We parked the boat just at the edge of the river, we stepped out and into the swamp. My right foot out first, into the bog. The water sloshed underneath my footprint, with the heaviness of mud that pulled me an inch or so further into it. The marsh was thick, musty, and miserable to march through. On my feet, waterproof Merrels that were up to the task. Lily had a pair of hiking boots herself, brown in color, laced high tops. In the near spaces, splashes, hisses, and unknown shuffles echoed through the waist high bladed grass. As we pushed towards the shanty that rested roughly four to five feet above the water level, the tall grass shredded the skin on our arms as we powered through. Little tiny paper cuts across each of our forearms and elbows. Not deep enough to bleed, but just enough to sting unpleasantly and consistently.
Spiders, centipedes, and winged ants landed on me as I pushed down the thick brush with both of my legs in an attempt to save my arms. Centipedes with their one hundred little legs scurried quickly as they were knocked from the brush and onto my legs. The spiders varied in size, from petite to maybe four inches in leg length. They were in an abundance in their swamp, we had just simply been visitors in their space as we passed through. Watched from the distance with their eight eyes. They'd watch us carefully as we knocked down and destroyed their homes. In a sense we weren't that different from the storm.
We approached the shanty, busted and broken, the planks held together by rusty nails that were wilted. The sound of mosquitoes hung in the air with a disturbed presence. The air was still and any other night we could likely catch the French Quarter festivities. The music that played in another room. While the streets were crowded shoulder to shoulder, it was two a.m. and there was no end in sight for the parties in the streets. From Canal Street to the first foot placed onto Bourbon Street. The buildings vividly colored — from pink, eggshell white, to brick built from the earlier years. The lights on the balcony were a different color than their first floor counterparts. A blood red hue reflected on the white stones on the second floor as lovers peered over the balcony, drink in hand as it spilled over the side as the band marched down Bourbon just below them. They locked eyes, then the tip of their nose bumped into the others as they began to lock lips. The street itself multi-colored in hue from the various lights that colored Bourbon Street, the faces that passed one another merely a blur for each passing stranger. Likely to never come across each other ever again, throughout the rest of their lives. The swing band played at the Howling Moon, she had an elegant voice with a distinct purr from the twenties nearly a hundred years ago. The sound waves that reached the street hid behind a wall that sounded like an old vintage record on the table with a needle that skipped every so often, but they moved the floor with their rhythm all night long. However, we wouldn't experience any of that while we ascended the rickety ladder to our one-star New Orleans accommodation. A much cheaper alternative than to stay directly in the Quarter, albeit it was less than ideal. But in the end it wouldn't matter for us — there would be no swing bands, no strangers that bumped shoulders, no lovers that locked lips on the balcony just above Bourbon Street. Just Lily and I together alone as we climbed into our shanty town stay, alone with the mosquitoes, musty planks, and soft floor that we could fall through at any given moment.
The mosquitoes hummed in a tone that wavered every few seconds, closer.. closer, and then they drifted away throughout the swamps that surrounded us, but then they'd resurface even closer than before. They landed on the perspiration drops that fell down our skin just before they started to suck our blood. I swatted at every single one, they didn't quit.
"These mosquitoes can fuck right off.." I said.
Lily reached into her backpack, she fumbled around for a moment as she sifted through whatever she had in there.
"Voila," she said to me as she pulled out a can of bug spray repellent. First she sprayed her arms, neck, and her face. She slowly lathered it into her skin and then she tossed me the can. I adjusted the can with my right hand to cover my exposed skin on my arms, neck, and then I closed my eyes as I unleashed a trail of spray onto my face. And even a little around my ankles to keep them away from the dampness of my lower pant legs. "Let's hope this works.." I said.
There was no door on the shanty, we were exposed. Even the roof had somewhat caved in and half of it was torn off. Likely gone long before Katrina. I don't think anybody had been in here for years. Empty jars with missing lids scattered across the slightly moss green tinted planks as we lay. Old and incomplete fishing gear stacked in the corners, some on the floor. A distinct must clouded the air as well as brackish water mixed with fuel, debris, and likely bodies from the storm. Like little Susie that had drowned in the attic. Her body leaked fluids that contaminated the water that now run out of her home from the attic, where she, her mother, and baby brother had drowned of course, and into the streets of New Orleans. And they had found their way down the river, into the surrounding swamps, and lastly out into the gulf. The very water that absorbed itself into the wooden structure that held this shanty up, the mossy green planks moist with the fluids of little Susie who was tasked with getting her baby brother milk as she passed Barbara's, who lived on the corner, every Thursday.
