The Brand Ch. 13

His love or loyalty, whatever it was, was odd certainly, considering that Melody was unable to respond with any play, petting or even the simplest smile. The little dog's behavior did inspire a small twinge of jealousy in Victria, but the consolation was that Spanky, though he didn't appear to like her, responded immediately to her commands, at least most of the time anyway. .

Victria reached for her crutches, set one by her side, and then carefully manipulated the other in order to best support her way back to standing. When she'd left the hospital with Melody, that early morning of January 15th, she'd believed that she was on her way to recovery. She had advanced with her PT's help, all be it in small increments. If Victria had remained at the hospital, the sound wave and laser therapies that would have been provided there would have brought substantial heat into her connective tissue. Which, would have likely put her further along her rehabilitation than she currently was. But, Victria had made a choice. She'd chosen freedom over specialized care, had chosen risk and potential harm over passivity. But, that was just how she rolled. And now Melody, stunned senseless, lost inside herself, was her silent captive audience of one.

Yet, on that pleasant day in mid-April, the world around her budding anew, though she felt she had made significant progress, Victria still depended on the support of her crutches to get around. She hauled herself to the other side of the trail. A month earlier, Victria had discovered a particularly low branched tree, with a particularly horizontal branch that was just right for doing chin-ups, and had been working out with it ever since. Once directly beneath the branch, she dropped one crutch, grabbed hold of the branch, and then dropped the other. If working out my lower body was going to be slow going, she thought, then I'll jack up the rest of me. Healing wouldn't happen if blood wasn't flowing, feeding my extremities.

Unlike muscle, skin and bone, connective tissue, tendons and ligaments, took the longest to heal because they got the least blood flow due to their structure and location. She wasn't a fool, not totally. She knew exactly what her physical therapist's plan was, and she'd kept it up once she'd settled into Grandmother's. The only way to encourage blood flow, other than Glory's herbal medications and Grandmother's strictly vegetarian meals, had been to do specific exercises that would target the connective tissue that had been shredded by the big Arian's buck shot and then sown back together by Dr. Gupta. The exercises the hospital's PT had shown Victria were her best chance at regaining movement by strengthening targeted muscles and addressing any muscular imbalances that resulted from the damage and its ultimate repair.

First, she needed weeks of rest. So that's what she did, as incredibly annoying as it was to just lay there, day in and day out for nearly two months, doing her ankle rotations, buttock and thigh contractions and leg lifts while she read whatever Glory brought her. Then, as the days warmed and the snow melted, Victria was still unable to bring her knees to her chest. The pain had lessened substantially and most of her feeling had returned. But, her lower legs seemed to have an extremely slow witted mind of their own.

The last thing Victria wanted to feel as she slowly made her way back to full sensation in her legs was frustration. So to combat that feeling, she needed to feel some success. Which, was why she'd exploited the particular tree and its low horizontal branch. She'd done five repetitions the first time. That had been four weeks ago. Now she was doing ten sets of twenty and could lift her own body weight up and over her branch like a gymnast. The only hard part was making sure she didn't ram her heels into the ground when she came back down again.

She watched her fingers grip the branch tight, palms facing her torso, lower back curved, chest out: blood to the latissimus dorsa, the biceps, the fore arms and to the middle back. No pain, no gain. No blood, no healing: ten down, twenty down, thirty down, then once around the branch, spinning, focused, watchful, the world upside down, legs swinging, and then right again. Victria felt the burn, the exertion, and heard the blood pulse inside her neck, her heart beating in her chest, it was life, living, thriving, alive. Next time, she thought, I'll try the chin-ups out with a back pack half full with some of Glory's books.

She'd then done three more repetitions of ten and another spin, then another and another, her feet getting dangerously close to the crags and ruts in the ground below. Let's not push our luck Sunshine. Victria committed to another three sets of ten, then another three, avoiding doing anymore rolls for that session. Carefully, she lowered herself back to her feet and hung there, taking in the bright sky, the greening brush, the bright reds and purples of wild flowers, little Dumb Ass gnawing on the end of his huge branch and at Melody: mute, staring, inert.

