The Widows Severe (II) I got up at my usual time, give or take a handful of minutes: 5:25. The only disadvantage to owning a house in the upper-class suburbs is the length of the commute to work. But getting out of bed is a lot easier to do when you don't have to worry about waking up first. My eyes felt hot and dry, and blinking was painfully abrasive. I went to shower. I did not look into the bathroom mirror on my way. Sometimes there are disturbing things in mirrors. And I'm not talking about crow's feet and gray hairs. Sometimes, when I dream, there are faces in mirrors. Stranger's faces. The faces of ghastly old women, with lifeless, sagging, gray skin, and crazy briar patches of coarse white hair, and mouths filled with rotten, brown teeth spaced like cemetery headstones. All of the elements of the faces that haunt the mirrors are horrible, but the worst are the eyes. Because all of the wretched, gnarled women in the mirrors have Cassie's eyes. Taking those blue eyes from the frame of Cassie's face, taking away her glossy black lashes and gracefully arching eyebrows... those eyes become something terrifying. Cold and calculating, far removed from human feeling, those eyes... the same eyes that watched from just outside the bedroom window the night I died by Cassie's hands. After my shower I returned to the bedroom to ponder my wardrobe. Cassie was still sleeping, her hair a delicate fan of black lace spread out on her pillow, her lips slightly parted. She looked so peaceful, so angelic. For a brief second I felt a deep and powerful resentment. It was quickly followed by shame. I knew Cassie was not to blame for my nightmares. I must keep my perspective. I am only having dreams. I dressed. The room was quiet like a tomb. I was pulling on my socks when I noticed Sophia entering the room. Sophia is a Siamese cat, and more than that, an excellent reason to want a dog. Sophia is Cassie's and Cassie's alone. I have nothing to do with that cat and that cat has nothing to do with me. The only time I ever tried to touch it, back in the days when Cassie and I had first met and just begun to date, it molested my hand with a quick slashing of claws and a fit of hissing. I hate that cat. And besides hate, sometimes I feel jealousy towards it. More than once I have had the thought that Cassie treats that damn cat better than she treats me. Sophia eats gourmet cat food and sleeps in a custom built, luxury cat bed. Sophia is allowed on furniture in the reading room that I might soil by touching if it has been more than an hour since my last shower. And I know that talking to one's pets is not an uncommon thing, but I swear that the way Cassie talks to Sophia is. When most people talk to their pets, they have that tone of voice, that cheery, mindless tone reserved especially for pets and babies. Cassie talks to Sophia on a completely different level. It's like she's talking to a sister. It's the same way with Marrianna and Elizabeth, the other two animals I share my home with. Marrianna is a raven; Elizabeth is a rat. You may recall that those were the names of Cassie's grandmother and mother, respectively. Strange, but naming an ugly, black, sewer rat, the size of a small dog, and a hideous, carrion-devouring, feather-covered bag of cackling after ones' relatives is far down on my list of ways to bestow honor and show respect. Sophia crossed the room, oiled and stealthy, and stopped at the foot of the bed. She quickly surveyed the entire room, then let her eyes settle on me. I was about to bean one of my Florshiems at her when Cassie suddenly spoke. "Isn't he handsome, Sophia?" Her voice was tired and content sounding. "So confident, so capable. He takes good care of me, Sophia. You know he loves me." Sophia looked at Cassie. "One day I will bear his beautiful children, and raise them up to be intelligent and responsible people that the rest of the world will be envious of." Cassie never looked at me. She wasn't talking to me. She was talking to the cat. Sophia miaowed. I finished putting on my shoes and made to leave. I was at the door when Cassie spoke again. "I love you," she said. I wasn't sure what to reply. I thought long and hard, but in the end couldn't find words suitable for saying out loud. I just nodded, and walked away. *** When I left the house that morning I was forgetting an important client's file that I had brought home to work on the night before. Such a simple thing, that bundle of over-literate, terminology-burdened paper, but my returning for it later that afternoon impacted on my life like a wrecking ball. I came back home during my lunch break. Cassie's car was in the driveway, but