The Ghost in the Mattress
written by: Arshi Mortuza
Quite theatrically, I was wearing a white nighty during my murder – the color donned by most ghosts you hear about. I stare at my body before me – her white dress drenched in red, while mine somehow spotless. The stab wounds in her stomach and chest should be about six inches deep. I know this because the weapon of choice was the one I’ve held in the kitchen every day for the past six years, slicing through vegetables and meat. Until today, the blood on this knife has always been of veal, fish, or some unfortunate poultry. Until today. The fight was random. It was about whose mother was the bigger liar. I may have threatened to expose some skeletons in their closet. And now they’ll have one more – my actual bony remains.
As I lie here, my spirit trapped in my deathbed, which even moments ago, was just our marital bed, I am haunted by the thought that I will never get to see my rotting corpse or putrid bones. This body that I have always had a love-and-hate relationship with, was still the only vessel I had ever known. Now it has been torn away from me forever. I watch him drag my lifeless body out of the room, leaving a trail of blood in the process. It smells like menstruation. No, a slaughterhouse. It occurs to me that I have seen him bury family pets with more dignity than this. It doesn’t stop me from feeling envy towards my carcass though. In death, she, my fleshy counterpart, finally looks peaceful. There was not an ounce of jealousy, anger, or passion left in her. It’s in me. It was always me.
After my body is out of sight, I hear it land somewhere with a thud. There are some sobs from the next room and frantic pacing across the creaky wooden floors. I cry too – almost out of reflex. “For better or for worse,” we had vowed after all. I hear his muffled voice and can predict that he is on a phone call. Moments later, I hear sirens outside our house, followed by loud knocking on our door. Heavy footsteps, deep voices, clicks of camera, and more voices through radios all follow. I hear someone monotonously read what sounds like the Miranda Rights.
From my mattress, where I am confined, I see a shadow of him exiting our home with some tall figures. That is the last I see of him. Next, I hear the wheeling of something; my corpse in a stretcher, I imagine. Men in uniform enter our bedroom. Click, click, click. They produce yellow tapes and a chalky outline of my body – a sad, hollow drawing. I nestle up to the mattress, knowing that this is going to be a long night.
- The Ghost in the Mattress - August 31, 2024
- Application to Become a Nun - June 14, 2024
