| Horror and Thriller Fiction posted September 4, 2024 |
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A story about a young woman and her plan to become pretty.
Poe's Daughter
by Patrick Bernardy
Story of the Month Contest Winner
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
"You’re so ugly. Ugly and pale. You know that, right?"
Agnes turned her head and glared at the raven. Its beak was closed, and despite its words, its beady eyes gazed at her without emotion. She turned back to the mirror.
The bird was right, though. She was ugly and pale. Pale like an apparition, with thin, wispy hair. Her nose was grotesquely upturned, the nostrils two unsightly ovals in the middle of a face extraordinary in its plainness; her irises were the color of runny shit, and her eyelids had no lashes. Her lips were the sickly purple of a new bruise and wiggled together like a pair of confused worms when she found the courage to speak or smile.
Agnes liked only one thing about her own reflection: it always shared her despair at being ugly.
"Yes, you know," the raven continued. "You've been ugly since the day you were born, Agnes. Even a mother’s pride could not make you a bearable sight. Other children ran from you, called you Ugly Duckling. Remember?"
Agnes shifted her position in front of the dresser so she could see the bird in the mirror. "Shut up."
She began applying lipstick, a demure pink that adequately covered the sickly purple of her lips and blended well with her bloodless complexion; she then brushed crimson rouge thick enough to shallow the acne scars on both cheeks.
"It's not going to work, Agnes. Nothing ever will. You'll always be ugly."
She rolled her eyes and turned to face the bird. "It'll work. You watch and see!"
She turned back and began teasing her hair, a feat akin to adding structure to a windblown cobweb. Satisfied that she could do no better with what she had, she shared a frown with her reflection and looked at her watch. The movie started at eight, and she didn’t want to keep her new friend waiting.
"You've had dates before," the bird continued. "A few firsts, but never seconds. They only agree to go out with you because they feel sorry for you. You tried to kiss one, once, remember? What did he do?"
"He threw up on me."
"You made him puke because you’re so ugly."
"That's not why he threw up. He'd been drinking beer."
"This plan will never work, you know."
Agnes closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
"You realize you're hideous," the raven continued, "even with all that whore paint?"
She turned and threw the hairbrush at the raven, missing it by a foot. It mocked her with its silence and stillness. This time, it would work. "Just watch and see."
* * * * * *
Her friend’s name was Anna, and she was only a little late; Agnes figured that attractive girls always were, for who would leave them behind? She was a blonde, petite—the perfectly formed exemplar of nubile beauty, everything Agnes was not.
Agnes swatted away the late summer gnats while they stood together in line, convinced they were only targeting her; the radiance of Anna's beauty seemed to repel them.
Anna rambled on around a piece of gum about her university classes. Agnes watched her lightly glossed pink lips smack and bounce, transfixed, in total disbelief that such prettiness didn’t melt within the gloomy aura of her own wretched ugliness.
To say Agnes had been shocked when Anna invited her out was an understatement. They had met at a local coffee-house and struck up a conversation, Agnes feeling bold after a strong latte. They had one thing in common: a love for gothic horror and the stories of Edgar Allan Poe, and this topic kept them talking for over an hour.
No one ever paid much attention to Agnes, except to deride her ugliness. Other girls either pitied her with restrained conversation or pretended she wasn’t there at all, like a rubbish dump at the edge of town. Anna treated her differently, though.
For the first time in her life, Agnes felt worthwhile to someone.
After the movie, Agnes was even more spellbound by her new friend. Everything seemed to be going perfectly. As they exited the theater, Anna even gave her one of those sideways hugs that girlfriends share when having a good time.
"I have an original copy of The Raven and Other Poems," Agnes said as they walked toward the parking lot.
"No way!"
"No, I do. Copy from 1845, the year it was first published. Would you like to see it?"
"You have it with you?"
"No, it's at my house."
Anna stopped and tilted her head.
"I also have some awesome gourmet coffee and a really good stereo system. We can hang out."
"Yeah, okay," Anna agreed.
* * * * * *
"Poe wrote that the most sublime subject in literature is the death of a beautiful woman, the only topic worthy of poetry," Agnes said, smiling down at Anna. She straddled the young woman's waist on her bed, caressing her cheek. "Have you heard that?"
"How can she answer you if she's drugged?" the raven asked from the wall-shelf beside her.
Agnes turned and faced the bird. "The question was rhetorical, bird-brain. She's a literature major and would know that."
Yellow light bathed her room from a lamp on the nightstand. Anna was breathing deeply, her eyes closed, lightly glossed lips parted and peaceful. Agnes brushed against them with her own, a worshipful kiss.
"You're dumb," the raven said. "Stupid as the day is long. Brains would have been something, but you have nothing. No brains, no looks. You're a waste of a life. Hopeless."
"So you say," Agnes whispered, enraptured by the beautiful sleeping face in front of her. "Oh, I better tie her up before she wakes."
* * * * * *
Anna's eyes fluttered open.
