American Monsters (3 page)

TIME:
20 years ago

PLACE:
The Dentist’s Office

THE PLAYERS:
Dr. Johnson, The Dentist; Lily’s Mother

A tracking shot surveys The Dentist’s office. Like most, it is immaculately clean. Sparkling, like the teeth of his clients. There is a door leading to the waiting room, and another door leading to The Doctor’s medicine cabinet: a plethora of odd shaped bottles and herbs. The room is spare of decoration, save The Chair in the center of the room.

Lily’s Mother enters. She is one month pregnant and she glows, fluorescent green eyes sparkling.

Dr. Johnson is waiting. He is nervous and stays as far from her as possible. She’s been here before, she’s used to his quirks. There is never the polite chit chat of other doctors. He gets right down to business.

Dr. Johnson:

Have a seat. Lean back please. Open. Hmmmm. Aaaaaah.

Lily’s Mother:

Just a sec. Um, you know, I’m pregnant and I’m wondering if there is anything I would need to do to from your side to make sure my baby is healthy? I mean, I’ve been seeing a gynecologist and everything and they said to take vitamins, I don’t know, I just figured since I was here I would ask if you had any recommendations.

He recoils on the word pregnant as if she had bitten him instead of speaking. The camera picks up the beads of sweat that appear on his forehead.

Dr. Johnson:

Yes. I have something. Wait here.

He is increasingly agitated. He mutters under his breath. “Kill the widdler, kill the widdler,” a mantra, his calming technique. He enters his medicine cabinet and begins reading the labels until he comes upon this one:

If administered within the first trimester this lily will prevent the brain from splitting into two lobes.

“Perfect,” he mutters. He’s not actually killing the widdler this time, but he’s never tried this medicine. If she’s having a baby it might as well be a monster.

He snickers to himself but quells it. Sometimes when he comes in here he thinks about his quest and he finds it hilarious, he loses control. This is no time to pass out from hysterics. He removes the bottle from the shelf, replaces the glass bottle with a plastic medical standard.

He exits.

When he returns Lily’s Mother smiles with her kind viridian eyes.

Lily’s Mother:

Did you find something?

Dr. Johnson, wincing at the sound of her voice:

Uh, uh, yes. Of course. Here, lie back. This will help the child’s uh, teeth and gums. It is an herb I have uh, heard to be uh, effective at uh...here. Drink this. Okay, rinse. Now, let me uh, take a look in here...

His voice drones on, punctuated by “uhs” and the occasional wincing start as Lily’s Mother speaks or moves. She feels the medicine burning her stomach. Something is not right.

CUT TO:

A hospital delivery room. Lily’s Mother is screaming in pain. The doctors wheel her into the room. She’s flushed, sweating, and not taking any pain medication. Her screams get more and more intense as her contractions get shorter. Her usually fluorescent jade eyes have turned a forest green where the irises have almost disappeared from pain.

Finally, it’s beginning. She’s dilated, the baby’s head is visible, coming through, coming through, screaming all around, and there she is: Lily, covered in blood and tissue. Her mother continues to scream as the afterbirth is expunged.

Quiet now. The nurse gasps and almost drops the baby. Lily’s Mother is faint from pain, the nurse takes the baby away when her mother passes out.

A day later and Lily’s Mother is still recovering from the birth. The doctors tell her there are some complications with the baby and she can’t see it yet. They use that word: “It.”

Lily’s Mother:

But my baby, I just want to hold her for five minutes. Please, why can’t I hold her.?

Doctor:

I’m sorry but it’s not stable, there are complications. You must understand. The child must remain where it is.

Lily’s Mother screaming:

Why? Why? I need her, I need her right now. Bring me my baby! NOW!

Doctor:

Nurse, I need some sedatives. Calm this woman down.

He leaves. Lily’s Mother never sees him or her baby again. The nurses tell her the complications were so severe that her daughter died in the night. Her daughter.

Her eyes never return to their fluorescent green. They remain clouded with a forest pain until a year later, when cancer closes her eyes forever.

TIME:
15 years later

PLACE:
The Sanitarium

PLAYERS:
Lily; The Supervisor

You never knew your mother. They told you that she didn’t want a monster child and gave you away, but you have a feeling that is a lie. You’ve dreamed about her. She sings to you. You know she’s watching over you somehow. And she seems like a really nice lady. Sometimes, though, when you look in a mirror you understand why what you tell yourself could be the lie.

You are a 15-year-old standing an inch shy of six feet, with your one huge eye, a fluorescent aquamarine. You don’t know how you manage to live with yourself.

