The Black Wedding

[Naunet]

They’ve done it. They’ve taken her from me. Thrown her into a hole in the ground to smother to death and then thrown me in the lunatic asylum and threw away both the shovel and the key.

I should have known they’d do that. They’re the ones who don’t know love when it’s staring them right in the face. And they think they know enough to tell me I did something wrong! I bet most of them can’t even define love. The ones who can define it, I can guarantee that nine out of ten of them are dead wrong.

I’ve been asked many times how I chose Anna over all the other female patients I’ve had, like somehow I pulled it out of my ass. I say nothing. After all, if I told them why, they would scarcely have the time to believe me. But I might as well tell the story of why—so that at least somebody will believe me.

I was working as a hospital pulmonologist at that time. Pulmonologist wasn’t my first choice of profession. What can a pulmonologist or any other doctor for that matter do that others can’t? It’s not like they’d skinny dip in Palm Beach any time soon. That’s what people who have nothing better to do with their time but fantasize are for.

If there’s one person who deserves to be in Palm Beach, it’s the novelist. The kind with their works on the New York Times best seller list so long their memories of when they weren’t on it are getting fuzzy. And if I was ever going to get to Palm Beach, I knew I’d have to do that. I’d have to write best sellers the way the queen of a bee hive produced new bees.

I probably would have too—if my mother hadn’t insisted I get a real job.

“What makes you think you can get a living at writing, Carl? Writers don’t make money, Carl—they steal it. So why don’t you get a real job and have a respectable living instead of the nonsense led by people who like to call themselves writers?”

And with that, the conversation was over. I still don’t like to talk about my medical school years—so I’m not about to describe them now. And soon after graduating, I landed a job as a pulmonologist.

Actually being there didn’t help me either. If you had to treat people who kept hacking up lung fluids, you wouldn’t exactly call it fun either. A few of them manage to die on you each year—and the running joke at the hospital was that if you didn’t have at least three die, you weren’t working hard enough.

The day I met Anna was supposed to be a normal day. I sure didn’t think anything when I read the chart. The name Anna Tanzler didn’t strike anything for me—except perhaps that the patient was part German.

As soon as I walked in, the first thing I saw was her two missing feet. Or, so I thought. When I asked her to roll over during the examination, all at once they bloomed. True—they were tinier than teacups, but they bloomed into red and gold all the same. There was only one way she could have gotten feet so small: her feet were bound. And I was foolish enough to think only the Chinese did that.

And as it turned out, she was part German. To be exact, her father was half German and half Polish who met in Treblinka. Not exactly the most pleasant way to meet the one, but I suppose love doesn’t care about death camps. And as for her mother, the family tree said she was related to George Washington. What’s more, Anna had graduated from the School of American Ballet. Just like her mother and grandmother.

But there was one problem. She had cystic fibrosis. How she even lived into her late twenties is beyond me. Whenever she had an episode, she hacked so much you’d have thought she was trying to hack up cement. When she finally managed to dislodge some of it, you’d have thought her lungs were rotting—because the mucus came out yellowish-green.

And with all the tests she got from other doctors, it was a wonder her lungs could even work at all. She had been stuck into so many machines and sprayed with so much radiation you’d have thought she would have gotten cancer. But Anna didn’t get cancer, and between attacks she was actually strong enough to play the violin.

Some days, I could have sworn I heard her playing it right behind me. Even when I knew she was miles away recovering from a serious attack. Even when I knew she was on life support because so much mucous built up she stopped breathing. Even when I had just checked her out and saw her drive away. I even dreamed she was playing it for me.

But I shrugged it off. After all, I was her pulmonologist. I decided to reexamine the previous scans she had. As soon as I saw the films, though, all I saw was scars. So much mucous had built up in her lungs so often that when she coughed it out the airways split. It was then that I knew I had to do something.

I’ve managed to earn nine medical degrees. That might sound farfetched, but only one of them is what you typically think of. And by that I mean one gotten from a medical school. For the other eight I had to go to other schools. I got one in Ayurveda, which is what they practice in India. I got one in acupuncture, which comes from China. I earned one in iridiology, so I could diagnose people based on the patterns in the colored parts of the eyes. I got a degree in Reiki, so I could heal people using energy from my hands. And I also got ones in relaxology, reflexology, homeopathy, and aromatherapy. So what my colleagues thought I was crazy? It didn’t matter. I just knew I had to expel the cystic fibrosis demon out of Anna.

I took herbs I found on the side of the road and mixed them with water for her to drink. When that didn’t work, I gave her disinfectant to drink. When that didn’t work, I turned on the X-ray at full blast. And when that didn’t work, I combined all three. They did come with their side effects, which weren’t exactly pleasant. The treatments often meant she vomited. Anna lost a lot of weight. Went from 179 pounds to 79 pounds over the course of it all. Given how much she lost, I didn’t think the fibrosis could sustain itself anymore.

