We are Wormwood (14 page)

THE SAINT. We’re going to die if Lily doesn’t wake up.

WITCH. Listen to me. Listen.

[The grinding of the machine stops. The rushing of the river
stops. The ghouls fade away.]

WITCH. She’s never going to wake up.

[The stage is a Viking long ship on a foam-white sea. It’s
nighttime, and the stars ignite like firecrackers. MAD GIRL writhes in pain on
the narrow, wooden deck of the ship, with PLUTO, licking at her face. Ghouls
row the oars, faceless and silent. THE SAINT adjusts the sails.]

[A scream echoes off in the distance, somewhere far off
across the fog-covered water. MAD GIRL lurches up, gasping.]

MAD GIRL. I’m confused. When will this play be over?

THE SAINT. (Still working the sails.) Your brain, in its
fragile state, is unable to comprehend the situation. You’ve stopped processing
reality in the normal way.

MAD GIRL. You mean I took too many drugs. This isn’t real.

THE SAINT. Reality has nothing to do with this. Focus on the
real issue.

[MAD GIRL gets to her feet and runs to the side of the ship.
She vomits white into the foam-white sea.]

MAD GIRL. (Wiping vomit from her mouth, trying to keep her
footing on the rocking ship) And what is the real issue?

THE SAINT. Something is after you.

[An enormous, black tentacle rises out of the foam-white
water. It’s darker than the dark sky; its suckers are like luminescent,
radioactive spots. It slaps the water, causing huge waves in the water. MAD
GIRL falls backwards on the wood as the ships rocks back and forth.]

MAD GIRL. (Frantic) Did you see that? There’s a monster out
there!

THE SAINT. (Still working the sails, not really paying
attention) It’s the wrong one.

MAD GIRL. But what do I do?

THE SAINT. We keep sailing.

MAD GIRL. But it’s going to kill us. We need to get rid of
it.

THE SAINT. (Bending down to pick up something from the deck)
Well, this is yours anyways.

[THE SAINT tosses MAD GIRL the hunter’s bow and a quiver of
arrows. MAD GIRL catches both. She loops the quiver around one shoulder. She
holds the bow, run her fingers up and down the wood. She points the bow out
into the water, tests the string, as if she is familiar with this weapon. As if
she’s used it before.]

MAD GIRL. I have a disease.

THE SAINT. They’ve told you many lies.

MAD GIRL. This is The Witch’s fault.

THE SAINT. No. There are many people to blame, but not
her
.

[The giant tentacle rises up above the water once more, and
then slaps the water. The Viking long ship goes into a tailspin.
MAD GIRL, PLUTO, and THE SAINT struggle to keep from being thrown
overboard.
The shadows do not move, and are not moved by the spinning of
the ship.]

MAD GIRL. Someone is calling me from the ocean.

[MAD GIRL braces her feet against the side of the ship. The
dragon-headed mast begins to tip toward the waters, about to sink. MAD GIRL
notches an arrow in her bow. She takes aim at the tentacles rising out of the
waters]

THE SAINT. You’ve killed this monster before.

MAD GIRL. Then, why is it still here?

[The tentacles grab the sails and rip them apart. Sparks,
lights, electricity, barrel down from the sky. The shadows have stopped rowing.
The oars fall into the ocean. The shadows remain motionless]

THE SAINT. There will always be monsters to kill.

MAD GIRL. Just tell me how to fix this. I have a thousand
degree fever.

THE SAINT. Everything is telling you. Look where we are. I’m
trying my best because I’ve never met anyone with a heart like yours.

[As the ship sinks, MAD GIRL struggles to hold on. She
slings the quiver of arrows over her shoulder and clutches the bow to her
chest. Her deerskin blows in the wind, but her antlers remain fixed, as if
fused to her skull.]

MAD GIRL. When will this be over?

THE SAINT. Not now.
Maybe not ever.
But I’ll always be here with you.

[Blood drips down the arms and chest of THE SAINT. The torn
white sails clothe her like a shroud and lift her into the air.]

THE SAINT. You have to try to remember.

MAD GIRL. It’s destroying everything. Won’t you help me?

[MAD GIRL shoots another arrow into the tentacle. One of its
glowing suckers bursts, showering her with hot metal, incinerating half her
face.]