Well, actually, you don’t mind yourself too much. What you mind is how people look at you: with fear and hate and anger and disgust at the sight of your existence. That the world would be perfect without you. They blame you for being ugly, they blame you for being a freak, and being in anyone’s space makes them aware of how different you are, and they hate you. They hate you so much sometimes you think your heart will shrivel up from their poison revulsion. It chokes you. You refuse to speak. You sit in the corner with your head down, always down so you never make eye contact. But it’s no use, you can feel their eyes on you.

You feel surrounded. You feel trapped. The only person that says even a word to you is The Supervisor. But he frightens you. When he forces you to look up you see something dishonorable in his eyes. Something mean and nasty. You hate looking at him more than anything. The worst part is that you don’t know well enough to know exactly what it is in his eyes as he looks you up and down. You don’t know. You don’t understand.

As you sit in the corner, tears fall from your green eye. This is your ritual, to sit here and let the tears catch in your regulation blue tunic. You make up stories of the patterns your tears create. Stories where you have a mother and a family. Stories where you are happy. You sit in the corner until bedtime and then you lie in bed and cry. You can’t remember the last time you slept, you don’t feel safe. But you just don’t know why. You are so young.

The Supervisor comes up to you, touches your head, and asks you what’s wrong.

― I’m just thinking about my mother, you say as tears continue to streak your tunic. Do you know what happened to her?

― Well, not off the top of my head, little darlin’, but I’m sure with a bit of askin’ I could find out for you.

Your green eye turns a sage color and lights up; for a moment the tears stop.

― Are you serious? I would do anything, anything to know where she is.

― Well, you know it’s quite a bit of work. Eyup, it’s a mighty big bunch of extra effort for me, I’m a busy man. What’ll you do for me?

― What? You don’t quite grasp fully what he’s asking. — I told you I’ll do anything.

― Anything? You sure?

― Yes please just tell me.

― Come with me.

He takes you to his office, the only place that has no windows looking out into the lobby.

― The color of your eye is just magnificent. Has anyone ever told you that?

You shake your head no.

― It reminds me of the sea from above. Clear as an angel’s bell and full of mystery.

He begins to stroke your face and your eye closes instinctively. It is the fir
st time in your life that someone has ever touched you in a tender way and for once you feel human. He caresses your face, moving his hands over your neck and shoulders. He pulls you closer to him in an embrace. With your face against his chest he smells of tobacco and fast food. There is something foul underneath it and you pull away from him.

― Don’t be scared. I want to do something with you.

― What?

― Just relax. I want to show you how beautiful I think you are and when I’m finished I will do everything I can to find your mother. Okay?

He lifts your tunic and runs his fingers over your underwear. His breathing gets heavier and heavier and the stroking turns into pulling and poking.

― OW! STOP! OW!

He covers your mouth with one hand and pulls your underwear down with the other.

He’s hurting you somewhere that you don’t understand; the pain fi
lls you with red. You don’t understand why he’s doing this. You don’t even understand what he’s doing. You are 15 years old, you’re big, full grown, but that doesn’t change anything. He’s hurting you and you realize you are bigger than he is. You raise your eye, which has turned a violent malachite, sharp and flashing. You trap his gaze.

You stare deep into him. You stare deeper and deeper where the pools of fury begin to boil. You are furious that someone would hurt you this way just because you are ugly, because he thinks you are a monster. He’s the monster! You stare with your eye while the anger bubbles to the surface in pine-tinged spots. Your eye finally seeing what is not acceptable whether you understand it or not. The pain fuels your anger, the anger fuels your stare. Your eye burns and in a moment his face turns gray and hard as stone.

His entire body stiffens, his expression one of shock as the slate travels through him, turning him to stone.

You remove yourself from his hard and twisted embrace. He looks kind of funny this way. You giggle and then nudge the former warden, now statue. He falls and smashes into dust and pebbles. You did this! Your eye did this. You are not a monster, you are powerful. If you are a powerful monster then that’s what you’ll embrace.

You escape from The Sanitarium later the same night. You are going to find your mother.

Your gums bleed every time you floss, and sometimes even when you brush your teeth. You’ve noticed that you have a difficult time drinking a fresh cup of hot coffee and you have to let your ice cream melt before you can begin enjoying its sweetness. You have weekly appointments with the dentist to get a special gum treatment, and though you think it’s pretty strange to go to the dentist once a week, it’s become a part of your routine.

About three weeks into the treatment, you start spotting between periods, and then bleeding heavily, even though it’s another three weeks before your time of the month. Since your weekly dentist appointment is in a few days, you decide to ask him whether the treatment has side effects. You really should have asked him sooner, or rather, he should have told you if there would be weirdness during the treatment, but in any case, maybe there have never been side effects before. Maybe you are just having an off cycle this month. Who knows.

You go to his office for your 10:30 appointment. You get a very bad vibe from that Dr. Johnson. Sometimes when he looks at you, you are convinced that he hates you more than anything in the world. And sometimes when he’s working in your mouth, he smiles a toothy shark smile, and seems to enjoy when you are in pain. But then again, most dentists seem to be like this so you don’t think too much about it. You are going to ask him about the spotting, though.

