Week 6 Story: Guns for Hands

Three minutes.

I left the grocery store for three minutes—just long enough to cross the parking lot and grab my wallet from the car—and when I stepped back inside, it had happened again.

All the fluorescents overhead had been taken out, which was my first sign. In the weak light from the streetlamps outside, everything looked pale, ghostly. The bulbs’ shattered glass crusted the linoleum floor like crushed ice, and when I glanced up at the hollow light bays, they stared down at me like empty eye sockets.

That much alone told me I wouldn’t want to see anything else. Already, a dull throb was starting up behind my temples.

But my sister was here somewhere, and I couldn’t leave her.

“Sloane?” I called. “Sloane, it’s me. It’s Reagan. Where are you?”

Nothing.

I pulled my cell phone from my jacket pocket, switched on its flashlight.

Fifteen feet away, on the other side of the fleet of shopping carts, I found the first three bodies.

They were slumped on the floor, halfway behind their checkout counters. Both women looked like they’d landed okay, but the guy had had a rough fall; his neck was bent at a funny angle. He looked maybe nineteen, barely older than Sloane and me.

All three of them were bleeding from their eyes, their ears. Even when they’d stopped breathing, the blood kept trickling. I stood there for a minute, staring down at them in the darkness. Finally, when one of those blood trails rolled out to touch the toe of my boot, I stepped carefully back and maneuvered around them.

“Sloane!” I snapped. “We seriously need to leave—”

And then I found her.

She sat huddled in the middle of the Halloween aisle, surrounded by monsters and witches and foam tombstones. Her long blonde hair hung in a sheet over her face, and I knew she knew I was there, but she didn’t look up. Behind her, a cheap Grim Reaper cloak swung on its hanger.

“Are you okay?” I asked after a minute.

She hesitated, then shook her head. I hesitated, too. Dad would’ve known what to do.

I sighed, then crossed the aisle and took her hand, tugged her to her feet. Maybe she should’ve had to look at the people she’d killed, but I didn’t want to see them again, so we skirted around them.

Dad would’ve known what to do, but he wasn’t here anymore. And the truth was, I knew what to do, too.

I just wished I didn’t.

***

I’d been destined to kill my twin sister since we were thirteen years old.

Really, since we were born, I guess. But I’d been thirteen when Dad sat me down and explained what was wrong with Sloane, why we moved around all the time. He’d quit trying to hide the bodies from me after that.

The thing was, it never should’ve been like this. Tons of people on Mom’s side of the family had abilities. I couldn’t remember her very well, but Mom herself had been scary powerful, and that had eventually gotten her killed. Even she’d been nothing compared to Sloane, though.

Because Sloane had gotten a double dose. Half of her power should’ve gone to me, but she’d gotten both shares, and it was too much for her. Too much for the people around her. Since Dad’s death, she’d only gotten worse, and it was supposed to have been my job to keep that from happening. To stop her from hurting anyone else.

Usually, I couldn’t even think about that. But it was easier now, with those dead grocery store clerks burned into my head, the smell of their blood still in the back of my throat. I couldn’t let that happen again.

Sloane was miserable, and I was miserable, and all we did was break everything we touched. For a long time now, I’d thought we were cursed.

Maybe we were the curse.

Later that night, I waited till Sloane had gone to sleep, and then I dug out Dad’s old pistol. When I stood, that headache had started up again behind my temples, but my hands didn’t shake. I wasn’t sure if that was actually a good thing.

But some small part of me, somewhere in the back of my head, had been planning this since I was thirteen.

***

Sloane couldn’t sleep without a TV on, so muted reruns of old cartoons greeted me when I squeezed into her tiny room.

For a minute, I just stood there by her bed, waiting for some kind of sign. Her back was to me, but something in the slump of her shoulders—the tilt of her head—made her look peaceful. Younger, too.

I lifted the pistol and took a deep breath, but I still didn’t pull the trigger. And then Sloane said quietly, “I wish you would, Reagan.”

“I know,” I said after a minute, lowering the gun.

“I wish you could.”

