Marmarna

Written by Elsa Valmidiano

Before I wake, I am lying in a cradle-like bed. It is hot as if I were being cooked alive.

I slowly rise from the prison of the small bed. My tiny feet slip onto the floor. My eyes sink deep into the darkness. I walk. Behind me, arms wrap around my head while palms are pressed against my eyes. I struggle to see that which hunches in the corner, breathing deeply. I walk, hoping I do not feel the tingling of claws. I smell its vile odor as if it is dancing before me in the pitch black. The ground is greasy as worm-like creatures and tree roots slither between my toes. They crawl onto my skin and sink into my flesh. I feel myself wasting away until I hear the crackle of my bones. My head wants to look down, but the strong claws of a creature behind me grasp my chin firmly in place. I do not struggle.

The creature withdraws. Just when I think I am free, I realize there are bodies. I see only their shapes as I am pushed up against them as if dancing with them all. Dry lips brush against my cheeks, my forehead, and my lips. When I wipe away their kisses, I feel a thick muddy stream and a hard plate where my cheeks would have been.

I am led into a room. I grope the walls and switch the light on. The beings scamper away.

A large mirror is before me where a woman stands inside. She wears a white chemise, which in the light, reveals her thin, delicate body. Her arms and legs hang languid like slack branches—her once soft flesh now trapped and suffocated. She is a Marmarna, always spoken of in hushed reverential tones when in the presence of a baliti tree. She stands with me against them. She is eighteen or eighty, though I cannot tell as her face has fallen into the pit of sores. She was beautiful once. Her eyes are sunken in, pulsating a purple hue. Her cheeks are devoured. She is balding and black strings stream down from the top of her scalp. She is missing most of her teeth, while the few that remain are bloodstained and brown.  She smiles and taps the mirror. Tap. Tap. I raise my fingertips to the glass, which is but a fragile wall. She pushes her palms against the glass, eager to hold my hand, but I frown. She follows my movements in perfect unison.

I step away from the mirror. I want to wash my feet. I want to wash everything away, but voices in the shadows say, “Don’t use the water. Do not turn on the faucet. The gushing is loud. We want to sleep now.”

There is a large black bucket in a white bathtub. I lift the bucket and fill it slowly with water from the small sink, which whispers down the pipes. The bucket cannot be filled. Only a small amount of water is in it. I return the bucket to the bathtub. I sit on its edge and lower my ravaged feet into the bucket. I focus on the lingering grime on the tiles. I dig my nails into its small dirty spaces. Spiders and roaches scamper the walls. I smile. The water in the bucket begins to boil my feet. Claws tingle up and down my spine. It is the woman. She has stepped away from the mirror. Her snake-like tongue slides across the back of my neck. Her fangs sink into my shoulder. 

I turn around. She is beautiful. Her thick, long hair cascades in onyx tendrils. Her eyes are bright like obsidian. Her cheeks radiate a delicious glow. I make crude circles on her smooth, tan face as if it were water. My lips float down the silken slope of her neck. The tiny drumbeat of her pulse beckons my thirst to the soft hollow space of her throat.

“Agtaray ca, biag co. Isalacam ti bagim,” I whisper but she simply laughs, “We have been here before. You don’t remember?”

“Asinno ca?” I ask.

She replies, “You are me,” and I wake.

ILOCANO GLOSSARY

Agtaray ca, biag co. Isalacam ti bagim. - Run away, my darling. Save yourself.

Asinno ca? - Who are you?