"Tell me a little about yourself Lily." She was a woman of great mystery. And in all honesty, something about her has given me the chills. She has hardly spoken since she picked me up. And I have started to become concerned. All she has done is stare, and slowly change into something that would become of great concern.
But yet, I couldn't resist. No, I really mean that. It's almost like something was inside of me as it controlled me from my mind. I started to think about how I had gotten here but I can't quite remember. Do I even have a brother? Yes — I thought, of course I had a brother. His name was Hunter and he lives in New Orleans. Somewhere around Bayou St. Johns. And I came here to make sure he was okay. But I really began to question the life we had once had together. Everything before New Orleans had become a blur, a distant memory at the tip of one's tongue.
I lain on the musty plank, soiled with moss that was moist to the touch, like a little forest had grown on them. Full of wildlife, a little world right there on the planks that were beneath us. I couldn't help but feel as uncomfortable as possible. The floor was hard against my body, with my backpack that rested underneath my head with my Nikon F3 — and a fifty millimeter lens no less. I had another change of shirts in there also, with two bottles of water, two Kit-Kats — those are so good too. I couldn't hardly wait until I was able to shred the end of the wrapper off and take my first bite. I was so hungry, I hadn't eaten in hours at this point. Maybe about twelve hours. I had definitely under prepared, that's the thing. I never prepared, because I don't know how I ended up here or even why I am here. But I would have to make it work for now, because what were the other options? There were none. I didn't have a choice. It's literally as if a witch had placed a curse on me and took control of my body.
She spoke, "I once was a happy little girl."
I rolled over and looked at her, while she stood in the doorway with the moonlight at her back as it casted a silhouette that resembled somewhat the shape of my sleep paralysis demon, the one that sits at the end of your bed. The girl in white. The dead bride. The one that slowly approaches you while you lie there. You scream but yet, your lips are locked. Sealed even. You fumble around, toss and turn, but really you are still right there on your back. She approaches you from the left side of your bed, she reaches toward you. Her eyes black, hollow even. Her jaw slacked. Black. She sees right through, and she leans in. You know she is evil but yet she doesn't care. But I am glad I haven't seen her in years.
All of a sudden, I fell into a restless mood. I sat up from my rest, "what a bizarre dream.. Do you ever get those?" But she was still sound asleep. She slept at the other end of whatever it was that we stayed in. It was hardly a shelter. I had to shake the spiders off occasionally. And then the mosquitoes. They never quit. I had to admit at this point, I was eager to hear her speak to me again. Like a schoolboy that was about to have his first kiss. All over again.
The air was dense with a thick smog that coated the swamp, it's as if all the wildlife that surrounded us had fallen dead. Except the mosquitoes that still pestered us. A ferocious scent of bloated death would not be ignored. Sweat trickled down my shortened bangs as I attempted to wipe it off with my forearm sleeve. It left a salted stain on my thin button up. I thought about my brother once more and the childhood that we had once shared. After the divorce, things had unraveled quickly. From a countryside home free of worry to an inner urban chaos that we hadn't seen for years. It was no longer safe to go outside at night. With Lily asleep, I could reflect on the earlier years. But yet I couldn't remember how I had gotten here. I tried to remember his face, I do remember the last time I had seen him after he was yanked away from my mothers arms by our father, the one that pinned me down and spit on me in his tormented idea of child's play.
"I've brought you here to me." A female's voice had spoken in my head. I turned to face Lily, she lied down adjacent to me as her head rested on her backpack. "Who are you?" I asked her.