“Me too.”

She rolled over, staring up at the ceiling instead of at me. I wondered if she’d been awake all along. When we’d moved in, she’d stuck those glow-in-the-dark stars all over the ceiling, even though I’d made fun of her. Now we’d be taking them down and leaving tomorrow. If her outburst at the store had taken out the lights, it would’ve wrecked the cameras, too, but that didn’t matter.

It was time to move on.

“I thought I had it under control this time,” she said eventually. “I wasn’t going to let it happen again. I won’t let it happen again.”

“I know.”

Idly, I wondered which of us was the bigger liar, how many times we’d had this exact conversation before. How many times we’d have it again.

I sank onto the bed beside her. She held out her hand, so I took it.

We sat and planned our next move, and Dad’s gun sat between us.

Neither of us mentioned it.




Author's Note: This week, my inspiration came from "Gandhari and Dhritarashtra," an early story from the Mahabharata. In this story, when the king and queen’s first son is born, there are all sorts of terrible, ominous omens. The royal couple’s advisors explain that their son is destined to bring something terrible upon their kingdom, and that it’ll be better for everyone to just get rid of him while they can—sacrifice the part to save the whole, and all that jazz. But the prince's parents are fond of him—he's their favorite son—and they decide to ignore the omens and the advisors and the best interests of their kingdom, just to spare him.

I found that kind of compelling: the idea of a main character being close to someone and knowing that person will hurt all kinds of people someday, but not being able to bring herself to prevent it. The idea of her choosing to let everyone else suffer before she’ll let this one person die. To explore those themes a little bit, I used Reagan and her sister, Sloane, who’s kind of a gentle soul but also a ticking time bomb. The idea was that they both know Sloane is escalating and only going to get worse, and that both know exactly how to solve their problem—but they aren’t quite strong enough yet. So for now, they just keep running.

Bibliography: Mahabharata Online: Public Domain Edition. Source: Laura Gibbs's Indian Epics blog.

Image Credit: Two Hands by milivanily. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: PDE Mahabharata, Part D

In this section (the story "Bhima and Dushasana," to be more specific), we finally get some resolution to the oath Bhima took back when Y gambled their lives away and Dushasana tried to shame Draupadi. At the time, he swore he'd kill Dushasana and drink his blood, and that's exactly what happens here: Bhima takes the guy on in battle, breaks his back, then chops off his head and drinks his blood. Other soldiers who witness the whole thing run away, saying, "This is not a man." I'm always really interested in that line between human and inhuman—and that grey area between them. In the fact that sometimes humanity is determined by how a person acts or thinks or feels instead of by what they actually are. And characters who muddle that line are always fascinating to me.

One thing that interested me in the previous section of readings was the dynamic between Draupadi and her second husband (of five), Bhima. I found it interesting that, even though her first two picks for concurrent husbands were Arjuna and Y, she actually seems closest to Bhima, and vice versa. When she was in trouble with the king's brother-in-law, she went to Bhima for help; he came through for her, and she stuck around to see the carnage. They're both also clearly the type to take dark blood oaths involving the lifeblood of their enemies (or in this case, a shared enemy). So I was also struck by the fact that, when the Pandava brothers finally took on their enemy cousin in "Duryodhana in the Lake," it was Bhima—not leader Y or golden child Arjuna—who killed the Big Bad. Not only that, but then: He danced round Duryodhana a time, then, kicking his enemy's head, cried out at length, "Draupadi is avenged." You'd think, since they're all brothers and all also husbands of Draupadi, that the rest of the Pandavas would approve. But instead: Yudhishthira was wroth; he smote Bhima on the face and said, "O accursed villain, thou wilt cause all men to speak ill of us." All this to say, I guess, that Bhima is the Pandava for me, and I find the idea of him interesting, especially in the context of his relationship with his wife, his brothers, and his enemies.

