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Words in Whispers

Brian Grisham



Clara Morrisette lays beside her lover in her dorm room against the wall. Her college grad work is in disarray on her desk. Textbooks. Notes. Typed paragraphs on the computer screen. This-and-that and unfinished sentences.



What’s her mid-term paper subject? She doesn’t remember. All she worries about is Mora staring into the abyss of darkness. Clara knows her girlfriend is dead. Her eyes are open, and she stopped shitting. Her body. Naked. Stiff. Discolored.



Mora’s hair is in knots. Stringy. Dirty. Mouth open.



Legs closed.



Clara wipes Mora’s chin when she tries to feed her. Cleans the old piss off her thighs. And if she listens long enough, she swears she could hear her breathe. Slow and shallow. She listens now -- ear against mouth. Yes, she’s alive. She brings her mouth to Mora’s nipple and suckles in fetal position.



Naked. Too. Clara cries in the afternoon sunlight.



Her lips and tongue release the nipple. A string connects them still.



“You look pretty today, sweetie.” Her throat is sour. She peers up at the window, watching trees sway in the autumn winds. “You’re pretty everyday.”



Mora’s face doesn’t change. Flies land on her body.



“What’s that?” She brings her ear to her lips. She can’t hear anything.



Two weeks ago, Mora told her she loved someone else. Clara had hit her over the head with an old soccer trophy from childhood, and her love stumbled to the ground. Her whispers in words were barely audible. But, now impossible.



Clara brings the digital recorder up to Mora’s mouth. She presses record and turns the volume up high.



After a moment, she presses stop. She removes the memory card and inserts it into the computer. She turns up the volume. A rushing sound of dead air fills the room.



She plays it again, listening closer. The recording’s in loop. She can’t make out the words.



‘H-’



‘H…p m-’



‘Help me-’



Clara looks at Mora.



Mora’s eyes stare back at her.