Victria gazed at her love for a time, trying to will Melody to turn her head and look her way. She'd reacted to things, hands touching, and whispers in her ear, fits and starts of random motion, life shining dully from her eyes, but still always staring straight ahead. How can she do that, Victria asked herself. She doesn't even blink, for Christ's sake. Victria turned away finally, casting her sight to the closest of her crutches. Inside her head, she counted, one, two, and three. Loosely, she dropped, making sure to roll into a sort of push up position in order to minimize the impact on her lower legs. That done, Victria dragged the closest crutch to her, and then pulled the next one nearer. Setting the foot of the first firmly into the ground and then bracing herself, Victria carefully got back up to her feet.

Fitting the other crutch into her armpit, Victria briskly crossed the trail. She arrived at Melody's side and proceeded to gently run her fingers through her lover's long unwashed hair. She peered down at the dog, Melody's little Spanky, still chewing away, encouraging the growth of his teeth or easing it, for all she knew. A sudden breeze passed through the valley, sending the new brush to rustle and still waking tree limbs to sway and creak. Victria turned back to look at Melody, at her own hand gently forcing her face to gaze upward. They stared for a time: Victria's eyes studying, penetrating; Melody's vacant, gleaming green yet dull, utterly detached, and unmoored from the inside. Where the hell are you Mel, Victria asked herself. For a moment longer, she stared. Then, seeming out of nowhere, with a rush of wild fury, spit flying from her lips, Victria screamed into Melody's dim, placid face:

"What the fuck Melody! Would you fucking snap out of it already? What the fuck! What the fuck! What the fuck!"

Her echo was drowned out by Spanky's own sudden uproar, his hackles up, a fitful maddened barking and prancing around Victria's feet. Melody stared, motionless, an angry fist still clutching her hair, unfazed but for a single small tear welling in her left eye. Victria gently released her grip, shut her eyes tight and grit her teeth. Spanky, her little Dumb Ass, was still barking at her, yipping, growling and uttering short high pitched little howls of concern.

Why did this all happen? Because you're a stupid fucking bitch, Victria told herself, because you're a stupid, selfish, fucking bitch, that's why, Asshole. Opening her eyes again, she stared down at the dog. Early in their acquaintanceship, she'd looked his breed up on her tablet. Victria had assumed he was likely half Rotty, considering his thick thoracic musculature and broad head. But, it was the rest of Spanky, his small stature and his leopard spotted back, that identified him as a Louisiana Catahoula Leopard: intelligent, agile, energetic, assertive yet obedient and very good with children.

Menacingly she stared in his face. The dog looked away, but continued barking. Victria dropped one of her crutches, and then carefully leaned down to pick up the dog's big chew toy. Then, with all the upper body strength she'd worked for, and with the anger, self-loathing and resentment that had infused with the blood that pumped through her veins, Victria threw the branch with all her might and said:

"Go fuck yourself dog!"

A slave to his own desires, Spanky chased after it, dragged the great branch back, plopped back down by Melody's chair, gripped the branch between his front paws and finally uttered the throaty huff of an exasperated little old man. Victria uttered her own irritated sigh as she picked her crutch back up and turned away from both Melody and her dog.

She scanned the meadow before her, not exactly seeing any of it. Why I can't be someone else without being me, she thought. Just stop being stupid and you'll be fine. Fuck you. I think I'm stuck on stupid now. Then silence came, but for the fading pulse of heart beat inside her head. Suddenly, Victria found herself reiterating in her mind a passage she'd recalled from one of Glory's books. Statistically speaking, female serial killers are better at it than their male counterparts. The histories and novels Glory had brought her were primarily feminist in content, with the occasional volume of eastern philosophy or trashy treasure lesbian romance, but it was the history of female serial killers that struck Victria both as odd in its having been available and odd that she was so interested in it.

As the typical male serial killer, Victria mused, kills for a period of four years or so before being apprehended, the female recreational homicides kills twice as long before she is finally caught. Some female serial killers have murdered victim after victim for over thirty years.

