When a woman fails to retort to vicious gossip, verbal assaults and nasty rumors, her sensory organs begin to disappear. She comes to understand the reason for her passivity via unwelcomed macabre visitors.

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It happened slowly. I noticed the decay whenever I tried to speak to The Other and engage in conversation. The first time it happened, my coworker and friend, Cecelia, and I were drinking coffee and chatting in the cafeteria. I met Cecelia ten years ago. We were hired on the same day, shared an office and coordinated many projects together. She was usually personable, kind and funny. I couldn’t fathom the events that transpired, beginning with our break.Tables lined the walls and were arranged in rows to afford the most seating space. We bought two cups of coffee and a bag of chocolate chip cookies. Our administrative assistant, Lavi, smiled at us and said hello as we passed. Lavi was a smart, capable worker who finished her tasks before the deadline and agreed to work late when warranted. Cecelia grunted a quick reply bumped my arm and moved her head in the direction of the only unoccupied table. I looked at her questioningly. I was not aware of any bones of contention between the two.We sat sipping our hot drinks, discussing our next project. Our boss instructed us to organize a fundraiser as part of a publicity campaign. We decided to raise money for our local community rescue center, The Plainledge Animal Shelter. Dog owners, who felt connected to their dogs, benefitted with increased self-esteem and confidence; and decreased stress and

depression levels. Our ideas focused on dogs; offering educational library workshops, a theater performance and a chat with the animal shelter’s owner.

We chatting amicably when I noticed Cecelia staring at Lavi. She became increasingly agitated. She drummed her fingers on the table and tapped her foot restlessly. Her face turned a nasty shade of red. I asked her if she felt ill, but she continued to gaze in Lavi’s direction, paying me no mind. Her non-blinking eyes filled with fury. Her face no longer resembled my attractive office-mate. Her usually clear skin, brown eyes and auburn hair melted into a blemished, beady-eyed Other, covered with wheat-stiff hair. Our discussion regressed from community service to vicious gossip. She launched a verbal attack on our administrative assistant. The malicious words spewed from her mouth like projectile vomit.

The Other continued her verbal assault as I stepped away to reach for a napkin. I suspected my opinion was not required. She rattled off multiple obscenities and rhetorical questions, not waiting for an answer. I needed to stop her, but was only able to emit a brief phoneme before she spewed another round of vulgarities. A long-winded monologue ensued, accusing Lavi of misdeeds and transgressions I never witnessed. The oration took on a life of its own, growing like a maleficent hurricane with no concern for my lack of feedback or verbiage.

I stared at The Other wondering why she thought I was interested in her treacherous gossip. Did I appear engaged? Was she expecting me to add to her tirade? I harbored no qualms with Lavi and tried again to voice my objections. Cecelia glared at me bitterly. I could not fathom this noxious transformation. I felt powerless as my friend spiraled into an Other being. I no longer recognized her.

I wiped the coffee from my face and pulled my hand away in shock. I felt nothing below my nose except smooth skin. No lips, teeth or tongue resided in its usually place. I was terrified. I grabbed a compact mirror from my pocketbook. My hands were shaking, I couldn’t open the

latch. My eyes wide in fright, I banged the mirror on the table. Cecelia did not notice. The compact popped open. My reflection was hideous. My eyes, ears and nose were intact, but my mouth vanished.

I allowed The Other to steal my voice, to take ownership of my thoughts and opinions. Like the theory of evolution, if something is unutilized, it becomes eliminated.

Would I remain disfigured and disabled? My fingers began to shake. I plucked at my skin, willing the lips to return. I couldn’t speak or yell for help. I cried. Tears formed in the corners of my eyes and slowly rolled down my checks. Quiet sounds emanated from the back of my throat.

I ran from the lounge and emailed my boss. I informed her I was not feeling well and I needed to leave work immediately. The drive home was horrendous. I covered my face with my scarf, not wanted to see my reflection in the rearview mirror, not did I want the other drivers to gawk at me.

I arrived home, sat on my sofa, buried my head in my hands and wept. My dog, Tucker, jumped on the couch next to me. He is a 130-pound Bernese Mountain dog. He placed his massive head on my lap and gazed at me with his soulful brown eyes. His expressive tan, eyebrow-like dashes, followed suit. He understood my misery. He allowed me ample time to sit quietly and calm myself.

I stroked his head while I told him my story in grunts and groans. He rolled over for a belly rub, wanting my affection, regardless of my condition. We sat for a long time. I dozed off, but Tucker remained close to me. I opened my eyes and wiped my nose with my arm when I realized my lips returned. My mouth appeared in its original position. I repeated my story to Tucker, using word this time around. He listened attentively. He tilted his head, absorbing each word and wagged his tail contently. Relief flooded me. I cried and laughed simultaneously. My

furry friend understood completely. He stuck his nose in my face and soaked me with slobber, mimicking my delight.

Tucker took complete advantage of my mood change, dashed to the counter, grabbed his leash and sat at my heels, begging for a walk. I pulled on my sweater, slipped my keys into the pocket and headed for the door. A ½ mile walk with a dog demands patience, ample time and a poop bag.