Except it didn’t work. Anna died on Hallows Eve. Now all I could do was pay for the funeral.

“We commit her body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, root to root, heart to heart. May the Lord look upon her with favor. I invite you to come and pay your last respects.”

That’s what the priest said, at least. What did he know? Priest weren’t even allowed to have sex, let alone the meaning of the term last respects. I kept staring at Anna’s face.

Last respects indeed. Is this your definition of last respects, Anna? Did you want your family to shove you into an empty box and throw you in a big hole in the ground? Your parents might have claimed that, but I know better. That never was what you wanted.

“Sir, please. You’re blocking the line.”

And then the dirt started getting heaved back into the ground. Every time a shovel forced dirt to fall in, I could have sworn I heard a shriek. A shriek that begged the coffin be opened and her body taken out.

And then they told her to rest in peace. Rest in peace? Didn’t any of you hear the shrieks she was giving you? I looked around. None of them did. There was only one thing that I could do now. I started bringing her red roses.

I still don’t know why they agreed, but the family let her build a mausoleum. Anna’s sister must have wanted it too. In fact, I remember her saying something about mausoleums at the funeral. In any case, I immediately went out and bought expensive and rarest marble I could find. And had a golden door molded with a nine-bolt lock.

To pay it all off, I had to take a second job. Which isn’t easy when you’re also a pulmonologist. I already transferred to another hospital because the pay was better, but it still wasn’t enough. I had to take a job as a bar tender to help cover the rest. And somehow I still managed to find money to buy her roses.

To be honest, the mausoleum wasn’t much of an improvement. She was still locked away staring at nothing but black. If any light did get, all she had to stare at was the marble. It seemed like every time I went in there, a new crack had eaten through the concrete. It was erosion, no doubt, from all the rain throughout the years. I should have known marble would wear out after only two years—because the water was dripping harder than wax.

I hated going to the mausoleum at night. It always felt as if even the stars were trying to burrow through my skin and lay eggs in me. All I could imagine was the eggs hatching and the maggots chewing their way out. Just the thought made me cringe.

The only good thing was that the streets were empty. At that hour, not even police went by the graveyard. There was this dumb rumor that there were a bunch of children who sat up out of their graves when the last ray of sun vanished below the horizon.

Or so I thought. Even on the sidewalk outside the graveyard gates I could see shadows flicker in the moonlight. Even the concrete flickered in what little moonlight there was.

Even so, I needed to keep seeing her. What kind of sadistic pervert forgets to visit your dead loved one even once? That’s what Jack the Ripper is for. And I am not and never will be Jack the Ripper.

[Naunet]

One night, I sat in the darkness ready to read her a passage, as I always did. Weeping harder than a mother for her dead child, of course. All of a sudden, I hear a voice.

“My love, my love, I mean not give you a fright! Shatter the marble; take me away tonight! My love, my love, let us steal away! A black wedding for us—let us do as we may!”

That was the first time I heard of a black wedding—and Anna didn’t bother with details. When I went home, I had to search the internet. It’s a Chinese custom. In some areas, they might still do it, but it sure did happen during imperial times. If your child died unmarried, you went out and had them married off anyway. That way their ghost can’t come back to kill you with a single touch and drain you of blood.

Still, I was doubtful. Marriage means sex, doesn’t it? Anna was dead. Even the medical examiner said so. Couldn’t you go to jail for that?

Anna still kept appearing. And the more I heard it, the more I began to wonder. What if we did have a black wedding? Can you really marry a corpse? Would that still be legitimate? So what the law said it wasn’t? So what if society said it wasn’t? Could we still be married?

Finally out of pure frustration she told me: “Dead I may be—but me you do see. Take me across the threshold; let us recite our vows of gold!”

How could I refuse such a request?

“Wait here, my love!”

I rushed home at once. I put everything down and returned with a cart for her coffin. Too heavy for even me to lift—but both she and I could. We lifted it into the cart, and off we went.

At one point, I tripped. Down came the coffin. Her essence rolled onto me. Not that I really cared because I swore on my life that we would recite our wedding vows to each other. At long last, we arrived at our home. We abandoned the coffin in the woods. I carried her across the threshold, and at last we could recite our wedding vows:

I, Carl Smith, take you, Anna, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold you, to honor you, to treasure you, to be at your side in sorrow and in joy, in the good times and the bad, and to love and cherish you always.

I, Anna Tanzler, take you, Carl, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold you, to honor you, to treasure you, to be at your side in sorrow and in joy, in the good times and the bad, and to love and cherish you always.

And with that, we set about reconstructing the corpse.

To be honest, it was not a pleasant sight for either of us. The upper layers of Anna’s clothing were overgrown and eaten up with slimy molds. A few clusters of maggots were scattered all over her head and the surface of her abdomen. And don’t even get me started on the stench.