Agnes was surprised at how calm she felt, how in control. Her new friend tried to speak, to shout, but she was gagged to the point of choking on a dirty washcloth. She tried to flail, but her hands and feet were secured to the bedposts by carefully tied knots of thick twine.
Standing on Anna's right-hand side, near the lamp, Agnes held up a razor blade for her to see and gave an adoring smile.
Anna's eyes went wide with fear, and she struggled further in vain.
"So, you're going to go through with it?" the raven asked. "This is your last chance to stop."
Agnes tilted her head and looked toward the corner of the room. "I've told you repeatedly to shut up. You're supposed to be dead!"
Anna turned her head to follow Agnes' gaze. She screamed, but what wretched sound that might have erupted was instead absorbed into the gag.
Walking to the other side of the bed, Agnes eyed the stuffed raven. It perched on a shelf above her dead mother who Agnes had garroted that afternoon as she napped. The grossly obese corpse was tied to a dining room chair, its head thrown back, its eyes open and bulging, its toothless mouth agape. A worn and grimy nightgown clung to its ample girth-rolls like a massive tarpaulin tied around a cart of manure. It had taken all of Agnes' strength to drag the body down the hall and prop it into a chair, but she wanted her mother to witness her transformation.
Agnes lowered the razor blade and squeezed her mother's lifeless cheeks; the sickening aroma that escaped her mouth forced Agnes to gag and look away. Holding her breath, she retrieved her mother's limp, dry tongue and stretched it taut, sawing it off near the back with the razor blade. She discarded the stiff, putrid organ in a small waste can.
"There," Agnes said, turning back to Anna. "That was long overdue."
Beside her on the bed, Anna thrashed like never before, her gagged scream a muted melody of terror.
* * * * * *
A half-hour later, Agnes was seated at her dresser. Her reflection seemed giddy and eager, a virgin under the spell of a skilled lover. In the mirror, she could see Anna on the bed, her beautiful face now a gruesome sight. Her eyes were lidless and bloody, two round, blue irises completely surrounded by white, protruding in sightless agony in their sockets. A thin slice across her neck was still oozing blood.
Agnes placed the young woman's bloody eyelids over her own, the long, thick lashes doing marvels for her shit-brown eyes. Lifting a glass of Anna's blood she had collected from the neck wound, Agnes coated two fingers and smeared it onto her cheeks in firm, deliberate circles.
"It's not going to work," the raven said. "I told you. You're just too ugly."
Agnes' hand paused, and she sighed, looking at the bird in the mirror. "Yes, mother, it will work. I'm going to be pretty, just like you always wanted. Watch and see!"
THE END
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
~A blatant attempt to braid Poe's poetics, Hitchcock's mother-madness, and Jame Gumm's need for metamorphosis.
"You’re so ugly. Ugly and pale. You know that, right?"
Agnes turned her head and glared at the raven. Its beak was closed, and despite its words, its beady eyes gazed at her without emotion. She turned back to the mirror.
The bird was right, though. She was ugly and pale. Pale like an apparition, with thin, wispy hair. Her nose was grotesquely upturned, the nostrils two unsightly ovals in the middle of a face extraordinary in its plainness; her irises were the color of runny shit, and her eyelids had no lashes. Her lips were the sickly purple of a new bruise and wiggled together like a pair of confused worms when she found the courage to speak or smile.
Agnes liked only one thing about her own reflection: it always shared her despair at being ugly.
"Yes, you know," the raven continued. "You've been ugly since the day you were born, Agnes. Even a mother’s pride could not make you a bearable sight. Other children ran from you, called you Ugly Duckling. Remember?"
Agnes shifted her position in front of the dresser so she could see the bird in the mirror. "Shut up."
She began applying lipstick, a demure pink that adequately covered the sickly purple of her lips and blended well with her bloodless complexion; she then brushed crimson rouge thick enough to shallow the acne scars on both cheeks.
"It's not going to work, Agnes. Nothing ever will. You'll always be ugly."
She rolled her eyes and turned to face the bird. "It'll work. You watch and see!"
She turned back and began teasing her hair, a feat akin to adding structure to a windblown cobweb. Satisfied that she could do no better with what she had, she shared a frown with her reflection and looked at her watch. The movie started at eight, and she didn’t want to keep her new friend waiting.
"You've had dates before," the bird continued. "A few firsts, but never seconds. They only agree to go out with you because they feel sorry for you. You tried to kiss one, once, remember? What did he do?"
"He threw up on me."
"You made him puke because you’re so ugly."
"That's not why he threw up. He'd been drinking beer."
"This plan will never work, you know."
Agnes closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
"You realize you're hideous," the raven continued, "even with all that whore paint?"
She turned and threw the hairbrush at the raven, missing it by a foot. It mocked her with its silence and stillness. This time, it would work. "Just watch and see."
* * * * * *
Her friend’s name was Anna, and she was only a little late; Agnes figured that attractive girls always were, for who would leave them behind? She was a blonde, petite—the perfectly formed exemplar of nubile beauty, everything Agnes was not.
Agnes swatted away the late summer gnats while they stood together in line, convinced they were only targeting her; the radiance of Anna's beauty seemed to repel them.