That's right baby: girl power. Victria's mind seemed to settle with her latest pattern of thought. Of course we can get away with murder. Society does not see us as murderers. Or else why prefer us to men when hiring for positions involving little children, the sick and the infirmed? Mothers, nurses and girls next door killed quietly and they didn't leave their victims by the side of the road or in a dumpster for all to see. How foolish men were, how so like pissing on territory. And to what end? To get caught.

No one imagines us, we women, murdering in our homes, in our day cares or in our hospitals, but that's where you'll find us, scheming, plotting. Us, Victria thought. Is that me too? Should that be my new life, walking away from Melody, leaving her to be cared for by selfless people like Glory or Pam, so I can live a life I'm maybe destined to live, to prey on unsuspecting victims, conjuring spells that killed men and drove perfectly good women mad? It was then that it suddenly struck Victria. A new thought, though a logical sequence in the chain she'd been pondering. How bright was the color of magic, how nebulous was its depth?

The wilderness of the valley came suddenly into clear focus. Victria's eyes darted like eager children to the carpets of the yellow drooping flowers of the trout lily beyond the trail, to the dappled white and yellow flowers of the blood root, to patches of pink lady slippers, the deep burgundy petals of the red trillium and to the spiraling grandeur of maiden hair ferns. In the silent wood, Victria then found herself peering upward, into the trees, scanning the heights of hemlock, paper birch and numerous sugar maples. It was then she'd spotted him.

A bird, an oriole, a male, flame yellow and black plumed, was building a nest from a low limb of one of the sugar maples. His female was nearby, lighter yellow, grey headed, with two white strips other wings, foraging for insects among a cluster of pitcher plants. The female was not aware of the male's progress, but Victria was. The oriole had created a frame for the nest's pouch, strands of straw holding it firmly together.

The oriole's latest addition involved a natural seeming string of matter. As she stared more intently, Victria realized the bird was using a length of fishing line for his next rotation around the developing nest. In silence, hearing nothing but her own breathing, Victria watched as the oriole clung, fluttered, spun swooped and fluttered again.

What happened next was like a flash of golden licking flame. His wings beat wildly. His body twisted and turned. The nest swung with his mad beating frenzied, yet ultimately futile, escape, and continued to swing long after the oriole's body finally settled into stillness, the stretch of fishing line he'd secured to the nest then also secured around his neck, cutting into his throat, feathers askew, curled beak open, his black eyes wide with surprise and death.

Then, in the time that Victria had turned away to see if the female oriole had noticed, she had flown away. In the instant Victria looked back, there, perched just a foot or so from the dangling nest of the dangling oriole, was a great big crow. The limb bounced and drooped from his weight. His black eyes, first his left, then turning to stare with his right, met Victria's defiant gaze. The two creatures watched each other for a time, the one no less impudent than the other. What was the opposite of déjà vu again? Jamais vu, Victria reminded herself, when you know you've been here before, but it feels like the first time anyway. Nice one God, really fucking funny. Or, she mused, are you someone, something else?

It was only when the crow made the decision to move on, creep closer to his prize and remove it for his taking that he looked away. Victria continued to stare as the crow evaluated the problem of how to extract the oriole. Ultimately, it scratched and chewed at the nest's anchorages until it, and the oriole's corpse, fell to the ground below. The great crow, its wing span easily over three feet, swooped down and began to rend the oriole apart. Before finally looking away, Victria spoke, breathing her words into a sudden gust of cool wind:

"All education is subversion, all of it."

It was then that Spanky got to his feet, sniffed the air, and then began to bark. He was not after the crow. This, the great black bird seemed to know because it had not moved from its meal. Instead, the dog was interested in someone or something coming from the other direction. He bounded that way, panting excitedly. Victria smelled something on the wind then as she looked toward Spanky's path, something fragrant, yet completely opposite from the scent of all the new flowers around her. Her stomach expressed its desire, bubbling in her gut, in spite of the sight she'd beheld of the butchery spread before the crow's feet.

