Date: Sat, 2 Feb 2008 14:18:16 -0800 (PST)
From: Gale Adams <tothestable@yahoo.com>
Subject: f/f incest final chapter "She Came to Me"

			      She Came to Me
				   Coda


      My days are like thick black muslin. I feel enveloped in huge
cumbersome curtains on the hottest of summer days. I think of it, always.
I think how it started. With fear of menstruation by Melody. With me, her
big sister, Ivory, telling her what it meant, and bathing my 10 year old
sister, and then the feeling and the touching. The pain and the beauty. The
fairy tale night in the fields. The lovers. Us. No longer sisters. We would
escape the world's pain. We would hide ourselves away in each other and not
know sadness or loss or betrayal or even death, not really. Then Melody
broke her Hymen with a broomstick. Then the fear of her leaving
me. Then--Trina. And--Hebbie. God. Hebbie.

      I am an old woman now. I have thrown my life away for the past. It
does hide me, in the shattered hearts and the ashamed girls who walked
away. They never looked back. The other three. I was left to count the
cost.  Melody found Hebbie and me. Together. Sucking each other's
nipples. Naked.  Bathed together in October summer sweat. Our hands at each
other's nether regions.

      I talk like a prude. I write like one as well. I am ready to find
that boat that will take me to Sharon as the rose of. I have never touched
another human being again in love. No one has told me they loved me, ever
again. I no longer know what I look like. There are no mirrors. Thank the
Almighty for that. I know my hair is very long and has not been cut or
cared for in decades. My breasts are fallen as a cake not taken care of.

      We are allowed water in a bucket, with which to bathe, every two
weeks, if lucky. The whole of this is a stench. I am put on a shelf with
the rest as we wait to die. We forgot we were human long ago. Not that I
and others here have ever talked to one another. Never. I do not know if
even I have the capacity to talk or am fooling myself singing doggerels of
my youth.  Youth? What was that then? We are-dealt with--if we do talk
with each other.

       Hebbie and I pulled apart in the dark parlor of heir's and Trina's
room. It was daytime. Distant.  Like field marshals parading a war. I
cannot think of that horrible day, fraught with anything but frost of
heated kind, mist of summer doldrums, suggestion of nothing but Melody's
tears. Great gulping tears.

      Hebbie and I covered our bodies and the horror--the true horror of
the thing was--I kept waiting for Melody to leave. I was in lust with
Hebbie and her unformed body. I felt glad--God save me--glad that
Melody saw, that Melody was--affected. Because it was dying for us
already. The bloom was already turning inward. We touched. We
kissed. Melody and I. But there was the feeling like of kissing a cornhusk
after the season of growth was over. We were growing inward, because we,
she rather, was growing up already, fast swift an inch in height already.

      She tended like a flower--toward the future. I tended
like--nightshade-to the past. Melody did not tell. Neither did Trina when
she found out. Hebbie said she loved me after Melody left the room,
running. I should have dressed and run after her. I saw her running through
the windows of the parlor, to the fields. I should have run bare after her,
outside, in my shame, to prove to her that was as nothing compared to my
hurting her and knowing it later on, intentionally so, for reasons--the
ones on the surface are just that--the ones on the surface.

      Hebbie did not tell.

      I told.

      Trina and Hebbie were let go. I was in for long and hard and scarring
terrors. Then my Daddy father dismissed me from the house that was no
longer mine, to know to the end of their days that I was a monster. I took
a train and then another and got out of the South and I ran inside my head
as far as I could go. I went mad, you see. Not totally lunatic mad, but I
hid inside me so deeply and in this room in this mental ward where I was
admitted after being found cowering in someone's falling down barn, naked
and masturbating with straw, not knowing anything but that glorious summer
and a little into Fall until I admitted everything.

