perfectly Mating a Soul to Flesh

With my first breath of this new day’s crisp March air, comes a guttural howl of agony to pass through my lips. My fingers knot and tear at the bedsheets around me as the images of war rattle in my head. And though my eyes see the simple brick room around me, morning sun shifting in delicately through the open window to the street, my heart still pounds with intense speed at the fading memory of my nightmare. The visage of a battlefield haunts my aching skull, the landscape painted with rotting hues of brown and red - dotted with small white writhing forms suckling on the corpses of friend and foe. 

Back in reality, a car muffler backfires in the distance, with it calling back the sounds of this dream. Gun shots, falling shells, exploding soil sprinkling the air before settling in my lungs. Someone calling out my name, screaming it with every fiber of their soul. Though it is not a name I recognize as my own. And the face reflected in the pools of trench rot at my ankles is one of handsome features, framed by bloodshot eyes. 

My modern face reflects back to me from a mirror set in the corner of my room, drawing me back into reality. And as I get my breathing under control, the nightmare slips away, back into the blackness of the purgatory that lingers in my carotid. The defining moments of those long dead akin to the hot blood pumping inside me. As my attention slides from the mirror to the floor I notice a sliver of paper laying under my apartment door. With a final wincing huff of breath, I drag my lumbering body off the bed and pull on my slacks before plucking up the yellow tinted paper. My eyes dart across the page as I recognize my Father’s handwriting, I feel a scowl part my lips. The only words written upon the page are an address and a scrawled message of, come tonight – it is urgent!  So much for the relaxing day of assisting at the library I had planned out. 

With my headache quickly returning, I pull on the rest of my suit and slide the piece of paper behind my red pocket square. Preening myself in the mirror before setting out the door and locking it behind me. My mind set to the task of first acquiring some breakfast and then I can begin my journey to outer Sussex to see exactly what Father finds so urgent. It has been some time since I have seen my Father last, he had disappeared in the night. And I feel a certain amount of shame in having hoped he had crawled into his own grave at last.

  The town's fresh air does me some good, clearing my head of any paternal drama to come. Down in the densely packed streets I begin to walk to my favorite food cart, avoiding the piles of rubble from the previous years blitz and doing my best to keep my eyes planted forward, ignoring the gawking stares of inquisitivity and disgust as fellow street goers regard me. The issue being one too many scars upon my flesh, a face that otherwise could pass for a returning soldier veering into that of a monstrosity. Despite their glares, I will not be made to hide away like some hunchback. Part of me feels that covering my features in some mysteriously shadowed cloak would only add to the venom I see in strangers’ eyes. Thus, the fancy suit - better to hold my head high and hope that with it might come some respect. 

Besides the often-flirty smile of the local librarian, at least the portly market woman named Margarat always has kind words and a genuine smile waiting for me. Arriving at her simple wooden cart, my eyes peruse the frame of it, decorated with salted meats and the most recent slaughter her sons provide for sale. I hand my ration card to her, my smile growing as she hands me a roasted apple and a small packet of simple spiced meat. 

I bow my head in respect as I say, “Thank you, my lady.”

She fan’s her hand bashfully through the air, playfully pawing at my jacket sleeve before bringing her wrinkled fingers to her plump cheek and tucking away a loose strand of grey hair under her bonnet.

Her eyes shine warmly as they look at me, a small pink smile parting the web work of wrinkles on her rosy face, “Maestro, did you hear the news?”

With the sweet flesh of the apple in my mouth, I shake my head, ducking low and stepping closer to her cart to hear the news.

Her hand darts into her red apron, pulling out the day's paper, “Bulgaria has joined the Axis!” Margarat’s friendly features flush as her eyes scan over the page, the bags under her eyes sinking lower. “I wish this war would end already… Damn Germany and all its rancorous blue eyed babes. All in the pursuit of their fallacious perfection, haven’t they claimed enough souls?”

I nod, having no words that would do my hatred of the war justice. Margarat sets the paper down and seems to blush once she realizes how close I am standing to her.

Her brown eyes shimmer as she lifts her hand to my cheek, her weathered thumb tracing my scars, “You look just like my Bert, you know that?” A smile brightens her face while a few tears slip free of her eyes to settle in the laugh lines next to her mouth, “Though thirty odd years younger than what age he would be now if the first war had not taken him. Damn these wars!”

My heart aches as I wonder how much truth lay in her words. Ducking my head another half foot lower, I plant two kisses next to her eyes, her salty tears washing away the sweetness of the apple. As I pull away, a mix of playful sunlight and her surprised smile shows me the girlish features that lay beneath her aging flesh. 

“My Margarat...” I whisper, then with a bit of horror realize it might not be me saying the words. I take a step back, “Thank you for breakfast, as always your company is more delicious than any savory treat you have for sale.”