Presently, Victria watched Glory round the corner. Spanky was at her side, but sprinted forward, to get back to his branch. Victria watched him pick it up and start to drag it back to the advancing woman. Glancing toward the crow, Victria saw that it, and its dead prize, was gone, though the ground there was still covered by the ruined nest, the ground beneath it stained with the oriole's blood, his head left behind, and a quarter inch of spine extruding from beneath his noose. She was possessed briefly with a sudden paralysis of goose flesh, creeping down her spine, and then down into her bowels, inspiring the deepest kind of fear she'd ever known, the pulsation making her feel that she could just shit herself right then and there. Victria stared at the oriole's dead black eyes for a time and thought again: the color and depth of magic, white and black and all the world's shades of grey.

"Hey you." Glory called.

Victria turned to look at her again. The stunning, magnificent woman was smiling at Spanky and his effort to get her to try to get her to play a tug of war with him. But Glory's hands were not free. They were holding a white paper bag, the contents of which Victria realized was the source of the fragrance that had come before. The sight of Glory suddenly seemed to send Victria's fear away, back into the mysterious void of mind from which it had come.

There was no way anyone, Victria was certain, could keep from admiring the woman. Stunning and magnificent just about sized her up. She was as beautiful as she was imposing in her six foot three frame, her legs slender, her hips beguilingly feminine, her hair a lovely wild curly mass, her face handsome and strong, her pretty feline eyes always searching, guarding for the other's next move.

Her visits to Grandmother's were few, but there had been time enough for them to warm to each other. Yet, a distance remained, imposed as much as bridged by Melody and her needs. Getting along was still hard enough. Of course, Victria had thought about it: even if circumstances were different, she felt that the positive and the positive she and Glory were would invariably always find its way to negative. Still, free inside her head, for the most part, she thought about the glory of Glory.

"Oh my God, did you really bring me some Jet Burger? Hissed Victria, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Glory shrugged, withdrew a French fry from the white paper bag, with the cartoon image of a bright yellow and blue clad roller skater embossed upon it, and poked it into her mouth. Victria tucked the image of the strangling bird away and sent her emotional turmoil along with it. There would be plenty of time for brooding and deliberation. The meals that Grandmother had fed her over the past four month's had been nourishing certainly, but their flavor did not satisfy the longing, from one meal to the next, to have some meat or something that dazzled the palette and tongue. So Victria, during Glory's last visit, had made her promise to bring back her favorite comfort food. It had been a while since she'd joined them last and Victria didn't think the woman would keep her word, since she herself was much disciplined in her philosophy of food and health. But, there she was, handing the bag over to Victria as she took out a cup of soda and a straw, and then proceeded to unwrap it while Victria withdrew a burger. Deftly, single handedly, she unwrapped the sandwich, and then took a slow savoring bite. Then, positively swooning, Victria said:

"Oh my God, this is so good. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome." Said Glory, still smiling as she poked the straw into the top of the soda, Hopefully, Grandmother didn't smell it when I pulled in. With any luck, your current diet will let this junk pass through you without much ill effect. Let's hope it doesn't set you too far back."

"Come on," Victria mumbled with food in her mouth, "It's only a burger and some fries."

She watched Glory's smile suddenly disappear.

"It's never just only." She said, "You've got years of damage from that junk in you and we've only barely begun reversing its effects."

Victria vigorously nodded and bobbed her head in agreement as she gobbled down another bite. She couldn't deny it. It was totally true. Her insides never felt so good, and there was a clearer whiteness in her eyes, a greater sheen in her hair and a noticeable color and tightness to her skin.

"I'm sorry." She said, "Grandmother's food and your medicine's have been great. I can't tell you how great I've felt over these months. But, I just wanted-"

"Yeah, I know. And I just wanted you to stop wanting. Desire leads only to pain and death."

Jesus Christ, thought Victria, here she goes again: oh I'm so smart because I learned everything I know from my holy granny. Now I've grown up into a big granny too and everyone should bow to my wisdom and greatness, la-de-fucking-da. It's amazing how you can be so hot and incredibly annoying at the same time.

"Life only leads to pain and death." Victria answered.

Suddenly, Glory snatched the bag from Victria.