Bhishma gets wounded in the big war, and everyone knows he's dying, but he's still moved to a different location, and it's mentioned that he'll see the war's end before he actually dies. Later, in "The Pandavas and Bhishma," it's revealed that his slow death process is attributed to a supernatural ability he's been given: "the gift of choosing the moment of his own death." The introduction to this segment of the story explains that he's "waiting for the solstice, and before he dies he will instruct the survivors of the battle on how to rule the world that has survived." There are two things I like about this: 1) The idea of someone with a gift like that on their deathbed, prolonging death to either accomplish something by it or wait to see some kind of outcome, and 2) I'm always a sucker for "looking forward at the world that's survived" tropes. I'm not sure if I'd use this as inspiration for a weekly story or not, but it has potential. Duly noted.

I also found the father-son dynamic between Arjuna and his child really interesting in "King Yudhishthira's Horse." Arjuna is traveling from country to country, claiming new lands for his brother the king. Eventually, he comes across a rajah, who recognizes the king's name and claims to be Arjuna's son. But Arjuna scorns him, saying that if he were his son, he wouldn't be afraid of Arjuna. A fight breaks out between them, and the son kills his father in the battle, but then regrets it and helps bring him back to life. I'm less interested in adapting that part, and more intrigued in that initial dynamic between father and son: the high-ranking dad who wanders from place to place and is approached by this kid who swears to be his, but the dad doesn't recognize him (he has plenty of kids) and isn't going to be quick to claim him. More than anything else, I'm curious about how the kid would respond to that, what she/he would do to win the dad's approval, and how their dynamic would evolve as they worked somewhat alongside each other.

This is just a minor detail, especially compared to some of the notes above, but a small line in "Parikshit" really caught my attention: Krishna had already given some sort of promise and in view of the fact he never uttered a falsehood, he uttered the words ‘Let this child revive.’ It could be interesting to play with the idea of a character who always tells the truth—not because he's an honest, upstanding guy, but because he literally always has to follow through on what he says. A curse or something, I guess. I think it'd be a lot of fun to look at that grey area between him always being forced to do the right thing, which would in some ways technically make him a good guy, but not actually being a good guy on the inside or, some might say, where it counts. Moral ambiguity is the spice of storytelling life, after all.

Also, I probably wouldn't have any use for this in a weekly story, but this is a powerful line from the above and I have to point it out:"For all, Mother, that you look so happy, do you not mourn your son?" And she answered, "Before, I had only one, Abhimanyu, but now I have many, for I see my boy in every wounded soldier."

In "Horse Sacrifice," Draupadi is officially designated "Queen of the Sacrifice," and that sounds pretty cool.

So far, though, I think "The Forest and its Ghosts" is my favorite installment I've read. After a long while of mourning, a ceremony is arranged and performed, so that all the fallen warriors and "lost ones" everybody's missed return at nightfall. It's only for the one night, of course, but it was really interesting to read about the characters reuniting with fallen family members killed in the war: the blind king and his son, Karna and Kunti, and so on. More than that, there was the imagery of them returning from the waters of the Ganges:

Suddenly the waters began to heave and foam, and Vyasa muttered holy words and called out the names of the dead one by one. Soon all the heroes who had been slain arose one by one. In chariots they came, and on horseback and riding upon lordly elephants. They all uttered triumphant cries; drums were sounded and trumpets were blown, and it seemed as if the armies of the Pandavas and Kauravas were once again assembled for battle, for they swept over the river like a mighty tempest.

It seems like a great way to play with character dynamics, guilt, mood/atmosphere, and supernatural world-building, so it might be fun to do a story inspired by this one, where the dead get to return for some small interval for some small purpose. And for some personal cost, of course. (Life? Blood? Memory? We'll see.)

Again, this one isn't for a weekly story, but I loved the setup and the death omens in "Death of Krishna," and I'd like to keep them in mind just because they're cool and inspiring.

And then finally, there's "The Afterlife," and one last striking line I might end up using as my weekly inspiration: a description of one of the Pandavas' descendants in heaven as "the star-bright companion of the lord of night."




Bibliography: Mahabharata Online: Public Domain Edition. Source: Laura Gibbs's Indian Epics blog.