the house was quiet and dark. When I entered, the words "Hey, hon," froze at the back of my throat. Immediately I sensed something amiss. I almost panicked and ran, calling for Cassie at the top of my lungs, sure that some great tragedy had befallen her. Almost. Instead, I took a moment to gather my thoughts and calm down. I did call out Cassie's name once, but it was really barely even a whisper. I found the silence to be the most disturbing aspect of the house. Typically Cassie had on the radio or television or both, just for the sake of the sound, even while reading or conversing on the phone. Then I smelled the smoke. It was not a lot of smoke, mind you, not like the house was burning down or anything. It was more like a fireplace or a couple of candles. I cautiously proceeded further into the house. My back was a cluster of shivers, cold sweat was puddling up under my arms. Still a ways down the hall from the living room, I saw that blankets had been tacked up in front of the picture windows, and minus that natural light, the area was a menacing, flickering dim. The smell of smoke was stronger there. I took another step, curiosity compelling me to continue, despite the dread I felt growing in my heart. I stuck my neck out and angled my head so that I could see around the corner of the hall. The scene before me was illuminated by candles with sickly, wavering flames that burned a bloody red color. At first what I saw filled me with quiet fascination, but as I gradually understood what was taking place that fascination turned into cold, consuming horror. There were four figures in the living room, one of them being Cassie. Cassie was naked, a figure 'X' lying on a bed of unfolded newspapers that had been spread out on the floor. There were dark colored markings on her body, foreign looking symbols -- perhaps from a different language -- on her belly, throat, thighs and shoulders. Between her knees there sat an oven-roaster with the lid in place but the vent open, and from the vent a thin, black coil of smoke rose, like a snake charmed by a fakir's flute. At the ceiling, where the smoke was dispersing, it seemed as though I could make out the shape of a grotesque face -- a pig-like snout, teeth like needles and a flat, lolling tongue with a fork at the end -- but it was probably just my imagination. My eyes settled on the room's other three occupants then. They were old, and bent with their age, like walking question marks. And they all wore black. They were the women from the mirror in my dreams. The one nearest me had her back turned my direction. She was hunched over, looking at something on the floor near her feet. I could see a square of dark cloth spread there, but occasionally she would reach down with one skeletal finger and point at something on the cloth, and what the focus of such attention was, I could not see. Next of the three had feathers in her hair, and a string of feathers tied about her throat. I saw she had a crudely-fashioned metal hook with a wooden handle in her hands, and her hands themselves were like claws, with swollen knuckles and long, crooked nails. The last woman had moles, one on each cheek, each as big as a quarter, sprouting coarse, whisker-like hair. She had a nose like a wedge, thin and sharply pointed, with cavernous nostrils. She kept fidgeting with her hands. So far as I had witnessed, not a word had been spoken. The hag holding the hook seemed about to say something, but just as she was opening her mouth, the one that was so intently studying the objects on the dark cloth held up a hand and silenced her. "They have spoken," said she who looked upon the cloth. Her voice was a throaty moan. She looked back and forth between the other old women and then finally settled her gaze on Cassie. "Well?" Cassie whispered. In reply the three slowly shook their heads. Cassie began to sob. "I am seriously beginning to doubt the man has any 'X' chromosomes in his entire scrotum." It was the woman with the nose speaking, and I immediately recognized her voice as belonging to one of the speakers in my dream about the conspiracy; hers was the voice that sounded like snakes: so much air hissing along and between her teeth. "We must be patient my daughters," from the woman studying the floor. "Eventually, the elements will come together, and we will be rewarded for our efforts." She reached out to close the vent on top of the oven-roaster. The smoke, and the face (?) at the top of the column began to dissipate. Hook and Feathers scowled and bowed her head. "Be brave, child," she was talking to Cassie. Hers was the broken, strangled voice from my dream. "Please," Cassie