Constance

Constance

By V. Rahman

There was a way the water had with me, a kind of coveting that could bear no name, for its density surged past the scope of measurability. You could call that love, or at least that's how I acquainted myself with the word. Here, upon the indigo liquid that I came out to every single dawn, my thoughts were harvested. My mind ramified in spreading roots of serpentine genius, born from the womb of my deliverer. That womb, which contained the amalgamation of her and I, lived on through this pool of peace. Of saccharine memories.

Yeah, Lake Nebo held dominion over my mind, which was now but a capsule that held no more than her. Her eyes were in there, you see, somewhere in the water's stillness. Through scintillating crests of blue, those crests that she drowned under, she gaudily reminded me of her presence evermore. I remember how her azure eyes of astral sky looked up to me as she sank below that indecipherably thin line that differentiated between life and the conundrum we call death. Did she see my face stretched in the paroxysm of bleating love, as I faced the unfaceable? Did she hear my cries of gibberish as I swam out to her on that cold December morning? And the terror that was conveyed by the blue of her eyes as she descended down into cold unknown, well, it hollowed me white clean. Does she know that all that remains of hers truly, is a husk of nostalgic pining?

My wife came out on the dock, a purple blanket adorning shoulders, "Did you submit it?"

I did not want to look at the cycling instructor turned wife. Hot? Yes, but…she was no Constance, "Yeah...yeah. I mean no. Not yet. But I'll get to it."

"Honey…"

I ran my hands through my hair, "My work, it's-it's out there!" Yet again, I caught myself yelling. I exhaled and gestured to the lake, halcyon in it's cool blue, "I can't just, you know, write. It comes from somewhere…a place."

Her face hardened, "Murad…"

I eyeballed her with an augury that she knew all too well, "Don't."

Her eyes narrowed, "It's your fucking Constance, isn't it?! Her and her Southern charm your sister can't shut the fuck up about!"

"You-"

"And I'm not good enough!"

I turned back to the lake, to Constance, "That's enough."

"Enough? Yeah, I'm not enough. Why don't you moan to her in your dreams again like last night?"

I bit my lip till I could taste the iron of my blood, "You know I have no control over shit like that."

"Every night?!"

I slammed my hands down to the deck, "You shut the fuck up now! You shut the fuck up and get your stupid fucking ass back inside!" Kristine ran back inside, crying with that stupid fucking expression that garnered no more sympathy from me than any strangers would, "Dumb bitch! That's right!" I turned back around to admire the nucleus of what churns me to place pen on paper, "...that's right."

I studied her skin, the flat surface of liquid soul. She was in there, you see. I could feel her eyes studying my skin, the twitch of her pointed ears at the mere sound of my breaths. My mind drifted into the ethers of candied dreams, a hallowed place that none but I have ever seen. There was a twinkling shimmer, which I knew was her gaze of indigo, the stake of impalement that my soul would be placed under. It pierces me you see, her gaze that only I can feel, spoiling all stiffness in my legs; rendering me to but a stumbling calf. Her eyes plodded over me like a man's boots in the sucking mire. Yeah, she had me, had me cinched. I was but kneaded dough to her dainty little hands, thin finicky fingers with the painted pink little nails. Oh Constance, how I now only breathe in the hopes of feeling your lips but once more, in the back of the old pickup truck that we first made love in. I closed my eyes and…peace.

"You fucking asswipe!"

I cranked my neck to face the nuisance. Kristine, with her face scrunched in the manifestation of all hatred conceived in my name, held my laptop high above her head. Every picture of Constance that I had stored in an encrypted file named 'data-management' was in there. Our sextapes and vacation pics. Fuck the writing, that was the gold. It was all that I had left of her, short of nebulous memory, "You crazy bitch!" I scrambled to rescue the remnants of a reality that I wish stood in the stead of the now. I snatched it away from Kristine's clammy grips, and for that I earned a resounding slap. I ate it and spat on planks right before her black heeled shoes, "Why the fuck did you marry me Kristine?"

"I don't know!" She reeked of brandy.

"Why don't you fucking leave, huh? What the fuck do you see in me that compels you, a wife who beats me weekly, to stay? You hate me Kristine. By God, there's never been anything clearer. I drive you fucking mad!" I pointed my flexed, hairy finger right at her brown eye, "The only fucking reason you are still here is because you have this…this fucking infatuation with telling people you are married to some fucking writer. Can't break it to mom that you broke it off with 'Mr. I made it', huh?"

