Monsters of the Classes

Monsters of the Classes

Smell of burnt wood. My only guiding force in this darkness. Having wandered away from my entourage to seek a few moments solace rendered me completely lost. I pray for light, of any kind. Be it from large lantern or a mere match, for the impending daylight seems indefinitely delayed in this dark abyss.

My mind plays tricks on me, convincing me that monsters, thirsty for my blood lurk behind every tree trunk. Unfamiliar noises blend together in my paranoid state, heightening my already irrational fear of the night. I order my brain to calm itself. Neither goblins nor ghosts made of imaginary ectoplasm may harm me. Only human criminals made of flesh and blood. Oddly, that thought does not comfort me in the least.

Funny how a walk in an unfamiliar spot is a hundredfold more terrifying in the black of the deep night. The fear of the unknown. Such a fear does exist. Crippling the mind into delirium, causing it to behold monsters that simply do not exist.

We’ve all seen monsters throughout our lifetimes. I speak not of horrible beasts concocted of superstition, tales of phantom creatures used to frighten blue blooded ladies and their precocious children into submission. I speak of the monstrosities that lie within, excusing people to behave more viciously than any mythical brute humankind has ever conjured.

The finger pointing of their origin is just as complicated as their nature.

‘The common evil of the common.’ replies the velvety smooth voice of the aristocrat. He views the poverty of the lower classes as a direct symptom of their lesser moral character. ‘The bourgeoisie are the bane of the populace’ he muses to his equally wealthy friends. Raising their fine china cups as a toast to one another, their soft, blister-free fingers tap the air in rhythm with the string quartet they hired to play at their exclusive fete. Sipping a fine tea imported from an exotic country, they purr over its sublime flavors; meticulously blended from leaves gathered by poor workers dripping their blood upon brass scales, desperately hoping to have filled their quota to earn meager food ration.

‘It’s the decadence of the rich and powerful.’ wails the destitute. From birth onward they have learn of extreme hardship creating desperate means of survival. Clutching to crumbs tossed carelessly by the more fortunate, they live from moment to moment. Tattered clothing, disheveled hair, and empty stomachs walk among those slowly dying in the street from starvation and disease. Begging for scraps of food, water, anything to live another day. If one pays attention, one hears them silently begging for mercy from having to sell every last shred of dignity to those who can afford it. 

Witnessing the confines of their station leads some to become fiercely violent against their own. To others they cease to feel anything at all, for all that enters into the heart is hopelessness.

Pointing fingers at each other, the classes are thoroughly convinced at the monster originating from the station opposite them.

Crafty as they are, the monsters’ methods are in truth, very simple. For all they require is a crevice in a charred recess of a twisted heart.

I’m thinking too much again. It accelerates my already frantic breathing. Like a massive bronze gong, my heart pounds my chest cavity until I am forced to lie down upon the damp earth. The last traces of breath in my lungs flee, as my eyelids close like morning glories that wait patiently for daylight. My memories are flashing around me like multiple lines of lit gunpowder. I’d like to think I am just fainting from exhaustion, yet there is a good chance that one of those monsters devoured me……

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….. I smell spices. Embalming spices. Pungent. Permeating. Used to slow the decomposing of a lifeless corpse .Glints of various metal tools line several trays. Common tools for the skilled mortician. The corpse lying on the slab awaits its preparation.

It’s business as usual , so there’s no emotional toll or despair to bury.

Yet that day was different. Those lucky men had the honor of dressing the most precious body in the entire world. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, slowly wilting like gardenias beset by autumn. Her delicate face will be painted only once more, for the world to pay their final respects. 

Good-bye forever Mother. Why must you leave? You don’t deserve an end. You’ve always been the epitome of a well behaved woman, no matter what they said. Pieces of my heart crumble in despair at realizing life shall never sparkle ever again.

“Stop crying!”Snaps my aunt. She detests all forms of sentimentality, a trait that is my worst weakness.

In fear of her reprisal, I calm myself long enough to hold my tears.

Grumbling over the extra cost of wardrobe preparations, she confronts the startled mortician.

“She is dead!! Why bother to dress up a body that will be eaten by worms in a few days!”She shrieks at him.

Such a deeply sickening thought, my body spasms as though stabbed by an invisible knife. Unable to bear hearing such disturbing rants, I storm out. As was before, my tears stain the sides of my cheekbones once.

Blame it on the loss. Blame it on the grief. In my aunt’s case however, I can blame it on her. It was no secret that she harbored a deep jealously toward her sister. Identical twins with nothing in common except, for their appearance. Even that is not true anymore.

She was always too eager to worm her way back into our lives, feeling she was entitled to my Fathers wealth. Not two hours ago, she became embroiled in another dispute over who shall inherit the fine linens. My mother has not even been laid to ground and already the squabbling has started.

I have never known that my heart could feel such deep contempt toward those I once called family. We may share bloodlines, but we no longer share any relation of spirit. I was not raised to hate, so this bitter venom bubbling within is a foreign taste indeed. It rages in me, causing me to imagine one of my greedy relatives lying on the morticians’ slab in place of my dear mother. Just when I think I would revel in the thought of their death, I am reminded that could be a real possibility. They too could depart suddenly like my mother.

So begins the cycle of sadness so deep that it frightens me. Soon will come the numbness.

The door of the mortician’s office slams as my aunt stomps in fury, grabbing me by arm and forcing me into the carriage. The horses have been completely outfitted in black. Their wreathes, their riders capes, carriage curtains, cushions, my veil, my dress and gloves all died to match. It’s an overwhelming truth. The world is black without you Mother….