said, struggling to get words out between tear-choked gasps, "let's just get this over with. Make it fast. Before I can think about it. As I watched, wide-eyed and terror stricken, I saw Hook and Feathers brandish her hook and then unceremoniously insert the blade. Cassie gasped; her whole body shuddered from a violent recoil. The old woman with the nose gently stroked Cassie's hair and whispered, "Be still, my darling." I watched. I couldn't turn away. I watched. Abortion. Back-alley-with-a-coat-hanger style. Scrape. I wanted to throw up, but I didn't. I wanted to run into the room and stop them from committing this atrocity, but I didn't. I just stood there and watched. Watched as the hook was withdrawn, and the formless pile, that might've one day been my son, was spread, like jelly, across the newsprint on the floor. I had to turn my back. My stomach felt full of crawling spiders and hot tears stung my eyes. I walked back through my house then, back to the front door. And then I ran... *** Back at the office I had time to think -- time to sort things out. Cassie was a witch. That was the foundation on which my thoughts were based. She was part of some kind of incestual coven, and a daughter was expected of her. Remembering back to the old man at my wedding, I knew that if and when Cassie did conceive a daughter, my usefulness to her would come to an end, and she would make the fourth in a series of Severe widows. I knew the names of the other witches too: Elizabeth, Marrianna, and Sophia... a rat, a raven and a cat. The thought of them living in my house was like bathing in ice water. And the thought of Cassie, conspiring with them, made me feel like I'd been raped. It took me all afternoon to sort through the range of emotions I felt. Finally, I settled on one that felt comfortable: hatred. Yes, I felt betrayed, lonely, victimized, abandoned, perhaps even a little bit powerless, but none of those feelings reflected my ability to enact a change. They were just different ways of expressing self-pity, and I have never been the type to sit with folded hands, worrying about my circumstances, waiting for change. I am not a victim of fate. I am a shaper of fate. If I grab hold of it with both hands, I can mold it to my liking. And my motivation -- my determination -- was my hatred. They burn witches don't they? *** The drive home cooled me down some. By the time I pulled into the driveway that evening it had occurred to me that I did, in fact, love Cassie a great deal, and that without her, my life would be lacking meaning. By the time I'd turned the knob and stepped through the front door, I was convinced that if I could remove Cassie from the influence of the other three I could win her back and save our marriage... but perhaps I was deceiving myself. I needed a plan though. I needed to come up with some method of separating Cassie from her beloved pets. Once I had done that, I anticipated that dousing them with kerosene and lighting a match would pose little difficulty. Well, perhaps the cat would, but the other two lived in cages. I ate dinner that night, but tasted none of it; which does not necessarily constitute a loss of any kind, as Cassie is a far from miraculous cook. My mind was too occupied by planning to give over room for noticing flavors and textures. I watched TV that night but was blind to the predicaments of the empty-headed mannequins that paraded about on the screen under the pretense of being entertainment. Several times Cassie asked me if there was anything wrong, and I felt sorely tempted to scream and yell and punctuate my points with my fists, but I did not. I said, "Everything is fine," in a deceptively calm monotone, while inside I raged at her gall. Sitting there, so guileless, so innocent, looking so damned normal, when just a few hours ago she'd been lying on this very floor, right here in front of the television, naked but for the black, pagan sketches that covered her body, letting a trio of evil old women abort my son. Later, in my bed, in the darkness, with Cassie snuggled up close, my plan began to take form. It came slowly at first; each piece I turned up was indistinct and riddled by doubt and a lack of confidence, but finally the elements did come together. And when I had all my actions planned out, I felt a strange soothing peace sweep over me, like the caress of a lover. And I slept.

It's probably the program I use to put these pages together, but it refuses to handle big chunks of text. And "The Widows Severe" is another such chunk of text. So, much like "Wrath", I'm going to break it into parts and provide a little navigation bar at the top of the page.