Some people die a long long time before their bodies finally give up and check in. I’d have to say that the day I died was the day I realized I was too much of a coward to risk death. Interesting paradox there, eh? Yeah, I think it’s funny, too. So funny I cry myself to sleep at night.

I used to eat my lunches in a park near my office building. Same lunch every day: peanut butter sandwich, a box of raisins, an apple, and a dark carbonated beverage. I worked at a blue-collar job that had good benefits. My desk was organized down to my multi-coloured post-its, clean and perfect. Had been for all five years I’d worked there. I’d come in in the mornings, check my mind at the door, and pick it back up at night. After five years, I usually didn’t bother to pick it back up. I was drifting, a waste. Slave to routine, all that crap. My lunch at the park was the only real part of my day. I could have eaten at my desk, but somehow I got into the habit of walking to the park across from my office building. I’d sit on one of two benches; one overlooked the little pond where swans glided over the water, one overlooked the traffic. The swans were pretty, the traffic was engrossing. I’d stare at the wheels, creeping creeping creeping like bugs when the cars sat at the red light, then ripping into action and whirling away so fast, so very fast. I’d wonder what it would be like if I could make myself more invisible than I already was and lay on the pedestrian crosswalk till the red light turned green and feel that ripping for myself. Feel the wheels spin over my body, splitting my head, snapping my ribs, and splattering my blood all over the road. I became obsessed with daydreaming about different ways to kill myself. Maybe I should have seen a shrink. I didn’t think it meant anything that the only joy I derived from my life was envisioning my twisted carcass smeared all over somebody’s tires.

For years I did this. Crunching on my apple, watching traffic. When I became disgusted with myself, watching the swans. Never thinking. Ever.

One day I stare lifelessly, engrossed by three cars sitting in the left-hand turning lane, all with vanity plates related to sports. SOCRGOD, VKNGS and JAZZ. Granted, the last one could have been music, but it also could have been sports. Seeing them creeping along like bugs in single-file made me all happy inside. How funny and cute, wouldn’t they make an interesting story to tell at the water cooler? Three cars all in a line with sports vanity plates. Yeah.

Then I notice this little girl. I don’t know if she had a mental disorder, or if her mommy fed her acid, or what. She’s wandering into traffic. Slowly, in lazy little circles. You’d think that some of the drivers would notice her. Step on their brakes. Stop. But some drivers enter a ‘zone’ when they’re behind the wheel. A zone that recognizes broken white lines on the left, long yellow line on the right, and nothing else. Not their speed, not the distance to the next car, nothing else. Not little girls dancing in teeny tiny circles not 15, 10, 5 feet from their spinning, ripping wheels. A blue four-door sedan screeches its brakes and comes up just short of her. Unfortunately, the red car behind him doesn’t and slams the sedan into the girl’s stomach, knocking her down and in the way of oncoming traffic. The car whose wheels are pointed directly at her head doesn’t see her in time to stop them from coming in contact with her skull. The last-minute veer to the left came too late.

It was the death I’d dreamed of for years. I stared at her body, her little shoes. I’d never seen anyone die before. Never. I could not take my eyes away. Someone’s screaming. Running out into the cars. Most of them are stopped, none hit the screamer. It’s a woman. She’s cradling the little girl now, hysterically sobbing. Calling her name, “Mabel, Mabel!! Maaaaabeeeeeeel!!!”

Soon an ambulance, police cars, a thick wad of bystanders obstructing my view from the bench. My lunch hour’s up. Time to go back to the office. I throw away my paper sack and go. My face hasn’t cracked an expression for 20 minutes, not since Mabel went wandering into the street.

My report’s due at the end of the day and I can’t stop thinking about her. My car needs an oil change and I can’t stop thinking about her. My cat vomited on my blue-checkered couch and she won’t get out of my head. I’m lying in bed and she’s dancing her little circles behind my eyelids, in the dark, where the only white is her dress. The only red is her blood. She won’t get out of my head. She’s filling all the little spaces, till I have Mabel running out of my ears. Running behind my ears. Over my breakfast cereal. Skipping across the morning paper. Dancing all over my steering wheel. On my papers. Computer screen. Whispering into my ears and sitting on my shoulder. Mabel. Mabel. Mabel.

I clip her obituary. Mabel Grenwich. Mabel Grenwich Mabel Grenwich. 241 S. Bend Sky Yard 6. Buried at Woods Hill Cemetery. Mabel Grenwich Mabel Grenwich Mabel Grenwich born July 29^th 2073 died March 7^th 2081 Mabel Grenwich Mabel GrenwichMabelGrenwichMabelGrenwichMabelGrenwich

I wonder if the little plastic balls that held her pigtails smashed under the tires, left little glistening shards on the pavement.

Mabel Grenwich in my soup.

Mabel Grenwich in the men’s dressing room.

I wonder if her white dress came from a thrift store or a department store.

Mabel Grenwich in my dreams.

Mabel Grenwich humming along to the vacuum cleaner.

I wonder if she had a dog. A cat.

Mabel Grenwich with eyes so big they hold the whole world.

Mabel Grenwich is staring at me.

I wonder if she hates me. I wonder if she knows.