      And my Father daddy's eyes widened as I told him and mama in their
room that very next night after I had destroyed Melody. And there was
avidity in him. There was an excited ness in him that wanted to know all
the most lurid of details. Which I told in the basest of language as my
mama's blood drenched out of her face and she near but fainted. As Father
daddy leaned forward in his cane rocking chair on that stifling hot October
night of mist and hot frost, till he all but fell out of it, listening to
every word I said and I could tell using his goatish imagination to picture
all of it, from the very beginning to the end of it that last night.

      He questioned me into the most intimate the most humiliating of
details till my mama ran from the room, white lace handkerchief at her
mouth, her starched petticoats almost tripping her, and she slamming the
door hard and running away into her propriety and her superiority, not to
notice who she was married to, perhaps because she had known for a long
time and that was why she was as she was.

      He reached an arthritic hand out to me, it was claw-like, and pointed
a finger shaking at me as his face black with blood held its huge cavern of
a mouth in all that gray beard open to me and remonstrated "Thus daughter
none of mine, leave this dwelling immediately."

      And they found me naked and masturbating in a barn of filth and dung
and cows and they called the marshal and someone put a burlap sack over my
front and they led me away to the lorry and to this place where madness
lurks and walks and screams--oh my God and Jesus--how it
screams--wails into the night--and it is always night here--there is
but rarely a window, there is allowed a half hour in the noon to take the
air and to see the world is still with us though we are not still of the
world.

      I say I did it for Melody, because we were getting too carried away,
because it had evolved into madness of an erotic passion that blooded up my
private parts and made them itch and want and want constantly.  Melody and
I could have taken each other in the schoolhouse during class lessons if we
had wanted to. I felt the same hunger in her. And when we were together,
there was no love there, if ever, yes there was, at one time, I must
remember that, at one time yes, but we tore our clothes off and went at
each other like tigers. And Trina never said what she had seen.

       Save to Hebbie who came to me when alone and said she knew and who
scared me terribly the telling, but she walked boldly up to me and put her
hand on my left breast and said fuck me. I pulled back. She held my
hand. Then took off her poor gray dress and it began. That time and the
time Melody caught us.

      Trina found the sexings, the violations of her sister and our
violations as sisters of each other an abomination. She babbled this to me
between her maddening shoutings to God and unstoppable tears, as I was
packing to leave forevermore. Hebbie in the background, giggling, like the
very devil itself.  Till I screamed "Everybody please shut up." Put my
hands to my headachy head. And got out then as fast as I could. I was never
to see Melody that time of goodbye or ever again.  I don't even know where
she was that day or what day it was. Hands to mouth.  Innocent
child. Seemingly possessed. I still dream of running from her and her
catching me and the unearthly things she does to me, not recounted
mercifully in those dreams--just the intent of it, the beginning of it,
the sickness of it, the tale end of it.

      Looking back I can't remember if it twere night or day that time and
the time before when Hebbie and I were together. There is just this blotchy
sick seeing about that part. Perhaps I dreamed Hebbie and I dreamed Melody
seeing us and my telling our parents and Trina and Hebbie let go. And
Melody looking at me as I packed and her eyes full of hatred.

      "I wish I never had been born. And if I had to be, I wish I had never
have known you existed."

      That was what she said, before she spat at me and walked with such
stolidity out of the room. As I was leaving, Father daddy was yelling at
the servant-girl and her sister, telling them they were evil devils who had
practiced witchery on his otherwise innocent daughters and had destroyed
the soul of his eldest, that his youngest needed the strictest of
punishments and attention to be brought back to the right road of
salvation. I have spent years trying not to imagine what he did to the
servant-girl and her child sister as he prodded them to the barn as I
walked then ran quickly down our hill away from our beautiful house.

      What he did to Melody to make her adhere from the witchcraft forced
on her--no. Silence. Well, I've read the words of Cotton Mather and
Jonathan Edwards and know how sick and evil and morally twisted they
are--so it is not too difficult to guess what that moral paragon of a
father did to her.  And to them.