Anna rambled on around a piece of gum about her university classes. Agnes watched her lightly glossed pink lips smack and bounce, transfixed, in total disbelief that such prettiness didn’t melt within the gloomy aura of her own wretched ugliness.
To say Agnes had been shocked when Anna invited her out was an understatement. They had met at a local coffee-house and struck up a conversation, Agnes feeling bold after a strong latte. They had one thing in common: a love for gothic horror and the stories of Edgar Allan Poe, and this topic kept them talking for over an hour.
No one ever paid much attention to Agnes, except to deride her ugliness. Other girls either pitied her with restrained conversation or pretended she wasn’t there at all, like a rubbish dump at the edge of town. Anna treated her differently, though.
For the first time in her life, Agnes felt worthwhile to someone.
After the movie, Agnes was even more spellbound by her new friend. Everything seemed to be going perfectly. As they exited the theater, Anna even gave her one of those sideways hugs that girlfriends share when having a good time.
"I have an original copy of The Raven and Other Poems," Agnes said as they walked toward the parking lot.
"No way!"
"No, I do. Copy from 1845, the year it was first published. Would you like to see it?"
"You have it with you?"
"No, it's at my house."
Anna stopped and tilted her head.
"I also have some awesome gourmet coffee and a really good stereo system. We can hang out."
"Yeah, okay," Anna agreed.
* * * * * *
"Poe wrote that the most sublime subject in literature is the death of a beautiful woman, the only topic worthy of poetry," Agnes said, smiling down at Anna. She straddled the young woman's waist on her bed, caressing her cheek. "Have you heard that?"
"How can she answer you if she's drugged?" the raven asked from the wall-shelf beside her.
Agnes turned and faced the bird. "The question was rhetorical, bird-brain. She's a literature major and would know that."
Yellow light bathed her room from a lamp on the nightstand. Anna was breathing deeply, her eyes closed, lightly glossed lips parted and peaceful. Agnes brushed against them with her own, a worshipful kiss.
"You're dumb," the raven said. "Stupid as the day is long. Brains would have been something, but you have nothing. No brains, no looks. You're a waste of a life. Hopeless."
"So you say," Agnes whispered, enraptured by the beautiful sleeping face in front of her. "Oh, I better tie her up before she wakes."
* * * * * *
Anna's eyes fluttered open.
Agnes was surprised at how calm she felt, how in control. Her new friend tried to speak, to shout, but she was gagged to the point of choking on a dirty washcloth. She tried to flail, but her hands and feet were secured to the bedposts by carefully tied knots of thick twine.
Standing on Anna's right-hand side, near the lamp, Agnes held up a razor blade for her to see and gave an adoring smile.
Anna's eyes went wide with fear, and she struggled further in vain.
"So, you're going to go through with it?" the raven asked. "This is your last chance to stop."
Agnes tilted her head and looked toward the corner of the room. "I've told you repeatedly to shut up. You're supposed to be dead!"
Anna turned her head to follow Agnes' gaze. She screamed, but what wretched sound that might have erupted was instead absorbed into the gag.
Walking to the other side of the bed, Agnes eyed the stuffed raven. It perched on a shelf above her dead mother who Agnes had garroted that afternoon as she napped. The grossly obese corpse was tied to a dining room chair, its head thrown back, its eyes open and bulging, its toothless mouth agape. A worn and grimy nightgown clung to its ample girth-rolls like a massive tarpaulin tied around a cart of manure. It had taken all of Agnes' strength to drag the body down the hall and prop it into a chair, but she wanted her mother to witness her transformation.
Agnes lowered the razor blade and squeezed her mother's lifeless cheeks; the sickening aroma that escaped her mouth forced Agnes to gag and look away. Holding her breath, she retrieved her mother's limp, dry tongue and stretched it taut, sawing it off near the back with the razor blade. She discarded the stiff, putrid organ in a small waste can.
"There," Agnes said, turning back to Anna. "That was long overdue."
Beside her on the bed, Anna thrashed like never before, her gagged scream a muted melody of terror.
* * * * * *
A half-hour later, Agnes was seated at her dresser. Her reflection seemed giddy and eager, a virgin under the spell of a skilled lover. In the mirror, she could see Anna on the bed, her beautiful face now a gruesome sight. Her eyes were lidless and bloody, two round, blue irises completely surrounded by white, protruding in sightless agony in their sockets. A thin slice across her neck was still oozing blood.
Agnes placed the young woman's bloody eyelids over her own, the long, thick lashes doing marvels for her shit-brown eyes. Lifting a glass of Anna's blood she had collected from the neck wound, Agnes coated two fingers and smeared it onto her cheeks in firm, deliberate circles.
"It's not going to work," the raven said. "I told you. You're just too ugly."
Agnes' hand paused, and she sighed, looking at the bird in the mirror. "Yes, mother, it will work. I'm going to be pretty, just like you always wanted. Watch and see!"
THE END
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
~A blatant attempt to braid Poe's poetics, Hitchcock's mother-madness, and Jame Gumm's need for metamorphosis.
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