We stopped to chat with a neighbor, Mildred, who was walking her tiny, timid dog. I didn’t know her well, but I didn’t want to appear rude and unfriendly. She wore an orange floppy hat, a pink oversized sweater and mirrored sunglasses. I found it disturbing to see my reflection while I spoke to her. She looked like a human Easter egg. Her deep red lipstick seeped into her chapped lips, smeared her two front teeth and created a ring-stain around her cigarette.

Mildred politely asked about Tucker before ensuing her own agenda. She blabbed about the neighbors, their children, the garbage men and the mailwoman. She unearthed faults in everyone. I did not argue with her. I passively allowed The Other to rant. I could not muster the energy nor the desire to defend the victims.

After each sentence, she took a deep drag of her cigarette. She puffed like a dragon, blowing the smoke in my direction with every exhale. The smell was nauseating. I covered my nose with my hand, cleared my throat and emitted a moderate cough. The dogs sneezed. She ignored our discomfort. When she finished her olfactory beating, she dropped the butt on the ground and crushed the remaining stub with her heel. She reached into her shoulder bag, pulled out a perfume spray bottle and dosed her self with the noxious scent.

I bent down, placed my hands on my knees and attempted to cover my nose. My fingers slipped into two holes where my nose typically laid. I felt my gums and teeth exposed like a mutilated monster. I remained in a crouched position, so Mildred wouldn’t notice my

disfigurement and use me for her next topic of vicious gossip. I scooched home like The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Tucker followed loyally.

My landline phone was ringing. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. My day went from distressing to devastating. However, the trilling was persistent. I answered with an unenthusiastic hello. My brother-in-law responded with a brief salutation. His typical standard operating procedure was to ask how I am, then immediately delve into the real reason why he called, always about himself.

He talked about his work-out regime, his diet, his custom-made suits and his financial victories. I listened to his continuous babble for 20 minutes. His narcissistic narration mounted into a verbal attack on my sister. The Other blamed her for their son’s drug addiction and their daughter’s failed marriage. He managed to hold her responsible for his mother’s death, their neighbor’s affair and the fire in the town church. The droning clobbered my cochlea. The irritating echoes, sounded like muffled slurping My ears throbbed; my head ached. I prayed he would take a breather, shut-up completely or die.

His typical pleasant baritone voice corroded. I wondered how long The Other could talk without taking a breath. My ears were angry. They could bear the attack any longer, but I didn’t have the gumption to end the call. I tried changing the subject. I managed two words before I was interrupted. I despised the conversation. I did not wish to listen to the unstimulating recitation.

I felt a short-lived period of relief when The Other said he was tired of talking about my sister. He segued into an issue he remembered about the apartment he lived in 15 years ago and how his neighbor schemed against him. He added his critique of the neighbor’s wife, children and even their dog. I marveled at his ability to think I cared about his decade-old relationship with his neighbor’s family.

Tucker detected my frustration. He barked. I stared at him, hoping he could understand my telepathic thoughts, “Keep barking buddy.”

He zoomed around the room, barking persistently, with increased vigor. I think I saw him wink at me. The Other was annoyed. He claimed it was impossible to conduct a conversation if my dog continued his obnoxious behavior. Before I could respond, I heard him slam down the phone. A quietness filled the room like an abandoned mausoleum. My auditory senses were grateful for the silence. I hated myself for listening to the verbal drone and malicious tattle, for answering the phone and for not having the willpower to hang up.

I cursed at myself and my brother-in-law, took a deep breath and headed toward the kitchen to fix dinner for Tucker when my eyeglasses fell off my head. I bent down to retrieved them and return them to their proper position on my face. They slanted to one side and slipped down my nose. I felt a similar dreadful, terrifying feeling as I did earlier. I tentatively reached for my ears. My heart rate climbed when I touched the sides of my head. My once beautiful earring clad, eyeglass-balancing ears diminished to mere buds. Two small stumps stuck to the sides of my cheeks, barely sufficient to support the glasses.

The doorbell rang. It was a muffled jingle, like a corpse ringing its coffin bell. Tucker whined and dashed for the door. He positioned himself across the threshold preventing my access. I leaned over my dog and peeked through the eyehole. The corridor was full of incorporeal figures. Their faces were nondescript, but resembled my own features. Many were void of mouths and lips, some lacked eyes, some were vacant of ears, others sported nostrils holes without the accompanying nose.

The creepy visitors seeped through the opening. They briefly glanced at Tucker, floated over him and headed in my direction. I thought it was strange that my dog, my protector, no

longer felt the apparitions were a threat to me. He simply watched them approach me, while his tail thumped on the wooden floor.

Those who were able, cried out for help. Their screams penetrated my minuscule ears and permeated through my body. I sensed their hopelessness and fear. I stood immobile as dread filled my body.

Their eyes stared at me angrily, squinting, questioning why I refused to stop the gossipers, the abusers, the antagonists. They looked beyond my pupils, surged through my soul and discovered the true substance of my subconscious. I enjoyed the evil antics. My passivity rationalized my acceptance. The degradation of scapegoats, ruthless verbal attacks on innocents and lack of consideration for the environment was exciting, energizing, fulfilling. I realized I am no different from The Others. We are all Others.

END

By Debra Zaech

From: United States

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/debra.zaech/