Ex Nihilo

By: Raven Bass

Prologue: Ante Partum

It was a cold summer day in Chicago. A thick umbrella of clouds blotted out the cheery afternoon sun and pulled everything into vivid high contrast, blurring all the edges into the semblance of old photographs.

A little girl with a huge, yellow, wide-brimmed hat and matching sundress shivered as a harsh breeze cut through her pale, wiry arms. Tears adorned her eyes as she moved the gray little stuffed bunny around lifelessly. Mutely.

The bunny slipped from her hands and its head flopped up towards the cloaked sun and she could only leave it there. It looked so resigned.

“What’s the matter Mr. Rabbits?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. “You should be happy. We’re having a tea party and everybody’s coming.”

She regarded the little gathering with blank eyes: her white porcelain kettle, a blanket pinned to the ground with misshapen stones, Mr. Rabbits with his painfully green overalls and melancholy demeanor, a little plate of sugar speckled with dirt, and three miniature glasses of tea that were as cold as the biting winds.

The tears finally rushing quietly down her cheeks, she looked around at the blurry park. Empty. The swings, the teeter-totters, even the jungle gym. No children splashed in the pond, no teenagers lounged in the grass, no old people stood on the stone bridge and watched the water go by.

The only other creature in sight was a crisp, young businesswoman in a spotted dress with spectacles, perched on a bench reading the newspaper and sipping on a lukewarm americano. And she was frightening for some reason.

Empty. Her father was nowhere to be found.

She shook her head violently, shaking off the tears. It was too painful to think about. Stubbornly, she leapt to her feet and, with a meaningful nod to Mr. Rabbits, ran from her lonely little tea party all the way to the stone bridge on the other side of the park.

It was large and old, from a time when the river was much deeper. Yet the river roared softly on that ominous day and the little girl feared it too, although she’d never have admitted it. Shaking slightly, she stumbled up the bridge and lifted herself onto its rough arms, so as to look down into the fleeting water.

She wondered where it was going, and why it was in such a hurry to get there. Was elsewhere really that much better?

A small glimmer caught her eyes and she shifted slightly to get a better look, just as a strong gust came from behind her. Weightlessly, she plunged into the icy water with barely a splash. Stunned by the sudden wetness and alluring cold, the little girl didn’t even think to struggle. Perhaps she was already too indifferent, already too dead, to fight for what life she still had.

As the last traces life faded from the girl’s fragile body, the woman stood and folded up her newspaper, a smirk on the edge of her lips. Casually, she deposited her newspaper, the picnic blanket, and Mr. Rabbits into the nearby trashcan. Knowing her job was almost over, she stepped briskly out of the park and was promptly hit by a speeding truck. She died instantly.

Rush University Medical Center

March, 1922

Chicago, Illinois

The walls of the Emergency Ward echoed with Mrs. Marylou Allen’s theatrical wails, drowning out all the moans of other’s pain. Already she was in full mourning attire, complete with the black, sequined shawl from Paris she’d bought on the way to the hospital. Her husband, Mr. Allen, stood at her side, trying weakly to sooth her extreme distress. He’d been at the gentleman’s club up until he’d heard, so naturally he was still dressed in his teal loungewear and tequila was still on his breath.

Dr. Jonathan Waltz, the family doctor, completed the somber exposé standing calmly off to the side, as always. Having completed his job for the time being, he whispered something in Mr. Allen’s ear and they both moved quietly from the room and shut the door. They spoke in hushed tones in the hallway, trying hard not to upset Mrs. Allen.

But this was how she’d wanted it. The men having left the room, she settled quickly and began to privately study her only child’s corpse. Her long, wispy, white hair had almost dried by then and her skin glowed in the dim hospital lighting. In passing, Mrs. Allen was reminded of something she’d read of Poe which she murmured suddenly aloud, “The death then of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world…”

And for a moment this made perfect sense to her. But immediately after she felt a sharp pang of guilt. She tried to put it out of her mind.

Softly she implored, “Why did you have to leave me?” Now crying for herself rather than her daughter, she softly stroked the girl’s pallid cheeks. Everything felt so empty now; she wondered if that was how her daughter had felt just before she died.

And yet, for her daughter, things had never felt so alive. A million voices from across the world spoke to her in whispers. The din frightened her empty mind at first but became increasingly comforting when she realized she could understand each voice individually as well as all of them in unison. In life she’d felt completely alone, yet with each passing moment she felt more and more a part of everyone and everything.

Although she quickly suppressed it to merely imagination, Mrs. Allen almost thought she felt her daughter’s cheeks warm. Frightened despite herself, she moved to pull her hand away but found that she couldn’t. Gently, the little girl’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused and blank. As if dreaming, Marylou’s lips spoke the name of her daughter silently.

Her eyes zoomed into focus and she managed a little smile. Molten words tumbled from Marylou’s stunned lips without bidding, “To know is to be delivered.”

Marylou gasped then and recoiled in horror, knocking over the operation desk and scattering metal tools all over the cramped little room. Uselessly, she realized she was entirely unable to breath, but within moments she was completely dead.

Hearing the clatter of tools and a dull thump, Mr. Allen rushed back into the room, leaving the doctor in the hall.

“Marylou, are you okay?” he asked, shutting the door behind him.

“Yes dearest, of course,” Mrs. Allen replied the same way she had a thousand times, picking herself up off the floor and smiling to herself. “I just slipped and fell.”

“Oh? Is that all?” Mr. Allen replied, smug sarcasm sinking back into his voice as he crossed the room to help his wife. She immediately withdrew from his touch, as if in extreme pain.

“It’s okay, all I need is some air,” she assured, stepping hastily around him and towards the door.

Leaning awkwardly over the empty hospital bed, a peculiar thought crossed Mr. Allen’s mind. “Where is our daughter?”

The door’s lock clicked and the blinds shut. Suddenly uneasy, he turned back towards his wife hesitantly, who now stood between him and a locked door.

“Honey, where is our daughter?” he asked again, stepping forward purposefully. He stumbled on something, the bleeding corpse of his dead wife, and fell into an awkward crouch. Immediately he moved to stand, but the sharp pain of a foot smashing down on his hand fell him entirely.

Gripping the scalpel she’d picked up from the floor behind her back, Mrs. Allen smiled grimly. She liked how much smaller he seemed from her new perspective. Crouching nearer to him, she whispered, “Don’t worry about it… Father.”

Forward:

Thank you for at least trying out my story! This is my second (National Novel Writing Month) novel, and I believe it shows improvement in both dialogue and description. Honestly, I am fairly pleased with how the whole thing turned out and I hope you enjoy it too. I will be posting a new chapter every Wednesday, over the next 24 weeks. Please post any comments or questions you have, although simple words of encouragement are also appretiated.

Disclaimer- Ex Nihilo contains some brief but detailed action-gore, as well as brief strong language (mostly for comedic effect), and (also brief) homosexual content. I believe the whole thing remains PG, but I'm listing it as T just to be safe.

Tell me what you think!