"I just thought you cared!" The tears ran and ran, rendering her mascara to flowing rivers of coal, "I thought you loved me…"

"If you loved me, why did you lie about fucking my brother before we got married? Huh? Why did you break my fucking finger with a baseball bat? You see where I'm going with this? You see how I can play these games too? But I don't now, do I?"

"Because…" she laid her face on my chest, "I love you."

Give me a fucking break, "Listen…" I looked back over at the lake, at the foundry of my thoughts. How fertile my Constance, now incarnated in liquid, was to my brain's sproutings. I looked at Kristine and realized I needed to defuse this seed of a shit storm, "How about we take a spin on the lake? You know, just, let's eat some grub and perhaps, you know…" I squeezed Kristine's bottom. I looked back over my shoulder, ashamed that I did such a thing in front of Constance. The only thing these two had in common was their temper, but I was willing to put up with Constance's.

"But you still love her…"

"Now Krist-"

"...More than me! Always more than me!" I looked at her with pressed lips, giving the best 'I am done with your shit' look, "Oh you won't say it here, you won't say it infront of the lake!"

"Say what?"

"Say that you love me more than her."

I swallowed and slicked my greasy hair back, trying my best not to disappoint, as I knew that my beloved was listening, judging, "Kristine...you do realize that you are speaking of my dead wife here. Do you realize how sick you sound? Why do I have to say such…such fucked up shit?"

"I-I just need to hear it! I'm sorry. How about it's because I can't sleep at night!?" She clutched my hand with the two of hers, "I promise, just say it this one time, and I'll never bring this up again." I eyeballed her, "Please…"

I looked back over at the lake. Water, cold, lifeless. As much as I would like to believe it, this body of water held no more of Constance than I held a wife that I loved, "I…" A rending of bleeding thorns tore at my heart in masticating chomps, "I love you Kristine." The shame straddled the interior of my cranium, scraping my skull with barbed cavalcades of searing tendrils. For the sacrilege that I had just stated, I owed penance. I looked at Kristine's pretty face, trying to remember whatever compelled me to say yes. The nectarous thought of divorce tip-toed into my mind, "And I love you more than Constance." The tears beseeched the lids of my eyes for a descent, born from the culpability of my betrayal to she who was the safebox of my joys, "Happy?"

Kristine cocked her head back and roused a grin, running the back of her knuckles down my cheek. A disgusting flavor filled my mouth, "How 'bout we give that boat a go?"

------------

We drove out on the boat to Bat Lake Cove, or as I would say to Kristine's unamusement, Bat Shit Cove. My jokes fell flat after three years of civil union. Resigned to our muzzled silence, we ventured out past the exact point where my beloved sank to the bottom of the lake. As we passed over the anointed point of her finality, I felt the old keening call out to me, begging for another teary go.

Kristine clung to me with every twist and turn as I steered the damn thing, which birthed a vexing in me that I do not think I have the capability of describing. I looked down at her, at that face that all men would gladly rip their balls off just to press their lips to but once, and all I could wonder was why did I ever say yes to this hookup of a wife. The loon asked me to marry her? Fuck.

Here was the plan. I'm just going to have a few kebabs, fuck the shit outta her, and head home. Then the question hit me no differently than the bomb that fell on my house when I was seven did; I am to fuck Kristine on top of the lake. On top of Constance, atop her blue eye? Could the term 'blasphemy' encompass such a misdeed?

But the era of those thoughts must come to a close. And against all notion that I wished was right, I knew Kristine was right. I was insane. It's been time to move on and fix what I had here, this ramshackled hut of a marriage. I thought the words as hollowly as my mothers love for my father was. Empty, forced. Uttered just to retain some semblance of order in the house.

"It's so cold." Kristine said in a bid so I could hold her tighter to my body, so she could steal away some of the warmth that I should be sharing now with Constance. I mean, Constance never threatened me with violence when I made her jealous. But then again, I never did make Constance jealous. I wonder how she would have acted if she were? Would she be rageful? I felt Kristine's arm, its tremors. I must admit, I have driven this woman mad.

"Biting."

"Did you bring the shaul, the one your mother bought you?"

I stared off at no discernable point, listlessly gazing off into the multitude of drab greenery that passed me by in a blur of non-memory. Constance, I could smell her, "Yeah, I-I think. But did you uh, bring the kebabs?" I said, muttering anything in the feign of conversation.

She mushed my face, "Of course dummy. Did you bring the bread?"

And here I am, married to a woman who smashed my T.V. when she found old pictures of Constance and I in our photo album in the bottom of my dresser, as if I did that to spite her. She gave me so much shit for it, she convinced me to burn them in the backyard. Yeah, Kristine was a cunt, but I haven't been anything of an angel myself. Leaving her unloved night after night, sleeping out at the dock in a sleeping bag, for my Constance. I am a bastard. I guess- "Murad?"

