Miranda by Tara E-P
Author’s Note: Prose inspired by “Frances the Mute” by The Mars Volta.
He walked into the uncrowded bar. There was no lull in conversation because there was none. The bar stools were sparsely populated. The dust kicked into clouds as he walked across the dirt floor with big black boots. Old Latino men sat nursing warm, stale beers and watery scotch.
He made his way unsteadily to the far corner of the room. His clothing sweat-stained; his lapel smeared with red. His shirt unbuttoned showing the dark chest hair beneath; the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. The insides of his arms were scabbed with healing needle holes; a sure way to quicken the pulse. His pants were discoloured by grease. He had dirty hands and fingernails stuffed with grit. A thin plume of smoke danced above his head, anchored at his mouth.
A gust of wind blew the dancing smoke away as the door opened. Miranda entered, her hourglass body clothed in a tight bustier and sinuous skirt. Her dark bloodshot eyes searched the cantina. Her red-stained lips smiled when she set eyes on him. He returned her look blearily, his tongue licking his chapped lips. She made her way over.
“Fancy a dance?” she whispered as she slithered into the seat beside him. She drew back his drink and stole the cigarette from his lips; inhaling before letting it fall to the ground. She leaned toward him and placed her chin on his shoulder.
“Don’t you want to dance with me, Cygnus?”
He stood abruptly and snagged her arm. Cygnus gestured to the bartender and gripped her waist tightly; she cried out in protest, but he ignored her. Softly the ostinato of drums began to play; the repeated onetwothreefour onetwothreefour filled the room. He began to manoeuvre her around the room; kicking up dust and staining their feet. His hands moved from her shoulders, down her arms to the small of her back. She moved closer to him. They could feel each other’s pulses emanating in the dank bar.
He launched them fast and faster still around the room, her skirt flying out around them. The music quietened, the metronome had fallen and he brought her back to him. He slowly began to dip her, cradled her head and as she extended herself and let her fall.
“Puta!” he hissed at her and moved back towards his table. Miranda lay in the dirt and looked at him. He picked at a scab and it began to bleed as he lit another cigarette and ordered another drink. He ignored her; the other patrons overlooked her too.
He watched her wipe herself off indignantly and walk towards him.
“Tu madre est una puta!” she slapped him and began to walk away. He grabbed her arm and she felt the bruises begin to rise as he dragged her outside. Her arm throbbed and began to swell. His hands slid around her neck and squeezed. Miranda gasped and struggled to free herself.
“We don’t want you here chica. You’re a wolf.”
Miranda’s sight began to waver; the dark was closing in at the edges. Tears welled in her eyes and began to slide down her rose-coloured cheeks. She struggled to breathe, struggled to free herself and struggled to ignore the pains. Cygnus’ eyes continued to bore into her own. The black irises betrayed nothing more than a hunger for needles. He did not love her. Her neck bruised, her arm swollen, Miranda once again fell to the ground. She did not get up again.
Oh mother help me! Miranda woke into dream. She was a young girl playing in the dirt that surrounded her mother’s small shack. They had no running water and Miranda was forced to relieve herself in the sparse brush to the sides of the house.
She heard the barely muffled moans coming from the small brick structure. Miranda fought the urge to scream, “Don’t you pretend I’m not here! That I’m not alive!”
My bones ache because of you mother.
Miranda was branded thirteen, unlucky. Wolf-cub; child of Cassandra.
A man stumbled out of the small building and smiled lewdly at her. She shrank away from him, as he rubbed himself and closed his fly. She quickly darted into her home to find her mother’s arms; to crawl into safety.
Her mother lay nude on their shared bed, a black eye adorned her face; deep bite marks were along her neck. She was sound asleep. Miranda curled into her, and pressed her face against the side of her breast; closed her eyes and forced sleep to take her.
Miranda woke hours later, the air was cold and there was nothing she could do. Miranda wished she could peel back her skin and wash Cassandra out. Cassandra was but a vessel and in the end, a guiding force. There was no light in Cassandra. There was just body. The metronome had long since stopped.
