened to the public with a laugh from Chris’ wife. Melissa scanned her face for any sign of knowing what was going on, but she found none. Unless she was mistaking what she thought was nerves over her baby (who was cradled in a cooing woman’s arms at this moment, looking quite unhappy about the whole arrangement) for uncertainty over whether she should allow what was about to happen to come to pass. Melissa whipped her head away from the fidgety woman to see what Silas thought of the woman holding him now.
He was in someone’s arms. Those arms belonged to his father.

Melissa jumped up, then, remembering that she need not draw attention to herself, walked swiftly off to the nearest maid to ask her where the bathroom was. She tried to look desperate, but then realized she looked more desperate than she ever had in her life. The maid flushed at her request, then scolded her as she would a toddler. As the maid would be planning to scold Silas when he got older. If only she knew, Melissa lamented. If only everyone knew, her mind screamed as she rushed up the sweeping staircase to where the maid had said the closest bathroom was. She just hoped there was not another staircase that led to the bedroom floor.
Slipping her way through the crowd, Melissa’s heart pulsed as it never had before. Under normal circumstances, she would have blamed that on the fact that there were more people here than there could be on one floor of West Edmonton Mall, but this was no normal circumstance. She turned one last corner, then found the much less grand, though still elaborate, staircase that led up to the third floor. It was a curving staircase, and through the spindly, swerving rails she saw a hand pull a door shut. She rushed up the stairs, while still trying to be as silent as possible, praying, pleading that somehow the door would not be locked. Her wish did not come true.
Desperately, her heart screeching at her like a harpee, Melissa went to the door on the right of the bedroom. She heard a child sobbing. She reached for the knob-and the door flung open. It was the master bathroom. Melissa threw off her heels(or so she called them) and skidded on the damp floor. With a ruffling sound, her foot caught on the bathmat and stopped her from crashing. She was ready to scream of frustration and fear. Glancing feverishly from the floor to the door, Melissa felt as though she was walking in a convoluted dreamland. Everything felt like it was moving farther away from her, and the only way she could bring it closer was by pulling on a rope with living snakes woven into it. Her muscles would not move when the rope slid across her hands, yet the snakes still had time to rear up, display their teeth as if they had rabies, and bite her wrists on each side. Now she couldn’t let go of it.
Suddenly, Melissa laughed. She did not care what anyone said now. She was not obligated to follow their rules or the rules of this world or any others; and this dream was not her own, for it happened when she was awake. She let go of the rope and it slipped from awareness. She did not even look at her wrists and arms, for she knew there would be no wounds. With a quiet smile on her face, she reached to open the door, and being too enraptured with herself, did not think to notice how the childish screaming had now quieted to an soulless sobbing. She was so concerned with Silas, she did not stop to think of Chris. Until she opened the door and saw him standing behind it with a knife. He smiled at her, his eyes gleaming like jet black diamonds in the moonless, murky ebony of the room.
“I’ve heard of you, Melissa.” Said woman barely managed to duck when he whipped the blade towards her. She came wobbling out from under him, falling over halfway every time she flicked her head. Where was Silas?!
“You love working with-” Melissa sprang to the side as her attacker stabbed at her like he was digging into hard soil. He cut the side of her arm as she swung. The knife went deep, and a stream of blood flowed out as if her body was vomiting it up.
“-nature, right?” Melissa realized she was pressed up against the bed as Chris finished his question. She felt something warm drip onto her face. With a slicing breath sucked inwards, Melissa flicked her gaze upwards, and saw Silas staring down at her with a look of utter confusion on his face. His slobber was falling out of his tiny mouth, off his chin and onto her face. She let the breath out, only to see the mayor leaning over her like a spider up on eight legs.
She pushed her leg against the nightstand and used the force to slide under the bed, her only option of escape. Then, everything happened slowly one moment and quickly the next, like time was attempting to stop itself from warping. Chris’ fingers slid themselves around Melissa’s retreating wrist then locked onto it. He yanked her forward and she slammed into his shins. Then he stabbed her in the middle of the back with his knife. The girl flinched when it first pierced her skin, but did not move afterwards. She remained tense, with a knife in her for a few milliseconds. It was quite a massive knife, and Chris was a very zealous man so he stabbed it through all the way to the handle. The end came right through to Melissa’s front and cut into Chris’ toe. He sweared, kicked the corpse aside and then sweared again.
Silas stared at him from the bed. He had tried crying, but no one had heard him. He looked at the person who he thought he trusted most of all, and he screamed.
“Oh hush, I need to think to do this right. Now I need a clean knife.” Chris stood up, then dragged the knife out of her chest. He looked at Silas, quivering from weakness and terror. “Now, listen little one,” he pointed with his right hand, then, realizing how bloody it was, switched the knife to his other hand and pointed with his left. “I need to go clean this off in the bathroom. I’ll be back soon, so don’t go anywhere.”
With that authoritative command over, he strolled into the bathroom with a dignified huff. Water began running, and shortly after, a masculine humming could be heard echoing across the massive stone crusted room. It began as an echo. Well, it may have but it was hard to say when and where it actually started from. At first, it seemed like there was just a slightly higher undertone to one echo. Until it became less gruff, more flowing and more…feminine, Chris had been unaware. There was a meekness to the voice that Chris was sure he had heard somewhere before. He felt a chill race up his spine, as if eager to get to the front of his body, away from the likely striking point. Where he had just stabbed someone a few minutes ago.
Slowly, the sound began to bother Chris more. He tried to concentrate on what he was doing, but the sound only came closer. It was then he looked in the mirror.

A cry that sounded as a banshee circling right behind you resounded throughout the Beautre residence. Everyone in the massive party heard it. The Mrs. Beautre rushed up the stairs, and the sight she saw!

The master bedroom was streaked with a fluid the color of old blood. The bay window was broken without any glass on the inside of the room. Silas was laying on the bed looking lost and quivering. She left a maid with Silas, then raced downstairs and into the front yard. She found her husband laying on the ground, his face up. His mouth was hanging open, his eyes petrified of something in the sky.
His body was inspected along with the master suite, and many conclusions were drawn by the RCMP. Most of the questions they found answers for we, dear reader, have no questions about. There was, however, just one thing which remained without explanation, one which I think you may be able to provide comprehension for. On the chest of Christopher Beautre, there remained a strange substance. It was the colour of pure, transparent gold. It clung to everything, and if you had licked it, it would have been sweet to the tongue and syrupy to the lips. No one was sure why, but whenever anyone saw it, no matter where they were from or who they were, it made them think of a girl from our place and our time whose name meant something. It was something that made everyone think of a glistening sweetness, falling like dewdrops from crevices in trees and fay dancing on lilac flowers.

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This book has 2 comments.

on May. 31 2013 at 11:30 am
bengaltiger PLATINUM, Seymour,mo, Missouri
24 articles 0 photos 4 comments

Favorite Quote:
that's what she said

i like the idea

on Feb. 14 2012 at 5:39 am
ILoveWritingAlot BRONZE, E, Other
3 articles 5 photos 57 comments

Favorite Quote:
Every end is a new beginning;
What a caterpillar calls an end the rest of the world calls a butterfly;
There never was a good war, or a bad peace.;
“People will believe anything if you whisper it.”
“Where words fail, Music speaks”

Awesome idea! just love your idea...good job! love it!! i'd be glad if you'd just try reading my book