Fungus of the Heart (12 page)

Now, I watch the battles take place. Of course, during these reenactments, everyone’s already dead. But I force myself to imagine their flesh and blood.

And eventually, among faces of the dead, I see my father.

That’s when I decide to go home.

*

Back in Spider House, I spend some alone time in my room. Crying, manifesting old photographs, burning them again. Then I make Roan a new face, using the Snoopy carving kit Evening bought for me for my birthday.

I cut out the eyes, the nose, and a cruel part of me wants to cut out a frown. Maybe I want to hurt Roan’s feelings. Or maybe I want him to yell at me for once. Burn me. Punish me.

Of course, Roan would never do that.

And, of course, I cut out a big, stupid grin.

Downstairs, I transfer the fire sprite from his old droopy Jack-o’-lantern, to the new one. Then I hold Roan in front of the bathroom mirror.

“I’m gorgeous!” Roan says. “Thank you!”

“I’m glad you’re happy.”

“Me too! I love being happy. Are you happy?”

“Not really.”

“Oh no….” His voice breaks with emotion. “I’m so sorry, Shanna.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you want to sing together?”

“Not right now.”

“Can you carry me to Evening? I want him to give me compliments.”

“Where is Evening?”

“He said he was going into the online dimension to find information about love.”

“I see. I’m afraid I can’t enter the online world the way he can, so we’ll have to wait for him to come back.”

“How long will he be gone?”

“Not long. Do you want me to turn on your cartoons for you?”

“Yes! I like cartoons. Do you like cartoons?”

“No.”

“Oh no….”

“I’m gonna cook dinner now, OK?”

“OK. I like dinner.”

*

Evening’s not the demonic spirit he used to be. A year ago, he would scream at the top of his ethereal lungs, lacerate my skin with his claws, gnaw on my spirit with his fangs.

Tonight, he sits on the side of my bed and says, “May I?”

And of course, I nod.

I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night without Evening sucking out my energy.

With a smile, the demon places his hand on mine. “Thank you.”

I don’t feel his touch, but my body begins to relax.

Evening glows.

“Tell me a story,” I say.

“Alright,” Evening says, and stares out the window at the night. “Once upon a time, there was a wild, happy boy who loved his parents with all his heart. They were good parents. They taught him how to make baskets and they told him they loved him all the time. One evil day, a group of soldiers came to the boy’s village. The villagers tried to fight the soldiers, but the soldiers were protected by an angel of death. Then the soldiers blew up my parents, and chunks of them flew everywhere. One of the pieces even flew into my mouth. I was so sad and angry and dizzy. The soldiers pointed their weapons at me, and I really didn’t want to die. But I didn’t want to live either. Then time froze, and a man funneled out of my heart. He looked a lot like my father, only he was taller and he didn’t wear glasses. He offered me a spiky seed and he didn’t say a word. But he didn’t have to. Somehow, I knew everything. I knew he was me. The me who could have been, but never would be, because of those fucking soldiers!”

The room rumbles, and my clock falls off my wall.

“Sorry,” he says. “So then, I ate the seed.”

And every time Evening tells this story about how he lost his heart, he seems that much closer to finding it again.

Barely awake, I say, “You’re not falling in love with me, are you?”

“No,” he says.

“Who is she then?”

“He. He’s a shrub spirit from Connecticut. He’s very nice.”

“I’m glad.”

*

It seems General Thomas Reed is still the man he used to be. He barges into my house, unannounced, and serves himself a large bowl of my curry.

“Thanks,” he says, and sits at the table.

“What are you doing here?” I say.

He sips the curry like soup. “This is good. Did you make this? I mean, from scratch?”

“Yes.”

He squints at the Jack-o’-lantern on the table, and laughs. “Don’t tell me this is the same stupid sprite you kept as a pet during your tour. What’s the point in keeping it burning?”

“He’s not a pet.”

“Sprites are just tools, Shanna. They’re barely alive.”

“Get out of my house.”

He grins. “I missed our little arguments.”

“I’m serious, Thomas. Get out.”

He drinks up some more curry.

“Are you sad, Shanna?” Roan says.

