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65, A Funeral And Resurrection Of Succubus
65, A Funeral And Resurrection Of Succubus

65, A Funeral And Resurrection Of Succubus

CobraCobra

Time with the Captain built more self-esteem than confessing for an angel’s forgiveness. I told Gabriel there was nothing wrong with him. Now I told myself there was nothing wrong with me. The truth was different.

It was a funeral which caused another.

Who am I?

The funeral was for an acquaintance, a minor ghost from the past. She attended Notre Dame with me but never rode in my Desoto. She looked me up after she moved to the Pacific Northwest.

Despite her Notre Dame diploma, it was a secular memorial service. It lacked the propriety spiritual ambience for the mystery of death found in a Catholic religious service, at least for me.

Reposed in her open coffin, life like, black hair coiffured, finger nails polished pearl white, hands holding a red bouquet, dressed in black and white, the impression was she would rise up, smile and participate with us. Instead she was dead, never to move again, a corpse, no longer among us, her body discomposing indecipherably as we watched. The lid, soon to be closed, she so neatly tucked into her coffin, it to be lowered into damp earth, all to rot.

Oh God, poor Rickie, Mom, Dad what do they look like now?

We weren’t close when attending Norte Dame. The truth, I didn’t like her. She was proud, stuck up and only responded to a hello if in the mood, a corridor passerby ignored by other students as a snob. Years later she looked me up when she moved to Seattle. When we met over coffee she’d changed. She was bubbly to the point of felicity, no longer stuck up or arrogant. As we reminisced of school days, the café door jolted open, a customer waked in, she jerked her gaze to see who, her shoulder length hair flitted in a flutter, askew. I saw the hearing aid.

Her curiosity of who entered placated, her attention back to me, I spoke slowly in a soft but audible tone.

“You’re hard of hearing, are you not?”

She smiled, looked afar, waited for me to say more and finally replied.

“It’s okay. What do you think?

A few more verbal tests, as she fidgeted in ascending anxiety, her insecure replies and attempts to continue a conversation beyond heard grasp, confirmed she was bluffing. She was trying to be “normal” when not. She couldn’t hear me. It explained her proud, stuck up, school demeanor. She wasn’t responding because she didn’t hear the hellos. Like at the café, she faked her way through school.

How difficult a life, such a terrible card dealt, not being in the conversation. Isolated, no one understanding your deaf plight, instead being traduced to classmate scorn, our scathing, clever epithet quips trailing her passage through corridors and classrooms. It reminded me again what is, is not what is.

How wrong to judge, when we knew not who she was. The crude names we assigned her, hopefully at least not heard, as she passed among the student throng, a persona non-grata to the Desoto and slumber parties.

Then another revelation crept up, one about me. Would it have mattered? High school, it’s a time of sycophantic peer pressure. Any association with a pariah is a coup de grace expulsion from the “chosen”. Yes, I would have had empathy. But why? Because I was an outcast once too. Driving the Desoto for girl’s night out moved me to among the “chosen.” I loved my accepted status, the slumber parties and learning about makeup. My sin would be one of omission, silent sympathy while ignoring her plight, unwilling to relinquish the dive-in and slumber parties.

I’ve committed more sins of omission than commission. Don’t worry about what you do, it’s what you don’t you need to change.

With a louder than normal voice, we became semi-friends of sorts, exchanged public personas but never knew one another close. In middle age it was too late to connect intimately. My funeral attendance was a duty without tears except for my sins of omission. I prayed she could hear wherever she landed in the other world.

Did she have a secret puppet shadow? Who was she? I never knew her secrets, didn’t even know she was so deaf, deaf and dumb, true, she was deaf and I, dumb.

During funerals for parents and those of their era, my mind dwelt on their life summaries, what they did and didn’t do. For those younger it was their tragedy, of a life story cut short, their uncompleted actions. This funeral was of my generation, now beginning to be sporadically called to the other world, a pace which would accelerate. As the sterile, macabre service of platitudes of the funeral droned on, my mind wandered to and fro.

Death, it’s final. Tomorrow the world goes on without her. She’ll soon be forgotten, yesterday’s newspaper. Death, the stop button on our life’s tape, a tape soon erased, a fading memory among those who knew her, probably knew her not, now an evaporating mirage.

I shifted to reminiscing about me.

Soon I’ll be in a coffin, never to move again. When young, I walked through the Mission Cemetery with Julie, my one St. Clare’s school friend, to her mother’s grave, awed. The cemetery, row after row, beneath our feet or in little stone houses, real people, with life stories, stuck now, silently rotting away. They can’t move, they lived but are dead, their story’s over.

We were careful to step around the grave edges, thought they knew if we stepped on them. I stood before the graves, read the names, the dates, stared at the photos of the ones with a picture. They stared back in my mind, from coffins, rotten, horrible to look at, unlike their picture. What would they say if they could?

