Chapter 15 Martha
Martha
With a racing heart, I try to will my mind to sober up, but until the lights turn on I won’t know if it’s worked.
“I just hope my Ruthy is okay,” I whisper to myself softly.
Trembling hands rise with my body, on the brink of hyperventilating.
Is it the weed or my emotions? Who am I kidding, this is definitely the weed.
My fingers continue to rise, sliding against the soft papered wall.
How unique. Ruthy would never allow this much wallpaper in our humble abode.
She said once it was a bitch to take down, but why would anyone want to remove such a beautiful display of art?
Nonetheless, my hand continues to slide until a familiar nub of plastic presents itself, the light switch.
Giddy with excitement, I flick it on and the strong light beaming down nearly blinds my fragile eyes.
Blinking rapidly, to allow my eyes to adjust, tiny bubbles are added into the mix of my vision. Dammit, do I have cataracts? A few more seconds of blinking clears them and my worry washes away like leaves in the wind.
Shaking my Martha knees, I take in my new surroundings, and never have I been happier to be trapped here.
In the bathroom.
A beautiful porcelain commode sits regally before me for when urgency calls for it. And a fun fact about us old folks, urgency presents itself regularly. From either end, it doesn’t discriminate.
The white tiled floor shines brightly under my soft fuzzy slippers.
Vintage beige wallpaper with green vines and faded blooming flowers surround me.
A dark countertop sits upon stained brown wooden cabinets with tarnished gold hardware.
A mirror, dated with some chips in it, sits center stage with the same tarnished gold frames the glass beautifully.
This is a sexy bathroom. Sexy people absolutely lived here once upon a time.
A stand-up shower surrounded by glass is snuggled into the corner, and I am taking it all in for possible renovation ideas at home. Oh, Ruthy is going to love this.
Taking a step forward, my slipper-clad feet pad along the tile before swivelling myself around to face the mirror head-on.
I expect to see my fine self reflected back upon me.
Where my head full of rollers should be is black stringy hair.
I tilt my head, but the reflection doesn't follow.
Fuck me, is this weed laced? How bad am I tripping right now?
Reaching my hand forward, my fingertip touches the cool glass and a face appears next.
I startle, jolting backward. This lady has been through the wringer.
Droopy, gray death-looking skin, with decaying teeth where some are even splintered and broken.
Her beady eyes glare at me widely. Why is she so angry? Jesus.
Pulling my hand back, I raise two fingers, giving her the peace sign, and declare, “I come in peace, friend. Please, I mean no harm.” And instead of responding back with words, because apparently that is a big ask, her mouth opens, trembling and twitching, with tiny hisses coming out like a cat who sees a light dancing on the wall.
“Are you all right?” I ask, genuinely concerned. Does this poor woman have rabies?
Just as my concern is revealed for her, she emerges from the mirror. With eyes wide, I am alarmed. Patting around my nightgown, I don’t feel any possible weapons I could use should this get out of hand. Spy 101: never forget your weapons. Yet I have forgotten, completely unprepared for this.
Mystery Woman's fingernails are very overgrown, curled, and filthy.
So much bacteria is built up under them that they are nearly solid black.
Bruising surrounds her nearly see-through throat and as more of her body creeps out, I see she's in a similar nightgown to me, though hers is older, tattered, as if moths had gotten to it. This woman needs some TLC and support. A cheer team reminding her as she gets back on her feet that she is loved. That’s it, we are taking her home with us.
Ruthy may have concerns, but I have a habit of bringing home stray animals, so this should be fine.
Glancing down at the vanity, I spot a silver tray which displays an array of beauty tools.
A wooden varnished brush with thick black bristles, metal hair pins, and a butterfly stained-glass hair clip.
Instinct says to grab one, to use something to defend myself should this go sideways, although I do not want her to see it as threatening and react first. My mind is torn.
Then just before I nudge my eyes to make contact with her again, she has caught on to my mental turmoil.
The lady from the mirror pivots. Shit. Her focus is no longer on me, it’s on the array of weapons.
The rest of her body follows, legs limp with toenails just as disgusting as the ones on her fingers, with her upper body dragging her limbs across the countertop.
A sheen follows behind, water or urine, I can’t be sure without further inspection.
And with each movement she makes, her nails click and a tinge of an odor follows.
It's nearly horrific enough to cause my eyes to well.
Good golly. To break the awkwardness, and perhaps as an added distraction, I ask softly, “What do we call you?”
Apparently, that was out of order, because her head turns swiftly, followed by a scowl displayed proudly on her face.
Holding my hands up in defense, I placate her. “My apologies, madame.” Ruthy is going to love this one, she is feisty.
As my mind wanders, I daydream about the life the three of us could have with my collection of stray cats, birds, and the one cricket whom I just only met this evening.
We are going to have the most magical time.
A table full of domino pieces follow but before I can see who’s winning, abruptly, the daydream is interrupted.
A sharp scream echoes throughout the thin old walls of the haunted mansion. My body freezes, followed by a slight breeze under my nightgown. Tiny ticks bring my attention back before me as my eyes try to locate the origin. The countertop is now bare, with an item missing off the silver platter.
Shit.
Another hiss causes a frantic feeling under my skin.
Where did she go?