THE SAINT. It’s like bursting through a membrane.

[MAD GIRL falls off the Viking long ship and into the water.
She falls and falls through the ocean. The hunter’s bow falls with her. The
dead Kraken falls with her. It’s spitting sparks, convulsing, and its flesh is
necrotizing and turning gray. Because this is psychosis, MAD GIRL doesn’t need
to breathe.]

[MAD GIRL stretches her arms outwards, down into the water.
Two pale arms reach up and grasp them. They touch. Their fingers intertwine.]

DEMON. (Her voice echoing through the water) I’m with you.
If I whisper to you from the bottom of the earth, all the seas will boil.

MAD GIRL. Hold me.

DEMON. I am holding you. Wake up.

[DEMON stands on the stage behind the stage from Act 1,
Scene 1. There is no microphone. A blue spotlight illuminates DEMON, but
everything else is dark. She looks almost human in her makeup and jazz outfit.
She’s holding PLUTO in her arms, petting her head. Everyone else is gone.]

DEMON. Lily.

DEMON. (After a pause) Lily. Halloween only comes once a
year.

[From offstage, a saxophone plays softly]

DEMON. Lily, every deer grows antlers. Can’t you feel your
body beginning to take on a new shape? Can you feel that pain shooting through
your head? Your skull is becoming a crown. You don’t know it yet, because your
bone is covered in velvet like blood. When you’re ready, the velvet will shed
away, and the bones will die, but you will be left with a most beautiful
treasure. And I’ll be there with you, to lead you to our palace beyond the
garden.
Beyond the woods.

DEMON. Remember the night you crawled into our tree to hide
from her? I was hiding that night too, you know. She was angry then, but she’s
angrier now. Do you remember her name? I’m sure you do.

[The saxophone stops playing]

DEMON. Come. Halloween is almost here.

[PLUTO jumps from her arms and runs off the stage.]

DEMON. I’ll only say this once.

My dearest demon:

I’m sure you remember Halloween night when I became an
apocalyptic angel with torn netting wings and a toy pistol at my hip. Saint
Peter wore a bloodied crown of thorns, and told me she dressed as herself. The
Witch, who went by the name of Genie those days, sat on the couch in blue
velvet, with a basket of candy to give to children that never visited.

As for you, well, you were never into costumes, baby.

At midnight we snorted cocaine together on the white edge of
the bathtub while boys pounded on the door. When Saint Peter unlocked the door
I ran out and the boys stroked my hair, my cheek.

“Is that pistol real?” they asked. “Do you have any drugs?”

“Kiss me, I’m Salvador Dali,” I said.

I think what I meant to say was, “I am drugs,” but I don’t
think they were listening to me anyway.

I went into the kitchen, where more boys took turns drinking
shots of cold vodka. I took shot after shot.

“I feel invincible,” I said as I crouched on the ground over
my broken shot glass.

Later, you came to me through the bathroom window, as I lay
on the floor, shivering and nauseous. In the next room, Saint Peter, Genie, and
the boys laughed. Vomit rimmed the toilet rimmed the hem of my dress.

"Why are you on the floor? Weren't you going to be a
scientist?" you asked.

My dearest demon, I can tell that you’ve never had a
girlfriend before.

And you speak as if you’ve never used your voice, like an
Ophelia, crippled, with her hands pulled back, whispering lisps. Maybe until
that day when I first crawled inside your tree, you never spoke at all.

From the window, you held your hand out to me. I stood
shaking and you led me outside onto the lawn, underneath the rustling stars. In
your arms I became a girl of exposed nerves, without skin or blood.

You whirled me around until I was dizzy and at the edge of
the lawn, on the glittering concrete, vomited again. I wiped at the back of my
mouth, heaving, ribs splayed out. In my delirium, I bent down and kissed your
feet.

I think I’m beginning to understand.

You don’t believe anything this dirty world says, so you can
tread right over it, as if it’s a layer of thick scum that skins the water.

I kissed your ankles and your knees. I am not afraid anymore
of your spiders and the cold spots on your shoulders.

It appeared you were floating. You had a string in your
teeth and when you tugged, the trees collapsed.