So, first thing being first, we had to remove the upper layers of cloth. I didn’t want to look at the stuff—and Anna was talking about how badly it itched. Some wouldn’t come off easily and we got stuck leaving it on and soaking it. After all, Anna wouldn’t have been exactly the happiest person in the world if she lost some of her skin. And I sure didn’t want to do that to her.

Even so, I learned the hard way that you can’t fight with a woman. Well, you can—you just won’t win. I wanted to put her body back together with glue for the joints and cotton for the eyes. She wanted piano wire and glass. I began to insist. To which she threatened to leave with her body and coffin and go back to the graveyard if I didn’t use piano wire and glass. I finally relented.

To make her feel even better, I used silk and wax to preserve her skin. And a wig made from her own hair to preserve her scalp. We had to use perfumes and disinfectants and preserving agents. Neither of us wanted to do that. The concoction always reeked. But we had to do that—if we wanted to keep the smell at bay and to keep her body from decomposing.

Believe it or not, the sex was pretty normal. True—Anna’s vagina was a bit itchier than most, but that was part of the fun. It sure got Anna yelping like a baby who’s excited for food. I can tell you that much right now. And to be honest, I found it as much fun a turn-on myself.

That’s actually what we did for those seven years. We had sex. And she kept house and cooked and gardened and everything else you’d expect a normal woman to do. We moved to the other side of the state and I stole someone’s identity so nobody would suspect anything and worked at a hospital that needed a pulmonologist. Words couldn’t express the heavenly bliss we were experiencing. We were two kindred spirits flowing together. It was soul resting within soul, sweet and lovely. Too bad we never had a child.

But then, there was a knock at the door. It was Anna’s sister. I still can’t figure out how she managed to find us. After all, Anna and I had moved to the other side of the state. Of course I wouldn’t let her in.

Next thing I knew, a cop car pulled up. They said they only wanted to do a welfare check, but I wasn’t about to fall for that. Cops don’t just do welfare checks for no reason. Of course I wouldn’t let the cops in.

Then I saw something glint. I thought it was white gold for a moment. I actually was going to call the FBI because I thought the Gambinos had themselves a dirty cop. But then they broke down my door screaming that I was under arrest.

Those handcuffs were some of the coldest things I ever felt in my life. So was that mockery of a bed that they give you when you’re in jail and the walls whenever I wanted to lean back and think. I could have sworn they wanted me to turn into the Iceman.

Before I knew what was going on, reporters were screeching at me. Something about grave robbery and identity theft. All right—the identity theft I couldn’t defend myself against. I knew that much from the get-go. But grave robbery? I didn’t rob anybody’s grave. I gave Anna the home I knew she always wanted. She even told me that herself. She and I danced in the mausoleum and she asked me to remove her body from that meat locker. And that was exactly what I did. I released her and brought her home like she told me she wanted.

But who believed me? The statute of limitations may have expired on the grave robbery, but the identity theft charge still stuck. And what they called grave robbery was used to get me on the identity theft.

It was during the trail that I found out they reburied Anna. Not in the mausoleum I built for her, mind you. In one that was just a big hole in the ground where she would shiver like she was trapped in a cave in the snow. I grabbed my lawyer’s pen and tried to slit my throat with it. The next day, the jury decided I was insane and locked me up in the lunatic asylum.

Now the only thing I have to look forward to is the next second. And even the next second doesn’t ever look like it’s going to give me much of anything at all. The doctors don’t even know what a black wedding is—let alone what they’re talking about. I was allowed to have a life sized doll that looked like Anna. Except they didn’t give Anna enough time to call it her own. That’s why the only thing I have to look forward to is the next second. Because the next second might be the one that gets me out of this insane asylum.

Sometimes I wish I never I never learned what loved is. If there’s one thing love is good for, it’s making people want to shoot people up with so many illegal bullets you couldn’t count them all. That’s what I wanted to do at least. That’s why these people don’t even let think about setting foot outside these buildings at all. All because I want Anna back.

But just watch us, Anna. I’ll return home to you some day. Human jealousy may have robbed us of each other, but trust me—I am still happy. For you have survived death. Forever and ever, you are with me.

[Naunet]

Both parts are part of the same story. The reason why it's split up into two parts is so the entire thing would get onto the thread. In one post, it would have been too big.

[ceb]

Let's see........first, I would use a word frequency analyzer. Second, avoid the repetition of how each paragraph is started. Is it fate that almost all stories posted here are done in the 1st perspective? Either or I guess......which-ever one sells.

The concept is good and well described. It might have been an easier read if perhaps there were noticeable breaks(?). What I mean by this is that there is obviously a couple pages in here. Number them or order by well placed spacers.

Good work. I give you 2 out of 5 stars.

[Naunet]

Points taken.

Somehow 1st person just works for me. I tend to have my characters write in a confessional type of way, and to me at least it sounds a little difficult to do that in the third person tense. Though I have been considering how that would look in a story.

Why is it that the writing process takes so fucking long?