Image Credit: Underwater Diving by Unsplash. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: PDE Mahabharata, Part C

In the story "Arjuna and Indra," one line stood out to me in particular. It comes after Arjuna is cursed by a nymph because he rejected her advances; understandably, Arjuna is less than thrilled at the idea of being cursed. But Indra, the god and his dad, assures him, "This curse will work out for thy good." I'm not completely sure yet what I would do with that, but I do think it has potential: I like the idea of someone suffering through the curse (or whatever curse analogue I would end up using for the story), having always been told it was for the best and would be a blessing in disguise—but then getting fed up with the whole thing, and deciding to do something about it.

"Bhima and Hanuman," meanwhile, didn't have much going for it in the way of plot, but it's still probably my favourite one from this section so far. In it, Bhima comes across Hanuman in the forest; after some minor confusion at the start, the two end up talking, and having a good conversation. It turns out they're half-brothers—both sons of the wind god, Vayu. Ultimately, they hug it out and go their separate ways. I've always been a sucker for a good brother story, and I find the dynamics of half-brothers especially interesting; I might end up taking the bond between these two as the bones of the story, then seeing what I can do with them. (The Great Expectations story, maybe?)

Another thing I found interesting is the way mortals and celestials casually coexist in this world. In "Duryodhana and the Gandharvas," for example, a group of nymphs and other heavenly beings are hanging around the forest and refuse to let the prince and his men pass. The prince, completely undeterred, orders that they get out of the way, and the nymphs aren't having it. I guess I just find it really interesting that the nymphs and other non-human creatures are so accepted and commonplace that the humans don't even think twice about treating them like regular people, and vice versa. It might be a fun concept to play around with in a fantasy world.

And then there's "Duryodhana and the Gandharvas," which features one of the most interesting ideas so far. Duryodhana has officially called it quits on taking out his enemies, the Pandavas, and has decided to die instead. Which leads us to this little gem: 

But the daityas and danavas desired not that their favorite rajah should thus end his life lest their power should be weakened, and they sent to the forest a strange goddess who carried him away in the night. Then the demons, before whom Duryodhana was brought, promised to aid him in the coming struggle against the Pandavas, and he was comforted thereat, and abandoned his vow to die in solitude.

It's interesting in its own right, but it sort of makes me want to do a story in which the "hero" and "villain" are actually just two pawns that've been chosen by warring factions of gods (or, better: monsters) and manipulated into doing things for their masters' gain. I would obviously want to tell that story from the "villain's" POV, who's really more of a misguided antihero, and is pretty conflicted about the whole thing: yeah, maybe the monsters are using him, but they're also the only ones who seem to care about him, and he cares about them, too. What a messy situation and conflicted loyalties all around. (Edit: I looked back at this and realized I may have just described the plot of The Lion King II. Funny how these things happen.)

I also think Karna's natural invincibility is interesting. As mentioned again in "Karna and Indra," Karna's dad is the sun god, and Karna was born with armor that was part of him, and grew as he grew. In this story, he gets ripped off by Indra, godly dad of that brat Arjuna, and loses that armor: then "news went about that Karna was no longer invincible." I love the idea of this impassive, quietly bitter warrior, bastard child of both the royal family and one of the most powerful gods, who's gotten cheated by life so many times but who does have this supernatural gift of invincibility, just like his dad—and everyone knows it.

Also, even though Draupadi may have initially been won by Arjuna and almost given to Y because he's the oldest, I'm always struck by how she and Bhima seem like the best match out of all of them. Their bond seems closer, somehow, dark and bloody. There's the time Bhima swore he'd kill the prince and drink his blood, and Draupadi had a similar vow, when she swore she wouldn't tie her hair up again till she'd washed it in the blood of the prince's brother. And now in "Bhima and Kichaka," when a guy in the royal court keeps trying to assault Draupadi, Bhima is the first one she goes to. He promises to take care of it for her, and after he kills the guy, he learns that Draupadi was there the whole time: she wanted to see Bhima kill him. She smiles and commends him on a job well done, and he basically stands and kisses her head and says, "Go tell the other maids this guy is dead, because your immortal husband found out what he was up to and defended you." Because she and Bhima and the others are posing as servants for a year, and anything else would blow their cover. Long story short: I find their dynamic really interesting, especially compared to the rest of her husbands, and the couple that slays together, slays together, I guess.

