Fiction

Fiction: In Harmony of Darkness

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By Chris Ringler

Monday, November 29, 1999

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They stare and probe, and ask, and tell and pull but the shell remains. A blank ‘whatever you say' gaze and inverted frown the response. A mask made of false memories.

And every so often there's that knowing smile from them – I know you, I know what you're about, I know what you've been through, I know you. And she smiles blankly at them, adding this new Knower to the other liars. And deep inside her laughter turns to screams as the faces surround her and their devouring eyes push in on her, walling her within herself. All she wants is to be away from them, from everyone, from everything, to be in the darkness alone where she doesn't have to see their laughter or hear their smiles.

It's all too much to bear.

But when she is away, alone in her cradle of darkness, the words and faces remain, unseen but heard, leering at her from the cool emptiness. Bubbling up like bodies in a bog to take their turn at her. Her body shakes from the fury and frustration of it all, wanting to vomit every last word from her head. Needing to be rid of their infection. Hating but needing the faces. Needing but hating the dark.

She won't cry. Not over them dammit. Not ever for them. And it seems like each day brings another scar to her skin, another dammed up river of blood to join the others.

And there are so many others. Sometimes she can't even remember how they were made, seeming but to appear by themselves. Her patchwork scarquilt.

And the scars take her away, if but for a moment, and there is sweetness in their pain, but then the sweetness fades and the faces return, and with them the rage.

She has tried everything, the skin of others, the bitterness of the bottle, and the sweetness of the herb but nothing takes away the chasm in her. The emptiness nothing seems to fill.

They tell her the world is hers. That she can be or do anything she desires. And she laughs bitterly, wishing it was just as easy as wishing.

And it's hard not to laugh because the world is hers, so long as she lives it by their rules and their standards.

And everything is becoming so very hard.

Each breath feeling like she is swallowing sand. Each thought a migraine of frustration.

The shell eats at her.

Mocks her.

Damns, dooms, and keeps her from herself.

She's dared to cast it aside but always winds up regretting it. Revealing her true face only to be mistaken as a monster.

Or as a god.

And wanting neither. Wanting but to be herself. To be both monster and god at once. Beauty and beast. To show her heart and not have it be devoured.

God damn them.

And day-by-day her cage tightens and freedom seems further away by the day.

But sometimes, sometimes there comes a light. Not from without but from within. And it's in those all to brief moments in the darkness, when she catches the briefest glimmer of light and her music sets her free. Where there need be nothing but she and the music, the darkness falling away to reveal a world of light unimaginable to her before. Body and soul are stripped bare, the goose flesh rising as she makes love to the only lover to understand and accept her. Letting her music fill the chasm in her, giving voice to the scars, and finally she is free. Free to be whom and what she is. Laid bare before the music.

But it never lasts.

And alone, naked, cold, not even sure if it's blood, sweat, or tears that cover her skin in the blackness, and not quite caring as the flush leaves her skin and thrill leaves her body. And outside the door they hammer, fists and voices raised to call Rapunzel down from her tower.

And her wicked smile returns, wondering if they still plan to hang her with her own hair. Cage her in her own shell.

Or can they change?

Can they finally understand?

Can they see and accept her for whom she is?

Can she change them?

Can…

But then there is a distant sound, like thunder, like a tidal wave, like the end of the goddamned world.

And suddenly, there, within her dark heart stands a door.

And on that door reads the word Hope.

And maybe Alice can really slip away down the rabbit hole, never to be found.

Maybe Dorothy can find another road, not of gold but of something far far finer.

Maybe Little Red Riding Hood doesn't have to go to grandmother's.

Maybe, maybe, maybe…

Maybe there is another place where there are no masks or uniforms to bind. A place where pain is a tool. A place where the body a forge. A place where all are naked before the eyes of the Music.

A place where she can heal-mend-grow-become.

And laughing, she slips through a door called Hope that bears her face and leaves black pasts behind.

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Chris Ringler provided this brief biography.

I fell in love with writing as a teenager and, though the love affair has faltered at times, that love has remained strong.

I was born in Flint and raised in Linden. I graduated from Lake Fenton in 1992 and got my BA from UM-Flint in 1997.

I was involved in fanzines in Flint in the 1990s and, with some friends, had one issue our magazine Ghoulash go national. My first book, Back from Nothing, a collection of dark short stories, was published by University Editions in 1999. I have been selling it since the publisher went out of business. Back from Nothingcan be bought through me for $5. My web site is www.grimringler.com.

I have since finished a novel and two collections of stories, all of which need a publisher. I have had two poems published in Bare Bone 6 and Bare Bone 7. I review movies for a small web site as well. I am working on several other projects at the moment.

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