      I receive breakfast and dinner here in my room. Which has a lock on
it. As if the lock I have on myself is not tightly made enough and not
impossible enough to open. My hair is silver. My body is wasted. My hands
tremble. I do not know if it is winter spring summer or fall. I have the
ague.  I cough a great deal. I listen to the nightmare madness especially
at night when it is the loudest and the most screamed and the most horrid,
not knowing if I have joined the howling mob myself. For surely I must. But
I do not dare admit it.

      The vermin, the lice, the rats, the filth, the smells are
unspeakable. We are punished because we are not--them--whoever and
whatever they are. I wonder who pays for me to be here? Mother and Father
Daddy? They are surely long dead. It's so odd, thinking of your parents
dead, these many years, and me not even knowing of that, or when, or who
died first or where are they buried? I am buried too. They call this place
The Bug House. It is just that.  We have little room to pass waste and keep
ourselves from dying of the always dirt that is ground into our bones, dirt
that has become us. We are like eternal chimney-sweeps on duty every second
of every day and night for all of our lives.

      They perform medical experiments on us; these compassionate men and
women of medicine and science as though we were animals in a zoo and they
our slovenly leering keepers. I have been raped five times her by ten
different men. Four of who were doctors with high credentials and
overbearing pomposity but they got their dicks in my cunt and made me feel
like the most dirty of livestock, when it is they who are the pigs in the
shitty mud.

      I think of Melody and our being so young. And when sex turned to love
and we were naked with each other and felt and fucked and sucked each
other. I remember it as a magical fairy tale. I remember her breaking my
Hymen and my giving her her first cum. I remember our alabaster bodies and
how we clung and how we touched each other's "winking spots" and how Melody
called them that and how funny a terminology it was. I do not remember
Hebbie.  For even in mind, it is a betray of my sister and a catalog in and
of itself of a darkness in me that I had kept hidden and have tried all
these years to continue to keep it so.

      I have been allowed books in this bestial place that I read by candle
light both day and night for I live with shadows external and
internal. Thank the Almighty for books or I would have gone as mad as the
rest of the people herein, if I am not indeed as mad.

      I do not know how I got this old. I thought when I was so young that
it could never happen to me. I thought such people had the life drained out
of them by those years long ahead for me, that they no longer remembered or
cared or could be hurt, that they were calloused and safe in their skinly
corn husks. Maybe they are and were. I on the other hand am not. I remember
everything. I feel everything. I am a rememberer. It is my lot.

      I do not know what ever happened to Melody or Ivory or Trina. I do
not know if they live or die. I am on my rude straw mat on the cold stone
floor in the dark, my candle out, my books beside me, and I close my
eyes. To one day soon open them while they are ostensibly still closed.

      And to open them and see the fields behind my old house.  Underneath
that magnificent million mile wide and long sky of clouds and blue and
sun--and the fresh air to breathe in and the total joy of ultimate
freedom.  Why I imagine we might be even given the ability to fly and
wouldn't that be magnificent? My arms and legs and body moving and my
muscles on fire to race down forever and back again. No more ague. No more
pains. No more understanding what the Good Book means when it says, "we are
wonderfully and FEARFULLY MADE."

      I will be young again and so will Melody be and she will be running
to me. She will be golden like a prayer at long last come true, naked and
wild and smiling and laughing and calling my name and tumbling into it and
me will be cool November tending toward the time of cold and we will kiss
each other and make love.  She will have a girl's breasts this time, not
flat chested and I will take her nipples in my mouth and suck them as I
feel her v shaped dark pubic hair and tickle it and put my fingers inside
of it.

      Tomorrow I may not wake up. I keep that in mind. I must keep that in
mind. I must totally believe in that. It is the only thing that keeps me
going. And which one-day will be mine; when the running stops.

      (To the kind people who wrote me about my story, with deepest
thanks--and as always, to Joel, my own Melody, "perfect harmony," with
much love)