Krishna has been one of my favourite characters of this epic so far, somewhat by default, but I was still surprised by how much I loved this exchange from "Krishna's Mission to the Kauravas." In it, Krishna visits his cousins to see if they can make peace with the Pandavas, because he genuinely loves both sets of cousins and so doesn't want to see them hurt each other. But the prince and his sidekicks are flat-out disrespectful, and the mild, gentle Krishna snaps for a second, revealing his true form in all its terrifying, godly glory: all breathed fire and sparking skin and divine entourage. Then, just as suddenly, he reverts back to his human form. I love this: the insanely powerful monster or god, strong and terrifying in his true form, who chooses to pose as a human most of the time and try to be one of them—but still isn't quite, and shows it from time to time.

Since Karna is my very favorite, though, I was pretty pained by "Krisha and Karna": after all Karna's been through, a lot of it at the hands (read: mouths) of the Pandavas, it seemed pretty stupid of them to approach him now, admit he's their brother, and act like that suddenly makes everything okay. He's kind of a tragic hero in that sense, because while he's sided with the villains of this piece, it totally makes sense why he did. The Pandavas were jerks to him and put him down for his adopted parents and supposedly low birth (when he's their own freaking brother), all because he was talented enough to challenge their skill. And the Kauravas took advantage of that, befriending Karna when nobody else would, treating him with respect and giving him power and treating him like one of their own.

When Krishna reveals Karna's true parentage and asks if he'll side with Kunti and his brothers because of it, Karna explains that he knows it won't end well for him, "Yet I cannot desert those who have given me their friendship. Besides, if I went with thee now, men would regard me as Arjuna's inferior. Arjuna and I must meet in battle, and fate will decide who is the greater. I know I shall fall in this war, but I must fight for my friends." Later, his birth mother approaches him, reveals that he's a half-god prince, and asks him to side with his real brothers. She mentions Arjuna in particular, Karna's half-brother and only real rival: "If you two were side by side you would conquer the world." But it's too little, too late, and I imagine it really must sting for Karna, only being approached and accepted for what he really is and should've had all along just because he's needed now. Because he's a threat if he's not on their side. Talk about mother of the year.

Two items of note from "The Armies at Kurukshetra." One, the fact that they recruited Bhima's demon son from way back when to fight in their army, and that guy sounds rad: Bhima's rakshasa son, the terrible Ghatotkacha, who had power to change his shape and create illusions, had also hastened to assist his kinsmen. And two: the blind king's charioteer, who hangs out with him at the back of the battle assembly and "related all that took place, having been gifted with divine vision by Vyasa."

And finally, in "The Battle Begins," we're treated to a whole host of terrible, fascinating omens. I don't think I would try to do anything with them for a weekly story, but they still strike me as really interesting, so I'm noting them here so I won't forget about them:

As both armies waited for sunrise, a tempest arose and the dawn was darkened by dust clouds, so that men could scarce behold one another. Evil were the omens. Blood dropped like rain out of heaven, while jackals howled impatiently, and kites and vultures screamed hungrily for human flesh. The earth shook, peals of thunder were heard, although there were no clouds, and angry lightning rent the horrid gloom; flaming thunderbolts struck the rising sun and broke in fragments with loud noise.

and this one, specifically the part about the maimed soldiers rising and fighting again: 

Many were slain, and rivers of blood laid down the dust; horses writhed in agony, and the air was filled with the shrieking and moaning of wounded men. Terrible were the omens, for headless men rose up and fought against one another; then the people feared that all who contended in that dread battle would be slain.

Bibliography: Mahabharata Online: Public Domain Edition. Source: Laura Gibbs's Indian Epics blog.

Image Credit: Dark Path at Night by Unsplash. Source: Pixabay.