by Christina Rosso
She didn’t have a name, at least not a real one anyway. Avenger of Evil was what the shop owner, a witch named Zelima, called her. It sounded made up though. Like it was folklore. So she called herself Me. It made more sense than Avenger of Evil. Everyday she heard those in the shop saying me this and me that. But what about me? Why did this happen to me? So, she thought, what about me?
She gazed out from her black button eyes. They shined in the light, reflecting those passing by. She thought it was morning from the lack of shadows in the room; whatever time it was there was a lot of commotion in the shop. It sounded like how outside did during one of the city’s many festivals. Mardi Gras was by far the worst. It was like explosives going off in her ears for eternity, even though she didn’t have any. Ears, that is. Her body was made of wax and stuffed with Spanish moss and magical herbs: cinnamon, dill, ginger, and mugwort. Or so the witch had said.
Me didn’t know when she came into existence, when Zelima had made her, but she knew she was here now and she wasn’t exactly happy about it. And not just because of the current raucous. The witch poked and prodded her, stuffed and then emptied her only to do it again before sewing her back together. Zelima did it as though it was nothing. As though it didn’t hurt Me.
The truth was it did hurt. Me might not have a heart and lungs and intestines of her own, but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel pain. Every pin was a hot sting, like she was being set on fire repeatedly; the witch had burned her many times, and she remembered the wax of her body blackening, an acrid, earthly musk floating into the air.
A hush fell through the shop and the group walked over to the table Me was on. Zelima stood closest to her and leaned down. Me noticed a gold needle in the witch’s hand and locks of gray curly hair. She wanted to scream when the witch began to sew the hair into the top of her head. Of course she had no mouth to do so.
It felt like a spark igniting.
“It’s time,” Zelima said. She looked at Me’s button eyes, oblivious to the presence that existed behind them. “Are you ready my little Avenger of Evil?”
“No, I’m not,” she said, but, as usual, no one was listening.
There was a beat before Zelima began to chant a spell that sealed the fate of the doll to her target. A young woman opposite of the witch whispered to the girl next to her, “I can’t believe she thought she could cross Zelima.”
Me didn’t know who she was, but the doll was used to not knowing things. Maybe She was the person’s name.
The girl responded, “I know. Helping him after what he did to Zelima was suicide.”
They looked young to Me; their faces were smooth and lineless. They both had their hair pulled back in colorful turbans. The patterns on the head wraps were mesmerizing to Me, and she tried to concentrate on them, hoping they would distract her from the impending pain.
“Taking her amulet? Definite suicide,” the one across from Zelima said.
The girl next to her nodded and pursed her lips.
“That’s enough, girls,” said a woman with a raspy voice. It came from the direction of Me’s feet, but was out of her sightline.
Zelima continued to cast her spell, the words undulating effortlessly from her lips like a series of waves, ignoring the women around her and their gossiping. After a minute, she said, “It’s finished. Now for the fun part.” She turned away from the table for a moment and when she turned back she had a small dish in her hands. She passed it to her right and instructed each woman to take one.
Me didn’t have to see inside the dish to know what it contained — shiny, silver steel pins with prickly points.
When the dish made its way back to Zelima and she took a pin in her hand, the other women raised their hands, the needle pressed between their thumbs and pointer fingers. The shop lights reflected off the slender tools.
The shop owner stood luminous and monstrous above Me. She had her long black braids pulled into a giant bun on top of her head. She wore a black cotton dress with a thick gold necklace that looked like a collar around her throat and tear drop shaped earrings that were twice the size of her eyes. “When you’re ready, ladies,” Zelima said, her voice smooth like velvet with a hint of spice and mischief.
Dozens of pins sliced into the doll. Me focused her black button eyes on the girls’ colorful turbans. Some of the pins were jammed deep inside and left there, while others were ripped out and inserted again. Me could hear She howling and could feel the woman’s body twitching, convulsing with each stab, a wounded beast in the wild left to die. Me heard She whine and grunt, felt her seize and contort, and envisioned dozens of tiny pinpricks of blood covering her body as though She was tangled in a rose bush, the thorns spiking her flesh.
The wicked enchantment wouldn’t kill her, but the marks would remain for several days. Zelima cackled at the thought. Me wept for the She and for herself, but no tears slid from her button eyes. She screamed when the girls with the head wraps — a particularly cruel pair — dove their pins into her stuffed insides and then twisted them deeper, right and then left. They were splintering She and Me, inside out. The holes gouged in their flesh would remain open for the rest of the day, blood and pus oozing from the one, herbs and moss the other.
“That’s enough for today,” Zelima said.
“Thank god,” Me whispered, unnoticed by the group. She heard She’s breathless howling and felt her leaking, trembling body wind tightly into a ball.
At once the women yanked the pins from Me’s body. It felt as though her guts were being ripped out.
“Thank you for coming,” Zelima continued. “We’ll do another session tomorrow.”
Me began to sob. She couldn’t take another round of this. Me didn’t know if she could survive it. If She could.
The doll lay there raw and exposed, utterly forgotten, as the women said their goodbyes and left the shop. She counted the flecks of dirt and water damage on the ceiling, waiting for her creator to close up for the day. Me didn’t know how she was going to do it, but she would find a way to escape. She wasn’t going to be the Avenger of Evil any longer.
Christina Rosso is a writer and bookstore owner living in South Philadelphia with her bearded husband and two rescue pups. Her debut collection, SHE IS A BEAST, is forthcoming from APEP Publications. Her writing has been featured in FIVE:2:ONE Magazine, Digging Through the Fat, Ellipsis Zine, and more. Visit christina-rosso.com or find her on Twitter @Rosso_Christina.