“Yes,” I say.

“Oh no….”

And at this point, Evening funnels out of the computer.

“We have a guest?” the demon says.

“No,” I say.

“Is this man bothering you?”

And part of me wants to say, “Yes. This is the man who ordered the attack on your village.”

And part of me wants to watch all the love in Evening’s heart transform into hate. And I want to see the General’s smirk falter when Evening attacks.

Of course, Evening might not recover from another episode.

And, of course, I say, “I’m fine. I just need to talk to this guy alone for a while.”

“Are you sure?” Evening says.

“Yes.”

So the demon returns to my computer, to his shrub spirit.

Before Thomas can take another sip of curry, I turn the bowl to dust.

“You’re leaving now,” I say.

The General sighs. “Listen, I didn’t come here to fight with you. I need your help. Your country needs your help.”

“I don’t care.”

“Things are bad out there, Shanna. The werewolves and the vampires are interbreeding. The aliens formed an alliance with our own androids. Even the trees are against us.”

Part of me wants to believe him. I want to forget everything Evening taught me about war, and I want to become the angel of death once again. Because, the sick truth is, some twisted part of me believes that if I kill enough people, I’ll eventually feel more powerful than my father.

And then, maybe, I’ll be able to move on.

But I’m stronger than I used to be. So I say, “Your sales pitch isn’t gonna work on me this time, Thomas. I know we can’t solve all our problems with war. I also know you don’t give a shit about solving our problems. You just want to benefit from them.”

The General chuckles. “Amazing what you cowards tell yourselves to help you sleep at night.”

“Fine. I’m a coward. Now will you please leave me alone?”

“Yeah. For now.”

And he grabs a handful of my grapes, and walks away.

I sit at the table, take a deep breath, listen to the spidersong in the air.

“Are you sad, Shanna?” Roan says.

“Yes and no,” I say.

“I’m sad.”

“Why?”

“The man said I’m a sprite. But I’m not a sprite. I’m a gorgeous pumpkin.”

“You are a sprite, Roan. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Sprites are tools.”

I touch the side of the Jack-o’-lantern, and looks into its eyes. “I’m sorry that I haven’t been a better friend to you, Roan. You’ve helped me so much, and I guess part of me feels embarrassed about that because you’re a sprite. But that part of me is prejudiced and stupid and wrong. You deserve to know how much you mean to me. And…well, the truth is, you’re the heart of Spider House. I’m sure Evening would agree with me on that. Sometimes, your kindness is the only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning. And…I can’t imagine my life without you.”

“You like me?”

“Yes, Roan. I like you.”

Monkey Boy and the Monsters

Or Not To Wash

Monkey Boy threw his poo into the toilet—to be a good monkey, while at the same time acting upon his animal instincts. His nose traced circles in the air as he watched his dark mass descend into the Abyss.

Then, of course, he washed his hands with Soapy. “How ya doing?”

Soapy waited for Monkey Boy to finish rubbing him before he spoke. “Not so good, Monkey Boy.”

“Why?” He dried his hands.

“Just been thinking. You know, about life.”

Monkey Boy nodded—pretending to care.

Soapy paced back and forth on his soap dish. “Life is a strange thing. I get rubbed, massaged, every day of my life. And it feels really, really good, you know? But…but I can’t ignore the fact that eventually I’ll be massaged into nothingness. How can something that feels so good be the cause of something so bad?”

Monkey Boy shrugged.

Soapy stopped walking and looked at Monkey Boy in the face. “And so I’m really only left with two options, aren’t I? One, live a happy, soapy life—and die. Or two, live a stale, lackluster life—and live forever.”

Monkey Boy snapped out of the trance of soap-induced boredom he was frozen in. “Uh…interesting thought. But we gotta go, Soapy. You ready for the war today?”

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

Georgian

Monkey Boy fought on two fronts. One was, obviously, the physical war out there, and the other was the mental combat that occurred in here. Here being the home of Bill, Renee, and Tommy Robinson—the General, the Prostitute, and the Georgian.

Tommy sat, hands over face, with tears in his eyes—like usual.