Mabel Grenwich whispering a song.

Mabel Grenwich..Mabel Grenwich...

Haunting me.

I woke up in the middle of the night so cold my breath came up in a little cloud. I don’t know what the date was, how long it had been since she died. But I knew why she wouldn’t leave. I knew why she was always there. I knew.

Sitting on a park bench, watching the traffic. I don’t know why there was a park bench facing traffic. So close to the road. I don’t know why. Maybe it was actually an autorush stop, though for all the years I’d sat there no one had ever waited for an autorush. I don’t know if there was a sign. It’s not important. I’m so close to the road I feel wind when the cars speed past. So close to the road I see little pebbles fly across the sidewalk from their wheels. So close to the road that when little girls with white dresses and pigtails go dancing into the street I’m close enough to get up and grab them. I’m close enough to pluck them out of traffic before any cars hit them. I’m close enough that they don’t have to die. I’m close enough ....

Mabel Grenwich in my eyes, everywhere I look, Mabel Grenwich.

A death I’d dreamed of for years. Only I’d always wanted it to be my death. Not someone else’s. Why didn’t I save her? Because I was afraid? Because I wanted to see her die? Because in that handful of seconds that I knew her I hated her enough to kill her?

There are supposed to be safeguards to keep pedestrians off of roads. The pedestrian crosswalk. Sensor plates beneath the road that flash when there’s a person on them. She was so small, she’d never set one off. Railings to keep them on the sidewalk. So small, she’d slip through. People that sit, holding a half-eaten apple. Its juices running over their hand, watching. Death voyeur. Sick, twisted little men. That’s me.

I became obsessed with Mabel Grenwich in a whole new way. Not mindless, numb confusion. Guilt so strong and fierce it swept over me and drowned me. I visited her grave. Left countless flowers. Toys. Left anonymous gifts for her family in Sky Yard 6. Wrote letters to public safety commissions. Watched the road like a hawk when I drove. Did volunteer work at construction pedestrian rails. It wasn’t enough. Despite everything I did, she was dead. Rotting. Dead.

I went to church. A lot of different churches. Searching for my inner peace, a way to set my mind at rest. Hail Mary. Praise Allah. Is it my karma that Mabel Grenwich is always with me? I led such an unextroadinary life.

2 years of mindless soul-searching, grief and guilt. What could I do?

The thing about being corroded and empty and sick on the inside is the only thing in the whole world that you’re afraid of is yourself. The demons just don’t scare me anymore.

Faust called Mephistopheles. Made a pact. Mephistopheles did whatever Faust wanted him to for 20 years.

I’ve studied for many years to know what I know. Mabel’s been dead for so, so long. Does her body ever stink. I had to learn a great deal of complex wiring to disconnect the security at the cemetery. Had to build myself strong so I could dig up her grave before dawn. Had to capture some animals. Had to draw in the soil. Make some candles. Read some books. So many old, old books.

I don’t know if you’d call it witchcraft, but it’s not that. Or at least not any kind that exists in your mind. And it’s not Satanism. I’m not calling Lucifer. I’m calling something older. More powerful.

I have to give Mabel her life back. I have to. So there won’t be little Mabels everywhere I go till I die. So she won’t live in my shoes, my bathroom sink, my refrigerator. I could commit suicide, but I’m too afraid of death. More afraid of death than what I’m summoning tonight. So afraid.

Some blood runs, some flames burn. Some words are said.

Come back, Mabel.

Come back.

 

...eaking news story, a fire on 72^nd and Kane St., George Beeman is on location. George?

Thank you, Linda. The fire started around 1 in the morning, and has engulfed the entire south end of Kane St. It apparently started in an abandoned warehouse on 78^th and Kane, and winds are sweeping it eastward. It thankfully has as of yet to hit a residential area. Firefighters have already gotten most of it under control, so far only one reported death, body found behind the warehouse where the fire started. Some animal bodies surrounded ....

 

             Krissy Mezoski worked ten nights a month at the homeless shelter on Underhill St., just five blocks above Kane. She was listening to reports of the fire on the radio, wondering whether they’d have to evacuate, when a little girl wandered in. She wore a black dress and reeked so bad Krissy was nauteous. She put a napkin over her mouth and nose and went over to the little girl. Smiling, she said from behind the napkin “The first thing you need is some new clothes and bath, sweetie. Look at you, you’re just filthy. What happened to you?” The child just looked up with wide, frightened eyes. She shied away from Krissy’s touch, and wandered into the bathroom. Krissy picked up a dress from a charity basket and followed her.

              

“Here, honey, I bet this will fit. Why don’t I just get this off and .. oh.”

            The dress crumpled at her touch and the girl stood naked. There were burns on her skin, and she was bleeding from different cut wounds on her body. There was some sort of pattern, but it was difficult to see beneath the soil.
            Krissy gaped, and the napkin fluttered to the floor.

            The little girl stared at her with eyes so big they held the whole world.

 

..other news there was an act of vandalism at the Woods Hill Cemetery. The security systems were disengaged and the grave of a Mabel Grenwich, died March 7^th, 2081, has been dug up and the body is missing. The police have no leads at this time. If anyone has any information ple....