Lily Hoang: Invisible Women

This is when the miracle happened, when the inebriated man picked up the pulsating carcass and crammed his own fingers over the missing pockets of organs and skin. The bird, recognizing a strange kindness, continued to breathe. This was perhaps all the little bird could do.

So the man jumped into the car that was not his and drove with the little bird dissolving in his lap to the animal hospital where the second miracle happened and the bird survived.

It was certain that the bird had only one functional wing and that the dog that damaged many of the little bird’s nerve endings, although which ones in particular weren’t quite clear. The man, now quite sober, agreed to care for the bird, which he’d become certain was some type of savior.

After eight hours of surgery and after he waited for another two hours for news that the bird had survived the anesthetic and all else, the man finally went outside, and he didn’t even bother looking for the car, as he was sure that it had been stolen and if it wasn’t, he certainly didn’t have any respect left for a car that sat outside for ten hours with the keys still in the ignition that couldn’t be stolen. He walked the many, many miles necessary to reach his own home, his real home.

He was tired, but he didn’t rest. He went inside and immediately began building a birdhouse. It had once been a bonding father-son activity, although he could hardly remember if it was between him and his father or him and his son, but his hands knew where to hammer, where to hold without instruction. And so he built and he built with great vigor until the house was complete. A two-story mansion designed specifically for a bird missing a wing. Everything was slightly off, on this diagonal skewer, and the man, satisfied, slept. He slept for what must have been days and days and he never emerged, not even to go to the restroom, and it was not until the animal hospital called for him three days later that he finally woke, completely refreshed.

The man got into his own car and drove. He drove until he arrived and picked up his little bird, his own little bird. He was happy to see it standing, although the dog had almost lopped off a sizable portion of the bird’s left leg. The man reminded himself to account for this in the birdhouse.

Joyous, the man drove home, eager to show the little bird his new palace.

So I began one tooth at a time, and without anesthetic, it was difficult and bloody. My fingers became pliers, and they twisted and pulled with strength even I did not know I possessed. Perhaps it was out of desperation or out of coldness, but my fingers were chisels and pick-axes, and I performed the most skilled operations until all of my teeth were gone. Even my wisdom teeth which had been so firmly nestled in the nerves running along my throat that dentists and surgeons alike were too frightened to remove them.

I took out all of my teeth, even the ones that had not yet formed, and I put them in a small pail for the little girl to inspect. They jingled a pretty melody, which I wanted to whistle but could scarcely manage a piddle of a sound without my teeth.

I took a swig of something that burned my throat, and it stung the corridors of my gums, but I didn’t mind because there was some sort of numbing agent contained in it so I took a few more swigs until swigs became gulps and I was firmly intoxicated.

Intoxicated, I hastily plunged my icicle fingers into the sockets of my eyes and scooped them into the pail.

Without eyes, my hearing suddenly became muted, but I could feel vibrations in the ground with great accuracy. I could feel the little girl’s little feet stomping down the stairs, skipping through the hallway, and pausing only briefly to unlatch and unlock and open the front door.

She did not invite me into her house, but this time, I did not wait for an invitation.

For a woman to sleep days and days, she must be very tired. Or sick. Or perhaps both. For a woman to grind her teeth with such earnestness, she must be very guilty. Or sick. Or perhaps both.

I know that I should have sympathy for her. I know that women like her should be cared for and loved, but it is impossible for me to do so when she annoys me, and it is not just me. We are all annoyed. Her presence bothers us.

Only last night, we met in the tearoom, and although we had neither called a meeting nor extended invitations, everyone promptly arrived as though we knew the time had come for us to make a decision. Only last night, we all sat in the tearoom in solemn silence for minutes and minutes. We all closed our eyes, breathing in her grinding teeth and mucous-filled snores. I admit that I wanted to speak. I wanted to be the first to propose murder, but I restrained myself. It isn’t proper for a lady to speak first, even if she is the designated killer. So I waited. I waited and waited, until the woman beside me inhaled a sigh and the entire room bounced with all the anger and frustration that had been muted for so long.

It is very difficult to order an overzealous crowd, but I sang a sweet song and they became enamored with the melody. One at a time, they stopped their screams to soak in the message of death, the calling for murder, and even though I created the song as I sang, we sang in unison, in perfect harmony, and that’s how I knew the decision was unanimous.

The princess was very beautiful. This much cannot be disputed. She was so beautiful that her lips were veiled and her eyes shaded and every inch of her skin shrouded with spiderweb curtains. It is said that this princess was so beautiful that any being who saw her would weep until they were sick with dehydration and even then, they could not stop crying.

Now this was a time before medical sophistications like diagnosis and needles so these people and goats and rabbits and lice were doomed to die. For a while, the king’s cavalry tried to transport the more important people, like dukes and dames, to nearby sources of water, but submersion did little other than iron out wrinkled skin, but the discovery of the Fountain of Youth is an entirely different tale. Of course, even this mystical, magical fountain could not save these dukes and dames, but they looked young and particularly pretty, even while rotting.

Only no one suspected the princess for quite a while, at least not publicly. Even after the King and Queen and all the princes and princesses and dukes and dames and ladies and sires were dead, no one wanted to implicate the baby princess. That, they figured, would practically be sacrimonarchal, which was practically sacrilegious, and no one wanted God’s scorning. So the young princess continued to kill all the people who came to care for her, for simply looking at her was a death sentence, and it was only after she had unknowingly caused the death of her entire kingdom and adjacent kingdoms that a young knight suggested that perhaps she was to blame.

So this young knight, being the bravest of young men, volunteered to care for the princess, and after he traveled for weeks to reach her, he knocked on the palace door and used a thick blanket to cover his eyes. He begged the princess to drape a curtain or several curtains over her head until not a single bit of skin was exposed. The princess complained of the excessive heat under all the cloth, but the young knight would hear nothing of it. He said, “Lovely princess, I am immune to your sweet words, but I am not strong enough to survive your beauty, and so I beg you. If you wish to eat today and tomorrow and for the remainder of your life, please, cover your entire body. Do not let even the slightest amount of skin reach my eyes.”