Margarat’s features return to their normal pleasant disposition as she regards me. Despite the burning desire pulsing in my blood, I retreat into the flowing crowd of people on their way to work. Allowing myself to be carried along by their motion, further from the cart and the pleasant memories begging at my cortex. 

The rest of the day is spent traveling, I am able to catch a few taxis here and there but for the last leg of the journey I walk. Finally, I come upon the street named on Father’s note but find myself doubting I am in the right place. The home I see in the distance is quaint, a single-story farmhouse, complete with blue painted shutters and a partially built barn. Though as I approach the front yard my boots begin to sink into the soil and a new smell joins the air, the stink of natural rot. This home must be built on swamp lands, cheap and easily bought property. No wonder Father had set up here. I ignore the pleasantly painted front door and porch, a neglected rocking chair swaying in the day’s breeze. I know he won’t be inside such a peaceful area. Instead I make my way into the yard and my eyes confirm my suspicion, moldy stones betray the location of a cellar set into the back of the house. With a deep inhale of the yard's swampy air, I push open the cellar door and step down into the darkness.

My body sweats as I take in the basement cell’s stench, a mix of musk and rot so thick I can feel it beginning to coat my lips. Though I am on the outside of the bars that lay enforced before me, the mere sight of them is beginning to make my stomach tight. My body feels slick with the decay held in this room, the force of it piercing my linen suit to settle onto me like an unwanted embrace. The sensation of Father’s hand slipping out of the darkness to lay firm on my shoulder adds to the tension building in my muscles. His ivory white sleeve and jacket are an eye squinting contrast to our surroundings. My focus shifts from his bleary purity to the twinkling illuminations that flash beyond the bars.

“Beautiful, isn’t she, Maestro?” Father says in a hushed voice, barely audible over the hum of mechanical clicks and whistles that fill the lab behind him.

My eyes linger on the project, or rather, the person that he wants me to compliment. A mass of flesh that lays contained by the steel bars, limbs outstretched and held in place by a metal slab table. Just out of reach - if I dared to step that close to his specimen. I do not find her beautiful - I can barely even tell that it is a she. The stretched skin gives no hint of beauty or handsome bone structure. There are no curved hips or bosom to suggest a feminine disposition. Her body, restrained, pierced by tubes, entangled in cords – is a masterpiece of the macabre. Her red skin sings of death, white eyes of torture, and thin lips of hunger for life. Father steps in front of the bars, blocking my view with his head cocked to the side and a wide smile yellowing with his tan features. His eyes, though bloodshot, are wide and focused on me.

I open my mouth, noting how my deep voice joins the thrum of the machinery, “How long have you been working on her, Fathe-,” I can’t bring myself to call him that, “Rio?”

Rio spins around on his heels, pressing his face to the bars before saying, “Only a month. The Bobby’s found my last lab – raided it while I was out securing parts. So, I’ve been working here in secret.” His gloved fingers grasp the bars and squeeze, “I had to start all over again. But this time - this time I think I’ve really done it, she’s just – stunning! I had been planning to surprise you with her… but I just couldn’t wait!”

With his back still to me, he begins fumbling in his pocket before pulling out a thin silver key and unlocking the cell door. Without asking, he grabs hold of my hand and pulls me in along with him. The small cell turned lab is stuffed with machinery and ill secured wires. I avoid directly looking at the piles of disregarded parts that lay stacked in the corners, moist and decaying with the cellar’s humidity.  The vile stimulation has my heart pulsing loudly in my ears, the rhythm of it matching the pace of the pumps around the creature on the table. Rio is a mad man if he thinks she is stunning. Though as I look down at my own warped hands, I think I must give some credit to his craftsmanship with dead flesh. A nearby mirror reflects my veteran face, ageless yet battered, all situated stiff atop the slanted structure of a tall muscular man. I recognize each puckered scar as the signatures on my birth certificate, claiming me as the bastard son of one mad scientist and four dearly departed souls. 

Holding my breath, I reach out my hand to scoop up the creature’s limp fingers. The ligaments are still visible between the yet to be stitched skin. Though no life lights up her features, I find myself warming to this construct of morbidity. Her hair, like a crown of thick black vines lay clumped behind her pale skull and war-torn face. Reminding me of the Irish Goddess of death – Morrigan. A powerful woman of ancient mythos – representing both life and death. When life is finally given to her, I could call her Morrigan if it pleases her – the phantom queen. Though, unlike my own assigned Jr. naming, I would be glad to sit by until she chooses her own title.

The creak of Rio’s leather slippers gives music to his impatience, “Isn’t she perfect? The body came from some local nurse, poor thing wandered too close to the action. But now - she will be your soulmate once I bring her to life tonight.”