"What? Oh yeah, the bread. Yeah, I got it."

"Murad?"

"Why yes, honey." Honey. I called Constance Buffy, as in she were my buffet. An original pet name, unlike hackneyed shit like 'honey.' I parked the boat and turned around to the cooler to get my mango juice. Why did I bring a cooler? Its so fucking cold.

"How do you feel about me?"

I feel like I should kill myself and join my fucking beloved Constance, not stay with someone who fucking abuses me when I don't elevate her incorrigible lust for egotistical adulations. God, I really was demented, "I feel like we're married. Why?" Please don't try fucking me out here, I just squeezed your ass to calm you down by feeding you a veneer of desire.

Kristine had some wine that I knew she wanted me to get out for her. I wouldn't, because whenever she drank, every grief and insecurity oozed out of her like she were a popped pimple. I could smell the brandy on her breath. The fucking alcoholic, "No, no. How do you feel about…" her hand went to my crotch, "That?"

I felt nothing, "Ohhh, so it's like that, eh?" I leaned in for a kiss, felt that cheap lip gloss from Sephora on her lips. The fucking forced romance was killing me, for the palpable resentment contained within her skin trembled like a shivering dog, "But hey, how 'bout we eat first?" I winked. My shame was incalculable. Constance, please forgive me.

I walked away to get some food out of the Icy-Hot bag. Kristine shook her head at me in some kind of horrid awe, "Holy shit…"

"It's not holy." I took a swig of the mango juice.

"You…you won't fuck me because…because this is her lake, right? And you think she sees you?"

I know she does, "I. Am. Getting. Kebabs."

"Don't you fucking lie. When we first met, you would try to fuck my face if I sneezed funny, if I slept in a position that taunted you!"

"Why are you screaming?

"Now…" Oh the fucking waterworks, "Now you can't stand the sight of me."

"Can you just…" I stretched my eyelids down with my hands, "I thought this boating trip was supposed to make us feel better?"

"Stop avoiding this!" She screamed.

"I'm not!" I slammed the bag clips shut.

"You are!"

"What do you think this is, reality TV? Is this the scene where we fight, kiss, and make up and make love? Is that what you want? You fucking maudlin lunatic, why don't you hit me again? Don't tell me you forget the fucking bat!?"

"Lunatic?" She laughed through her tears, "At least I fucking love a living person! Not some corpse, rotting and gone as your fucking sanity. Murad…" she laughed, "…you love a lake."

I stood up and placed my hands on her shoulders in a counterfeit tender gesture, grinning disingenuously, "Ok, you wanna know the truth? I do love Constance more than you, much more. Cute to hear, ain't it'? I fucking regret every second that led up to our abomination of a marriage. How 'bout that?" Her eyes scrunched in teary ire. The glass cannon she was, "And you know what? We're getting a nice little document signed. One of any parchment you want, Hell, it can look like the declaration of independence if that suits your fancy. That document being…" I started up the boat so we could head back "…a divorce. Ho-"

Her hands went around my throat, her eyes bleeding tears of thoughtless mania, of uncomprehending hurt, "I'll fucking kill you, you fucking worm! You should have died with your stupid fucking cunt Constance!"

I wrestled Kristine's hands off of me, "Get the fuck off of me." I spat, giving it my all to not nail her in the grill.

Hearing the lack of alarm in my voice, her torridity elevated to higher and higher echelons of torment. She grabbed a frozen Coke can and chucked it at my face. The can was hurled with such force that she nearly tripped, also the perpetual day drinking deserved some credit for her imbalance, "Fuck you!"

"Stop it!"

She threw the whole bag of food at me, hitting me in the head, "Fuck you and Constance! Fuck that whore!" I put the boat in drive and she slammed down to the plastic white deck as I zoomed home. Kristine scrambled to her feet, the snot running down her lips as she swung around to the driver's seat, punching me in the neck. That hurt.

"Don't you make me hit you!" Kristine struck at me again, "Bitch!" I kicked at her knee, trying to do anything but knock her teeth down her gullet.

Kristine stumbled back to the rear of the boat, nearly going overboard. She looked up to the overcast sky, blue grey in its uniformity, "Why?…why did this have to happen to me?" Funny, I was asking the same thing this morning.

I turned my face down to the water, flashing past me as we sped across the surface of Constance's watery chasse, her coffin that I wished to join, "Oh Constance, all that I pray for is the joining-"

Kristine stomped her foot so hard, the boot bobbed, "Stop talking to the fucking lake!"