At that point, I couldn’t tell if your skin was a sort of
hallucinogenic drug, or if I was just going crazy again.

You slipped your tongue inside my mouth, and when you pulled
it out, the colors of the earth inverted. The sky deepened into a rich darkly
green, and the grass, turned into velvet. You took me into the broiling meadow
where the blue flowers were Technicolor and sweating purple.
 

Beyond the meadow lay a chasm.

“I’m not ready to go down there,” I said.

“You’ve been down there before,” you responded.

“One day you’re going to murder me,” I said.

“Never.”

“Eat my bones.”

“Never.”

“Take me into hell.”

You purred and rubbed your head against my legs. Your insect
noise pulsed through my bones. I writhed in the grass in my torn angel wings. I
could taste the earth through my fingers, and it tasted sweet.

Demon, you are drugs and you are my Salvador Dali. You are
the monster under my bed and the girl my mother would’ve wanted me to marry.

You took the toy pistol from my hip and pressed it to my
heart. Bang. Bang.

I would not go down into the chasm, even though my
outstretched fingers touched the edge, even though it called to me in my
father’s voice.

“Treat me like a real girl,” I said. “Take me somewhere nice
first.”

You could’ve pushed me over the edge, but instead, you led
me to a cool grove and fed me water that trickled down your wrists until I
stopped dry heaving.

For a while after that, we didn’t wander into the forest
anymore. You took me to the roof and taught me how to make my body float with
my mind. We traveled to the city and walked on the side of skyscrapers, your
hair a guide around my ankles and wrists. On a boat in the middle of a lake we
drank port wine and dined on leeks, foie gras, and tabs of acid.

We stepped on the water and skimmed across it as if it were
glass. The water cooled and calmed. When the moon stretched across the lake, we
saw sunken boats, little gold coins, and a dead boy twenty years old with his
skull a nest.

We took a road trip with Saint Peter in the night, all the
while huffing nitrous oxide and smoking joints. You trilled behind me, touching
my shoulders, running your fingers through my hair. Saint Peter said we’d keep
driving until we touched God. We’d stick our fingers right into his pearlescent
center.

We made it to the edge of the city before running out of gas
and money.

Demon, many would disapprove of our relationship. This
became apparent that night, on the side of the road, the nitrous oxide
evaporating in my blood, when you sat in my lap and a black van swerved past as
the driver yelled, “faggots!” And how later, when we stopped at a diner and the
waitress asked your order, you let a tarantula loose into her blouse.

I’ve cradled in my lap Charlie’s insomniac shuddering head,
and I’ve been fucked half dead by the artist, shrouded in blood and flies, but
nobody’s ever held me like you. You are warm underneath bed sheets, my baby
cocoon, and even though our bed is covered in insects, I would invite no one
else. When you tilt my head back with your skinny fingers and whisper “Hush,
hush, close your eyes,” you give me dreams in which I am a goddess.

After the money ran out, I turned into a grifter and a
thief. Maybe you were content to eat locusts and stick your hands into
honeycombs, but I never got used to the textures. I could’ve just gone back
home and gone to college on Momma’s money, like most young punks. Though, have
you noticed you can actually see the sky here? The air doesn’t taste sour and
smoky. I can run from one side of the street to the other without collapsing
because there’s not six inches of black factory tar lodged in my lungs. It’s
clear and clean here. The sky is not chasing me with threats of cancer and
emphysema,
there is no spillover of carnivorous plants
feeding off the toxins of the earth, no Momma to wheedle away from the mask
that would transform her into an Exorcist.

I could breathe.

I started going with Saint Peter to bars, to steal wallets
from young men while we kissed them. She hooked me up with a friend of a
friend, and I dealt weed out of our rickety small bedroom to college kids,
bored scientists, and wives with bad backs. I lifted toothpaste and razors from
drug stores, socks and panties from high-end clothing stores, with my aluminum
foil lined bag to block the security detectors. Nobody ever taught me how to
manage my money, oh the tragedy, so I wasted what little I earned. I bought a
plush blue coat I found in a vintage store.
A bone necklace
for my sweetheart.
A sushi dinner with escolar and a
bottle of imported Japanese sake.
A night at a dance club chasing down
ecstasy dealers and girls with cocaine noses in the bathroom.