The cemetery, its graves, composed an undeniable credence to the nun’s admonishments, death is certain and possibly hell. Closing my eyes, I imagined their bodies dressed in goodbye finery, cold, damp, shriveled, decayed and rotten. It made me morose even after hopping on my bicycle and peddling back into the real world. God’s predestined future fate, its imprint retained, followed me home until forgotten by a living distraction. Watching TV or playing diverted my melancholy, yet I still retained death’s eventual claim mind-set frame.

I’m going to die.

Mom’s there now, beneath the grass and dirt, her headstone above. She’s in her cedar coffin, wearing the special dress I purchased for her, her favorite apron next to her where I placed it. Oh God, she’s shriveled, decayed in the cold earth despite the protective vault, the dress and apron ruined.

Dad’s next to her in his favorite suit and tie, his fedora I personally set at the angle he liked, rotten too. What will I wear lying in the cold earth? No, I’m being cremated, who wants to rot in the ground? Better ashes to ashes than dirt to dirt.

Now this woman lies in her satin lined coffin, so still, soon to rot in the cold earth too, no matter what she wears. No brush strokes are to be added on her life’s portrait. Those departed, they paint no more. Their remaining blank canvas, no sequel, no happily ever aftering, not a stroke more of their brush. Theyre just gone.

Morbid thoughts racked me; my mind strayed further afield.

With Mom and Dad gone, I’m scheduled next, the natural order of things.

Then my mind tripped a thought mine, the explosion rocked me awake.

I know more dead than alive!

I ran a quick inventory.

The generation before is gone, now mine’s departing, it’s close, maybe true, I know more dead than alive, if not today then next year or the year after!

The revelation wasn’t fear of dying; it was fear of not living. The nun’s hell of burning sulfur pots seared in my young mind was long gone. The worse I could conceive happening on death was, nothing.

I can accept nothing but not my life’s portrait unfinished. I need to splash paint!

Leaving the service I gulped in fresh air, raced home on Interstate 5, radio music played loud, mind churning but with the refrain.

I’m alive! I’m alive! I’m alive, not in that coffin, not next to be transferred to the cold earth beneath the grass. I’m alive!

At home I removed my black mourning garb and evaluated myself, still alive, naked before the mirror.

Still trim, only a few wrinkles, I look ten years younger than the calendar says. Boobs sag a bit but aren’t floppies, they’re like ripe fruit, to be enjoyed. With money to dress well, my hair dresser, makeup I can be a stealth 43. Menopause, and grandchildren, so what? I can still paint, paint with hues unused.

Looking at my eyes in the mirror, her eyes shone back, Succubus, Lilith, my secret puppet shadow stared back. She’s arisen!


After seven years imprisoned, she’d broken the silver chains restraining her. She was out, out for a last spree of libidinousness. It was she who agreed to meet the Captain; she was in command, my guardian angel now trussed, unable to stop me.

If the worse is nothing, let her roam.

I redressed, in white, then changed and put on a yellow dress, then changed again and again to dispel the funeral’s death shadow. With each change, my rationalizations grew more complex.

Parochial school, poverty, early marriage, children when young, they snuffed out the real me. Who was I? Who could I have been if not suppressed by fate? To know who, without the cards dealt when young, I must roam unfettered by fate’s picture frame.

Lies to excuse what I couldn’t admit, I was afraid of being old, a LOL, an unacknowledged passerby with an unfinished painting. I wanted to be a woman; still sought as a woman not as a matron, nana, or granny. All a complex web of delusions spun to deny.

A woman’s appearance determines her rank. After menopause, her rank degrades at an accelerating pace to LOL. The clock is ticking against me.

Handsome, professional, intellectually men will restore my rank, keep me from LOL. They don't need it all, just some, well at least one. With heels, makeup, the right dress I can still proclaim, “Look at me!” and get hit on.

Finally with a mid-calf red skirt, white blouse with lace, a pearl necklace and belly dance hoop earrings I put on 3-inch heels to leave the funeral’s shadow. Smiling before the mirror, hubby walked into the bedroom.

“What happened, a room tornado?”

“No, no, just going through the closet. It needs re-arrangement. I’m sorting things out, what needs to be discarded, what needs replacement. It’s a female midlife crisis, thing. I’ll be down shortly to fix dinner. Anything you want to see me wear?”

“No, I let that be up to you. I like your hair up. Don’t throw any of my old shirts out, especially the flannels; they’re a part of me.”

“Well I’m thinking of getting some clothes, different than you’ve seen me wear. Don’t be shocked to see a new me.”

I bagged my discards; added one of his old paint smeared flannel shirts, went down and fixed diner. I hummed in my renewed age attire, still a woman.

The next day I went shopping, shopping for sex.

Author Notes: We lie but mostly we lie to ourselves.

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About The Author
Cobra
Cobra
About This Story
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All
Posted
26 Dec, 2017
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1,894
Read Time
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