Her eyes open, with both hands she rubbed her eyes softly as they adjusted to the sunlight that tried with all of its energy to break through the smog, no dice. The humidity hid unseen but not unnoticed. "I was once a happy little girl." She said.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
She sat up, with her back against the broken wooden wall, neatly spun webs rebuilt after the storm just above her right shoulder. The spiders stalked from the corner, but they only listened to what she had to say. "We grew up in Lakeview, my sister and I. We looked alike. My father was a piece of shit. A drunk. A loser."
I sat up to face her, to offer her some solitude, a listening ear for a possible friend. A diamond in the rough she was. "What brings you here?" I asked her.
"I'm here to find my sister. I haven't seen her in years."
A similar journey to myself, somehow as we have crossed each others path looking for a long lost sibling. The last tie to our childhood. Maybe it was our way to grieve the past? A chance to say goodbye or to start over. I still couldn't remember just how I got here though.
She crawled toward me slowly, I watched her approach, paralyzed. Her dark wavy brown hair coated with grease from the unsavory conditions of the swamp that surrounded us in the shanty. Her brown eyes placed me into a trance, captivated by her innocence and beauty. A spell. As she drew nearer, she reached for me, she placed her hand on top of my left hand. Her hand was clammy, then a shock through my system. Suddenly, my mind had filled with memories from her childhood. I stood next to her, but she was much younger. We were in someone's garden. The fall breeze blew and offered some relief to the miserable humidity. Then the young girl had spoken.
Hand me those flowers Lily. I grabbed the pink flowers carefully. Counted the petals on one of them in my head. "One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.." "Here you go momma."
"Thanks sweetie."
I turned around to look at mom's beautiful garden. It had Sage, Golden Bells, Firebush, Angel's Trumpet, and Chrysanthemums. A vibrant array of colors spread across our garden. From soft gold, rose red, delicate pink, and dramatic purple.
My mom was a damn fine gardener when she was alive. We spent most of our time outside. It was my favorite part of the day. I never really cared for what some of the plants were called — simply for the love of their colors, as well as their aromas. All the living and breathing things that it brought to our backyard. It was our own little tiny Garden of Eden.
Father came home early from work one day. "Ruth," my mother, "get the fuck inside — NOW," he shouted.
A few minutes later, I heard loud yelling, pots and pans clashing against one another as I'd imagine them being thrown throughout the kitchen.
Crash.
I ran inside to look for my mom and found her sitting in the living room crying.
"Lily, we can't stay here anymore.. It's not safe."
"Where's dad?" I asked.
"He went outside." I can't recall what they were arguing about but I knew it was bad.
"Hurry sweetie, we need to pack us some bags and go. I'll get your sister and then we can go stay with grandma."
"Okay.."
She followed me into my room and I helped her pack my bags.
"Don't forget your teddy! I'll go get Iris and her stuff." She said with a panic.
We left the house through the tattered kitchen and out the back door. My mom picked me up and put me into the passenger seat, she put Iris in the back of her black 1987 Grand National GNX. She then fumbled around for the keys before putting them into the ignition. She started the car and we sped off. I turned around to look at our home as it shrank smaller out the rear window.
"Girls, seatbelts — NOW." Mom was shaking, she was scared. The garden was our little paradise. Our escape from daddy.
A sudden migraine, orbital in nature — in fact. Right between my two eyes and the temple of my skull. A persistent knock that radiated through the front and back of my skull, down to the base of my neck. My nose began to bleed as I returned to the present moment. "I can share more later," she said. What the hell just happened?
We left our shanty behind to be swallowed by the storm surge that flooded the swamp. I looked at my sleeve that had a little bit of blood smeared on it from the earlier nosebleed. Lily was just ahead of me. I turned back to look at the shanty. A little ray of sunlight broke through the dark gray skies and cast its beam of light on the shanty. A web in the front door frame had neatly rested in the upper right corner as a spider retreated back into its corner as it waited for any unsuspecting prey. But it rested, patiently. I looked toward the boat as we'd look to make our way into the city. We stepped into the boat, one after another. Lily first, and then myself. I looked back at the shanty once more as we sped off up the river and towards New Orleans. We turned the page, to find who was missing. Now to find my brother — after all, that is why I am here, isn't it? It wouldn't be because I was cursed, my will controlled and my thoughts bound and ultimately mislead to have me walk straight towards my beloved end? And I'd have to watch myself unravel into madness?