Months later, Miranda lay besides an open window unaware of them. She sighed as they deftly entered the room like shadows. They crept around her and whispered in her hair. They’d suspected her sin; she carried them like a pack of wolves. Vicious. Hungry. Wild. They moved away and stroked her cheeks. Her unconsciousness knew they were there, but kept them at bay for the moment, protected her. She didn’t wake, yet.
Her beautiful raven coloured hair lay in undulating waves down her back; pale olive skin glowed in the moonlight from the open windows. The air was still, free of moisture and cold. The metronome pulses.
They touched her lips, her mouth opened and lent towards their cool hands; seeking the coolness that the dead air denied her and the inhabitants of her village. A bead of sweat rolled from her forehead, down her neck and followed the curve of her breast; following a path to evaporation.
They carried her to the unmade bed. She stirred, sighed, felt them touching her; all of her. She began to awaken and still the metronome pulses.
They surrounded her and laughed as she yelped. Stabbed at her innards, lent down and licked her ear, whispered gleefully, “maybe we will always haunt you.” They continued to laugh and revel in the fright. Sleeping at the bottom of her bed, they caressed her bruised body and kissed her feet.
Bones ached; her guts twisted causing her to cry out in the middle of the night as they slipped out as they had come, silently, as shadows. Will she become one of them? Will she become like Her?
The metronome began to pulse within her; could feel it at her seed. The villagers became even more wary of her; didn’t speak of acknowledge her. The pulse grew bigger, pushed her abdomen out. She walked among them as the dead; they mourned and tried to forget. When Miranda sang they all turned away.
The shadows had nested inside her; sank their teeth into her flesh. Gave her the scathing gift, Elvia; daughter of Miranda. Elvia fought away from the womb. Elvia felt the dirt that resided there. The sin, the wolf; the untamed.
The elders watched, as they always did. Owls; wise men watched and did not care for her. When Miranda sang they all turned away! They knocked at the door, and demanded the child. Took Elvia still attached at her breast, still connected to her veins, covered in their shared viscera.
And the metronome pulses still.
Elvia cried out and reached for Miranda, but they carried on. The villagers ignored her pleas, used to the owls’ noose they obeyed and turned away.
Miranda’s world began to darken, the pulse began to die and anger began to rise. The wolf had had its way and Miranda would assimilate it and have hers. No longer a tamed woman, the dam has broken and soon she will create oceans from their lakes. They will reap what they have sewn. Now a shell, Miranda had become one of them.
In the following days, Miranda had drawn even further away from the village and its people. Cassandra, Cygnus, the villagers, her apparent punishment and the loss of Elvia had all become too much.
All night, I’ll hunt for you. Miranda’s mind was set, as was the destinies of the villagers and all the men who had hurt her. But with every body that she finds, Miranda won’t forget who she’s looking for; Elvia.
Sadly, Miranda thought, Cassandra had died long ago, and would not be able to feel her fury. This was to be the only regret Miranda would have.
Miranda walked into the old dank bar. The deep red ruffled dress she wore accentuated the round curves of her hips as she walked. There was no lull in conversation because there was none. The bar stools were sparsely populated. The dust kicked into clouds as she walked across the dirt floor. The same old Latino men sat nursing warm, stale beers and watery scotch.
He sat in the corner slumped under the pressure of a drug that ran its coarse way through his veins. A slow flamenco song played softly in the background. She danced to it as she walked towards him. His dazed eyes followed the movement of her hips; onetwo to the left, threefour to the right.
“Cygnus…” she let it hang between them for a moment. “Did you fancy another dance?”
He just stared as she grabbed his arm and dragged him to the middle of the room. She held him as he had held her. Her hands at this hips, as she ground her lower body against his; the drug had taken all of his body with it, there was no reaction. She nestled her head against the side of his neck and rubbed his face.
“Prepararse, my love, vas a sufrir.” She whispered in his ear as she reached for the small hunting knife hidden beneath the ribbons of her corsetry.
“There’s no light in the darkness where you are going.” She continued to whisper and rubbed her hand down the side of his stubbled cheek. Miranda brought the knife from behind her, violently forced it through his ribcage and into his heart. It burst like a spring flower, and the blood made its way onto her chest and face. She pushed him away from her, and he fell like a stone. Miranda walked out of the bar and still, the occupants payed her no attention.
Miranda had begun to peel back her skin and scour away the diseases that had nested there.