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….I heard the words, but understood nothing. All remarked that Colonel Wellington gave a beautiful eulogy. I glanced at Father to see if he agreed, yet I don’t think Father understood either. His gray eyes stared vacantly in the distance as his long, gaunt hands twitched as if he was being charred by invisible embers. It was a wise choice that only Mother wore eye makeup today. Tears ran so heavily down my face, that my cheeks would’ve been as black as the funerals color palette.

 “Lovely service.” “Was it not Mrs. Collins?”Asks Mrs. Wellington, calmly swirling her tea with a delicate silver spoon, careful not to scratch the inside of the delicate tea cup. Her black lace-trimmed gloves sway in controlled motions before returning demurely to her lap. Living a strict code of etiquette befitting a woman of her title, her garb is refined and fashionable. Her words are appropriate, polite and rehearsed. Much like the gilded ice box on a bar shelf. Elegantly adorned while never straying from its purpose. Staying forever cold.

 

Mrs. Collins, also a lady of wealth chatters along with her friend. Though none would dare admit to her face, she is living proof that money and breeding cannot buy taste.

Ignorant of current events and oblivious to anything outside the golden cocoon she has lived in her entire life, she gossips incessantly about the social faux pas of the lesser classes.

Having not moved a muscle in all this time, I have all but blended into the draperies. Mrs. Collins continues to gad about in her trademark affected voice. The subject of my mother has finally come up.

“My my, one would have thought the woman died a Queen and not merely...” she begins.

 “A commoner?” I interject. I hold back my disdain as best I can, but a few bullets manage to slip through.

“A commoner that dared to marry out of her station?”My voice has become an acidic crescendo. The mourners in the room have all turned their attention toward me, visibly surprised at my boldness.

“Exactly, You read my mind...”Interpreting  my bitter remarks as approval for her words, Mrs. 

Collins turns around, expecting to see a young lady of breeding who will agree wholeheartedly with the snobbery she has drank her entire pampered life.

Upon seeing me, her jaw drops. The corners of her eyelids twitch rapidly, searching desperately for the right words to slide her out of this trap.

She is shocked, clearly. However, for what reason? Is it because she insulted a grieving daughter whose fathers’ social standing towers above her own?  Or is it because a commoner’s daughter acted so boldly in her anger toward a lady of such class?

My sadness has boiled into anger, engulfing me in an ache that squeezes my soul from my broken veins. Lost in my own pain, it is only an hour later that I realize I have fled the parlor. Here I am, on the outskirts of our expansive courtyard, running at breakneck speed. With my mourning veil and all.

An aristocrat. A commoner .It seems I am neither one. Class monsters don’t like that. When you belong to neither, the monsters don’t know where to banish you.

I can feel their sneers as they try to catch me in their misery. Their taunts of my mother’s lowliness pound into my head until I can take it no longer. The night has fallen and my vision in useless. A strong scent of charred wood is in the air, draws me in close. In my disorientation, I stumble over a small rock .Yet it does little to curb my speed.

My foot is about to take another quick step when it tumbles once more. The ground has given way beneath me and my entire body falls for what seems an eternity. But, then gravity cruelly greets me and I feel a sharp pain on my back from the impact.

The air is escaping from my head; memories are rushing back at whirlwind speed. My lungs do not permit me to breathe, my limbs fallen like iron bars.

I have fallen and fainted, having no idea where I am.

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Struggling to raise myself up, I frantically extend my arms out wide, trying to learn my surroundings. My fingers touch walls of dirt, digging in until they grab hold of strong roots I can use to hoist myself up. I am in a weakened state, terrified of the dark, trying to make sense of where I am. I believe I am in a very deep hole, lined with some sort of solid surface that prevents me from sinking.

There’s that smell again. Freshly charred wood. It becomes stronger when I lay closer to the bottom of the hole. Knocking against it, splinters cut through my glove and it is apparent that it is in fact made of oak. What on earth could this be? Now standing, I taking a few steps, measuring the object with my feet.

My footsteps echo off of the wood panels, like a toy drum set little boys play with when pretending to be in a grand marching band.

The puzzle pieces now come together, and it hits me. I am standing above a casket. A small casket, no bigger than an adolescent. My hands touch upon some odd carvings at the top; my fingertips trace what feels like letters.

T-H-O-M-A-S. A small little boy, named Thomas is buried beneath me.

People with humble means bury their dead in plain oak caskets, devoid of any decorations, save for a burnt inscription of the name of the deceased on the top. The strength of the burned scent indicates that he was also buried this afternoon.

I rest my hand against his name, believing that maybe I am above his tiny heart, comforting him in the dark.

What were you like, Thomas? There was no announcement of his death in the papers or the community bulletin. Perhaps his family couldn’t afford to pay the advertisement cost, poor as they were. More likely a scenario is that people preferred to attend the death of my mother, rich as she was in the hope of establishing new contacts or weaving oneself into the family fortune.

Tears drip from my eyes corners once more. Why are some deaths made into social events and others forgotten entirely?

It matters not that I never knew you Thomas, but I’ll mourn for you.  You didn’t deserve to die, what crimes could you have possible committed to merit this end? Your mother shall be asking that question for the rest of her now grieving life.

Come, let me sing you lullaby, one sung my mother when I was a child.

If they find me tomorrow, I’ll tend to your family, making sure they escape poverty for good.

If not, well, I’ll just keep on singing until I lie in my very own coffin buried next to yours.

Mother, the graveyard won’t be so lonely anymore. You now have company, a sweet little boy named Thomas.

Mother, despite this horrid day, my heart feels lighter and my lips curl into a small smile. For I have a secret to share with you….

You are safe now. The monsters cannot torment you both any longer.