Monkey Boy jumped on the child’s bed and petted him. He liked Tommy, because Tommy wasn’t afraid of his pain. (The General and the Prostitute, however, were afraid of their own shadow selves. The General didn’t lead an army into battle—instead, he forced Tommy to clean his room twice a day, and made Renee line up the silverware at the table just right. The Prostitute didn’t sell herself for money—instead, she did everything everyone asked of her, because she couldn’t stand the idea of not being liked.)

“You should just tell ’em, Tommy.”

“I know. I know that’s what I’m supposed to do. Parents are supposed to love their kids no matter what. But I know it’s not going to happen that way. They won’t love me as much anymore if I tell them. Do you know how I know that?”

“How?”

“Because when I first realized that I was Georgian, I didn’t like myself as much anymore. Mom and Dad hate Georgians, and so part of me hates Georgians too. Which means, in some twisted way, I hate myself.”

Monkey Boy monkey-laughed. “You liar. You go out with other Georgians almost every night. You told me you’re having the time of your life.”

“I am, but—”

“No buts. Let me ask you something. Do you really believe Georgians are any different from other people? Deep down, I mean. Deep down where all the poo is.”

“No.”

“Well then you shouldn’t be afraid. Bill and Renee might be shocked at first...they might even be mad…but just give ’em a little time. They’ll come around. They love you, Tommy.”

“Yeah. You’re right.” He sighed. “I’m just so scared.”

Monkey Boy smiled.

Pixie Dust

Faeries were just as mean and bloodthirsty and dastardly as any of the monsters (and perhaps even more so), but since they were cute and small (and no one could really understand what they were saying), the humans let them hang around.

Monkey Boy, nested in a chandelier, kept an eye on the dinner party down below. The owner of the mansion had hired Monkey Boy to make sure things went smoothly. He swatted at a few faeries who buzzed a little too close to his nose. They stunk like burning tires. They also, according to the humans, brought “atmosphere” to parties by throwing “magic pixie dust” on the guests. Which was really just a mixture of vomit, urine, and feces.

A man in a top hat stood. “Hello all, and welcome to the annual Family Wholesomeness Conference. As you all know, we are here to decide what is wholesome and what is not. Children everywhere are depending on us, so let us act cautiously and in an all around snooty manner.”

“Here here!”

“First on my list—the word booby.”

At the mention of the word, many of the men giggled like Japanese schoolgirls.

“Now then, the word booby has many meanings. It is a type of bird. It may also be used to propose that someone is ignorant. But—lately—when people say booby, they are usually referring to the female breast, which of course is a horrid, horrid thing for any healthy family to talk or think about. I propose—”

The door of the mansion exploded, and zombies flooded the room—moaning, hissing, growling, and making other stereotypically monster-like sounds. No matter how many times attacks like these occurred, people never learned. Sometimes, when a person wished too hard for a dead loved one to come back, it happened. They always came back as mindless, flesh-eating corpses, but that didn’t seem to matter. People didn’t change. They didn’t care about the consequences of their thoughts—their dreams. Even if the whole world became swamped with zombies, people wouldn’t stop tossing their pennies into wells or wishing upon disintegrating meteors.

Monkey Boy went to work. He threw poo balls at the eyes of the creatures (and blinded many of them) before leaping off the chandelier. The Conference people were so caught up in their discussions, they didn’t seem to notice what was going on. Even when the zombies started gnawing on and devouring their flesh. Monkey Boy jumped from body to body, slashing, biting. He didn’t hate zombies, so he had to use the trick his old fighting instructor, George, informed him about. George had fought in Nam, so he knew what he was talking about. George said that in order to kill something you don’t hate, you should imagine that thing as something you do. So Monkey Boy didn’t see zombies—but people. Poachers, specifically. Poachers brought back to life so Monkey Boy could get his revenge. He didn’t think the poachers were bad people—they were probably nice enough guys out trying to make enough money to feed their families—he just hated them. Hatred had nothing to do with how good or how bad a person was—just what the people did. And these poachers had killed Monkey Boy’s family.

The reanimated bodies had been decaying for a long time, so it didn’t take much clawing before the chest cavity erupted and spewed out rotting organs.