― Doctor, um, this is kind of a weird question, but, um, are there ...side effects with this treatment I’ve been taking? I mean, because, well I’ve been, um, bleeding, and I’m not supposed to get my period for three weeks and...

Your voice trails off as he
stares at you with the most sickened and disgusted look possible on the face of man. He looks about to vomit.

― Are you sure you haven’t been killing with anything down there?, Dr. Johnson asks.

― Excuse me?

― Are you sure you have the [clears his throat]
dates right?

He looks ready to clean his mouth out for even responding to the question.

― Yes, Doctor. I’m sure. I’m on the pill so I know exactly when I’ll be getting it.

This time he does in fact go over to the sink, reaches for the soap and proceeds to
wash his mouth out, slowly and methodically, making sure to reach each hidden corner of his toothed orifice. You are completely bugged out. And what the fuck was up with that weird-ass question: Have I killed anything down there?

You can hear him mumbling under his breath:
―It’s working. It’s working. By God, you’ve done it. You’re killing the widdler. Kill the widdler. Kill the widdler.

― Excuse me Doctor, what? If the treatment is working why do my gums still bleed? Why am I bleeding other places now? Doctor Johnson, what
the hell is going on!

He will not look at you. Well, he never meets your gaze, but he is being obvious about it this time.

― This is an interesting side effect. I have not seen this before. This side effect I mean. I have not seen this before. It must be a result of the uh, of the uh, bleeding uh being transferred it is a very uh, rare condition uh, yes the bleeding was transferred from the gums to the uh...

He leans over and begins washing his mouth out again. He can’t even say it. Is he even a proper doctor? you begin to wonder. He seems to be afraid, but you have never seen anyone react to anything quite like this. You have no idea how to read the situation. He’s fricking washing his mouth out with soap!

And then you begin thinking. The bleeding hasn’t gotten better in your gums either. Kill the “widdler”? What the hell is a widdler? Is this a biological term? Could it be what is causing the gum bleeding? Is he completely psychotic? Widdler sounds like a nonsense word. Is he trying to poison you? This is complete madness. You are pissed.

― Show me that pink stuff I rinse my mouth out with. Show it to me right now or I’m going to take some of my profusely spewing blood and wipe it on your nice clean white jacket!

His eyes widen in fear, his fists are balled up at his side as if at any moment he will start stamping his feet in a temper tantrum. He hugs the wall as he gets the juice from the cabinet. He doesn’t hand it to you: He tosses it from across the room. You examine the bottle to see that the bubbles do not go upwards, they go down. And as you hold it, you notice the pink gooey stuff is climbing up the sides of the vial trying to get out!

― What the fuck IS this shit!?, you scream in his face.

― No! I’m only trying to help, I swear, you have a widdler and it kills and I am helping you get rid of it, the bleeding means it's dying. It’s dying! I’m saving you from that horrible monster that lives inside you and it comes out ...

And it dawns. He has been poisoning you. You remember overhearing a gender studies major talking about male castration anxiety and you didn’t pay much attention at the time, but this must be what she was talking about. He is afraid of women because he thinks they have teeth in their vaginas that want to kill him.

Your breakfast, the two cups of lukewarm coffee, and the acid churning in your stomach all begin gurgling.

― What is this supposed to do?

You stalk towards him brandishing the vial of freakish pink liquid. He is terrified, quaking in his doctor’s shoes.

― It’s supppposed to kkkill that thing (gulp), that thing down in there.

― There IS nothing in there, you ass! What. Does. This. Do?!

― It kills everything (cough) down there.

He looks pained. But not as pained as you, as your stomach is. It roils up a storm. You feel faint, your throat closes up. You can feel retching coming on. It has a rhythm, a contraction, contraction, relax, relax, relax. Contract, contract, relax, relax. Your womb. Contract. He’s been trying to kill your womb. Contract. That poison was alive and trying to climb out of the bottle, contract, contract, contract. You know, you just know, he’s done irreparable damage. The anger roils with the food, and you can feel the rage stomp its way from your uterus through the rest of your body. Contract, contract, contract, contract. And just like in Stand By Me when Lard Ass Hogan puked up a lifetime supply of blueberry pie, your mouth opens and out spews the acid and breakfast and coffee all over Dr. Johnson’s surprised face.

He screams as the vomit begins dissolving his skin. You scream as his face melts away like in some cheesy horror movie, and all of a sudden there is nothing. His head is gone. The white coat and a twitching body crumpled on the floor are all that remain of Dr. Johnson, the dentist.

You carry your hands over your uterus as you leave the building, and you tell no one of what happened.