Black Water

- DIE, pretty please, DIE today. You want to, don't you? M-m-m... I want to... The voice came from below. Her own voice. She lay staring at the ceiling while under the bed someone breathed in time with her. When Maria held her breath, the second breathing went on. She lowered her hand. Her fingers touched warm black water. From the depths rose a palm with her own bitten nails. It gripped her wrist where the pulse beats strongest and laughed softly: - Still ticking...

Never mind, I can wait. In the morning her mother brought millet porridge with milk. Maria took a spoonful. In her mouth the porridge turned to the taste of wet ash, and the milk reeked of the water a corpse is washed with. The light from the open window cut her eyes. - Eat a little at least, daughter. From under the bed came a quiet giggle: - Hear how tired she is of loving you? Eat, eat. You need strength to do nothing again. Her mother only stroked her forehead.

When the mother went out to the cattle, Maria knelt down by the bed. Within the bed's shadow lay black water. The surface was smooth as polished glass. Maria dipped a wooden spoon into it. It went down without a splash and kept falling until it vanished. In the water there was the house. On the bed lay Maria, though the real one stood beside it. The reflection opened its eyes. - Oh, so you got up after all. I hope it's for the last time.

Maria recoiled, but the heaviness pulled her back onto the bed. Her arms filled with lead, the blanket pressed down like raw earth. Her mother came back, sat beside her and began combing her hair. The comb touched her head, but the feeling arrived late, as if her body lay somewhere far away. Under the bed something sighed sweetly: - Give me the pain. I'll leave you silence. The kind where no one will ever ask you to live again. Maria fell asleep before the sentence ended.

She woke three days later, certain that one night had passed. Bowls stood by the stove. Her mother moved slowly, with dark patches under her eyes. The edge of the homespun sheet was wet. Maria leaned over the side of the bed and looked down. The black water reached halfway up the bed's legs. On the surface floated her brother's shirt, her mother's kerchief, a clay horse from her childhood and a lock of Maria's hair.

- I've cleared away everything unnecessary, - the voice purred. - Memory is heavy. And you can barely move as it is, my lazy little thing. Maria went toward the door. The bed's shadow stretched after her in a black band. Inside the shadow the water stirred. Every step sank deeper into it: first to the ankles, then to the calves. Three steps remained to the bolt. - Tomorrow, - whispered hundreds of voices.

- Tomorrow you'll get up. Tomorrow you'll go out. Tomorrow you'll ask for help. Maria looked back. The bed stood in the middle of a black pool, and long strands of wet hair were drifting toward her across the water. Her mother came in with a bucket, and her gaze slid straight through Maria, who stood by the door knee-deep in black shadow. On the bed another one already lay. Its face breathed, its eyelashes stirred, and it moaned softly, like a sick person.

The mother rushed to her and wept. The real Maria screamed. Her voice went down, under the floorboards. The mother heard a scratching and bent down. The double opened her eyes: - It's mice, Mama. Don't listen. They want you to suffer. When the mother stepped away from the bed, the impostor sat up on Maria's bed and turned to face her. Her skin was pale and smooth, and black water dripped from her wet hair onto the sheet. - I will take your place, - she said.

- I'll eat, I'll get up, I'll help Mother. I'll smile whenever she wants to see her daughter happy. She won't even notice you're gone. She stretched her long fingers toward Maria. - And you will go down. Down there no one will ask you to live. And you won't have to watch, day after day, how hard you make things for everyone. Maria backed away to the icon corner and snatched up the thunder candle.

Her mother used to say its flame exposes everything that hides under a human shape. She lit the wick and held the candle out over the black water. The flame bent downward, as if the water were drawing it in with its breath. Drops of wax fell without a splash and lit up in the depths, one after another. Then from below, in Maria's voice, came a whisper: - Mama, help me.

Maria hadn't even opened her mouth. The flame tore free of the candle and went under the water. In its light dozens of beds appeared, hanging in the bottomless dark. From each of them dangled arms, legs and, here and there, long hair. In each one lay a person with open eyes, waiting for someone up above to finally give up their place. The black sea stretched beneath every house.

Into it fell unlived days, untouched bowls, unopened doors and the words "tomorrow", repeated so many times they no longer meant anything. The voices from the deep spoke people's thoughts before the people themselves did. Every puddle, every bucket, every tear could become its eye. The water waited for a person to stop believing their own pain and call that predatory hunger peace. The mother wrapped her arms around the double's shoulders, not noticing Maria at all.

And the impostor sat up and hugged her close. - Mama, I feel better now. There was warmth in the voice. The face smiled obediently. The mother wept with relief. Under the real Maria's feet the floorboards parted. The water pulled her down. She clutched the edge of the bed. The double leaned over and began prying her fingers loose. The mother looked, but did not see. - One, two, three... Good girl. See how easy it is, once you finally stop being in the way?

The mother fell asleep beside her daughter, still holding her hand. In the night a knocking under the floor woke her. The double lay with open eyes. - Mice, Mama. Sleep. The knocking died down. The mother turned to the wall. Then from below came: - Mama, it's me. The mother froze. The double embraced her from behind. Her palms smelled of silt and sour milk. - She wants to hurt you again. Don't listen. I've recovered, haven't I.

At dawn the new Maria got up, ate, combed her hair and smiled at her mother. Wet footprints stretched from the bed to the door, though outside there was a drought. Under the floor the real Maria beat her palms against the boards. All around, thousands of hands answered. Above them walked mothers, husbands and children, glad that their loved ones had finally become convenient. And the water whispered: - Pretty please. Today it's your turn.