The mention of those words makes my skin crawl - soulmate - it seems a corruption to place them in association with creatures such as us. I have no soul of my own and I doubt Morrigan will either. If so, what of the siblings to her prior that Rio had shown me? Those whose lifeless eyes crackled to dust when the switch of incarnation was thrown. Were they not meant to be my soulmate? I pity any creature with such a duty put upon them before a second breath passes their lips. My hand releases hers to grip the edges of the metal table. My vision split between the viscera of Morrigan in front of me and Rio’s looming shape to my left. Both undeserving of their titles in my life – soulmate and father.

I watch as Rio’s lips split into a wide smile as he walks around me to cup his hands around her still open skull, “I’m just waiting for one key piece! The frontal cortex of a poet woman who drowned herself down in Lewes. Just think of the verse you could have with such a creature! Surely, a perfect wife for you, my boy.”

I would settle for a companion. My barely beating heart would be content with the mere existence of someone who knows pain equal to my own. Who unlike the proud nature of Father, could understand the equal parts blessing and torture to be brought to life from those who died too soon. Such a desire on my part makes my skin crawl tenfold, compared to the rot polluting this air. Knowing full well the nightmares Morrigan will have every night after her birth. Knowing that with life, comes the searing pain of being ripped from purgatory but only in pieces, bits of memory and personality shoved into a writhing body. Born again. Only to be forced to reemerge into the society our past lives sought so hard to leave.

And yet, with denying the temptation of returning to the grave – comes my choice for life. To remain here in a world that regards me with fearful eyes and whispered tongues of mutiny. How quickly they would cast me into the sea, ankles tied and bound to stones if they knew of my true birth. How quickly they would burn Rio at the stake for his having spit in their God’s face and broken the Almighty’s laws. I know in my heart Rio regards his children with perfection, for what other ideal would give him the will to mutilate the dead.  But no one is perfect. And for that, maybe I too am blind to my own false logic. For hating the conditions of my birth – yet willing to bestow the same delivery unto Morrigan. The metal slab loses its shape beneath my fingers, my muscles pressing such a force into it as to render the section flat under my palms. Father’s smile disappears as his hand returns to my shoulder.

“She will be ready soon! This one will be as perfect as you, my son!”

Something inside me snaps.

“You call this perfection? I call it existing.” My voice booms within the small room as I shrug his hand from my shoulder and stand with my back straight, looking down into my Father’s eyes.

His crooked smile fades and a new expression crosses his face, wide eyes turning narrow on me.

“I am your creator and master! I have given you eternal life unblemished by sickness or ageing. I deem you are perfection incarnate! Not just some mere insignificant creature doomed to exist – you shall thrive! After this one,” he quickly waves a hand at Morrigan, “I shall create you a family to seed the ruins of this inelegant world!”

I take a step closer to him, my hands lifting from my sides to enclose his head.

“No more... Two of us are enough to be a blight. Two ageless creatures to walk side by side until the Earth boils over.” My scarred thumbs delicately trace the skin under Rio’s bloodshot eyes, “And as for family – I have you,” my voice drips with sarcastic venom, “This eternal life you speak of, this is a bold gift you have given me. And yet - it is not one you can give yourself.”

His tears begin to wet my fingers.

“How about I give you such a gift, Father? I have seen enough of your procedures to replicate them. So how about I pluck that brain of yours out and warp you with the same perfection you have given me? I can muddy your very essence with the screaming remnants of those who have yet to be redeemed. Oh - how misery does love company!”

“No – no, I’m not ready for such a life!”

My grip tightens around his head, “You are a blasphemous man who speaks of perfection – yet knows nothing of its quality. Could you not have aimed your wits to save those who are dying in the war camps in France? Rather than toil away in bones and putrefaction – plucking out spirits who only wanted to rest?”

I can feel my own tears rolling down my cheeks, mourning for the people who lay vesseled inside me.

With my words trembling, I say, “I shall use your blood wrought gift, Father. Your skills and science, this opportunity at a new life. I shall use it all to save lives, rather than warp them with my own ideals.”

I look into his blue eyes, edged by pulsing red capillaries and sockets so dark with fatigue they look like the sockets of a skull.

“But it is time for you to rest…”

With a twitch of my muscles, his neck gives way. A sound like a soft pop barely audible over the noises of the machinery, then his body is falling from my grip to land on the cold wet floor. I take a deep inhale. The air smells somehow lighter, despite the addition of a new corpse. The echo of a door latch being knocked filters down through the cellar into my ears. Straightening my suit, I slip the wallet out from Rio’s pocket, thick with fresh bills in trade for a fresh brain.