"You're not my fucking wife anymore!"

"I am!" Kristine screeched through a weeping heave, "Murad…she's not real! She's dead! Constance is-"

In a moment of blitzing singularity, a bass, one like which I had never seen, ejected out from the glasslike water. It was silver like neon sterling, and as massive as Constance's fathers gun chest that I once saw in Alabama, and above all else; it held blue, human eyes. Eyes that I knew, eyes that belonged to…but that was impossible. It smacked Kristine in its flopping trajectory with only a glancing blow, but because she was already leaning back on the speeding boat, she went overboard with arms flailing, "Kristine!" I ran to grab her by her shoe.

Her foot slipped out as she fell, "Oh God! Murad!"

"No!" A sound that I did not think possible for her throat to make, reverberated out. A squeal so chilling to the blood, my heart felt akin to paper. My limbs ossified to jointless marble, caused by the neurotic horror in her discordant bellow, "Kristine!"

And when I looked down over the rear of the boat, down at my false spouse floating atop my true wife rendered in liquid, my eyes fed me an impossibility of sight. And when my mind processed what my eyes were feeding it, seconds slowed to millennia.

Kristine squealed as her black hair got sucked into the propellers, which were struggling to restart with a rage that had no cause, as I was nowhere near the shift. I looked back at the handle for the gas, and without a hand touching it; it was all the way forward, floored. Then, from the force that the throttle was being crushed ahead, the black plastic handle broke off the metal rod. I knew all that I needed to do to stop the propellers was to take the keys out, and believe me, the will to do it was there. But a force akin to providence, one of some higher power, translated my legs into pillars of concrete. And in it's feeling was familiarity, benevolence in it's texture.

Rising out of the water, thorned vines emerged like gyrating pythons of muted green, and with tearing rends Kristine was restrained.

With bloodshot eyes strained, she caterwauled a guttural moan, looking up at me with a freezing stare, "Save me-" The propellers then started with a grumble, and more vines rose up. Some as thick as trees. The largest had an eye on it, a beautiful blue iris shining. I could not breathe. Flesh came up. Rotten. Rancid. But it's putrid reek, it smelled so good to me.

It then dawned on me that I was witnessing the impossible being spelled out in brazen reality, and I knew the who and the why behind this incarnation of rage. Constance. "Buffy! Don't!" Rip Kristine's head off, the propellers did not. Instead, in a sight unlike any other that have damned these eyes of mine, she was sucked into the swirling blades. Her torso transmogrified into taffy, stretching and wrapping around each fin of the propeller like a rubber band of living tissue. Her screams descended in octaves, from higher to lower as Kristine entered and exited the water at blinding speeds with the whirls.

"Fuck!"

My wife's screaming throat sounded like a blood filled organ, a yodeling gargle. And then in a release of begging tension, she ruptured into assorted members of blurry bits of what once I got on one knee for. Organs, red and orange, squirted out of her in a circular spray of viscera. Flesh, cloth, and hair shot out like bullets with streaks of crimson liquid trailing. A chunk of her torso skipped across the lake about fifty yards to my right.

"Fuck!" One of Kristine's eyeballs smacked me right on my own. Her face turned inward on itself, imploding and then erupting back out, as if the water vomited her, repudiating what it knew was not Constance. The intact but detached skin of Kristine's face flew high up into the hair, nearly floating. And in this final act of Kristine's gore laden deletion, it landed back on the deck with a wet flop, her black hair covering a third of the walkable area of the floor. What remained of her was a rubber mask of her face, flattened out with eyeless holes where but a minute ago she looked at me from. The makeup was still on it, "Fucking-what the-!"

That night I went to bed. To Constance. To her bodiless memory, which was sweeter to me than the formerly warm skin of Kristine.

As I laid my head down for the night, I searched for something akin to mourning for Kristine. But standing in the place of what should have been an avalanche of lamentations was…exhaling relief. Indifference of the highest order became me.

For all I could think of was Constance. Her drowning, which happened five years ago, was more recent to me than the death I just witnessed five hours ago, "Goodnight buffy. I love you."

From behind my shoulder, footsteps thudded on the hardwood floor. The patter of dripping water reached my ear. My bed squeaked with a weight that I knew, that I loved. I froze. The tears rose.

Cold wet lips met the back of my head, lips that I had not smelt in five years. Before even turning over, I was weeping like an old babushka. I turned in the soaked sheets and opened my eyes. Blue and dead, the iconoclast that annihilated the false idol of Kristine, smiled at me. Snot ran down my smiling lips as the corpse said to me, "I love you too."