Scribe the Woman

"Greer, is everything okay?" Mrs. Shade asked.

She studied her daughter as she buttered her toast.

"I feel empty," Greer muttered.

"That's normal, honey," replied her mother. She was focused on evening out her butter to all four corners instead of noticing how pale Greer had gotten.

Or the rings under her eyes.

"No, Mom," Greer said. She looked up from her plate. Mrs. Shade blinked at her.

"This is a different empty," said Greer.

Mrs. Shade placed her toast on the plate, cleaned the knife, and placed it across the dish. She reclined in her wooden chair across from Greer.

Mrs. Shade said, "Different empty?"

She templed her manicured fingers together and pressed her lips against the steeple.

Greer nodded. She looked down at her food again. The eyes of her sunny-side-up eggs glared at her. She could feel her mother's gaze.

There could only be one empty in this world, especially in the town of Arcat.

Greer cleared her throat.

"Ever … Since … Grandpa died… I …,"

"Greer. That was two weeks ago," Mrs. Shade said.

"I know," Greer said to her plate, "I know, and I should be-"

"Fine," said Mrs. Shade.

They held each other's gaze for a moment before being interrupted by Mrs. Shade taking another bite of her toast. Greer watched as crumbs rained down onto Mrs. Shade's plate, sprinkling onto the eggs, grits, and sausages.

"You should be fine. It's a part of life, dear. He was sick," Mrs. Shade said. She pursed her lips as she raked food from between her teeth with her tongue.

"But I feel like — It just feels like — the world is pushing down on my chest and — something — is… in my throat, and I can't get it out," Greer said. She grasped the fabric on her chest and held it tight. Her knuckles pressed against her sternum.

Mrs. Shade tensed.

Greer looked at her mother's discarded food, "Mom?"

Greer lifted her gaze to Mrs. Shade; she now stood over her daughter. The woman's lips were pulled back in a snarl. Her nostrils flared. Greer pushed her seat away from the table. Mrs. Shade flinched as the legs of her chair scraped the floor.

"Go see the Scribe," Mrs. Shade said.

Greer erupted from her seat.

"The Scribe? You think I need to see the Scribe?"

You went to see a Scribe if something was wrong; if you were broken, you went if you have Feelings.

Feelings were outlawed - they caused infidelity, war, crime, chaos. If someone felt a Feeling, you went to a Scribe. Scribes are doctors of sorts who sewed your numbness shut before you got infected with Feelings. The conducted Cleanses. If it didn't take - you were turned over to the authorities for being an imminent threat.

"You need to get whatever this is - dealt with. I need to get to work." Mrs. Shade said. She grabbed her keys and purse from the counter behind her chair. She was checking to see if she had everything for the evacuation, mumbling her items in a trans-like chant; "Keys … vitamins …keys-,"

She walked toward the front door. Each step she took was reminiscent of thunderclaps of a storm as she put all of her weight into her heels.

"Mom? Mom! I don't know where she —,"

"The Scribe lives past our neighborhood, past the town, past the police station, and up the hill," Mrs. Shade said. She opened the front door. She turned to her daughter. She gave Greer a grin. Her eyebrows still indented into her brow.

"Good luck, baby," Mrs. Shades said.

She slammed the door behind her.

Greer sat down in her chair.

In the quiet.

She stared at her plate.

"I have to go see the Scribe," she said to her breakfast.

The tines of her fork hovered above the two strips of bacon, grits, and two sunny-side-up eggs. She stabbed one of the eyes and watched it drip. The yellow iris siphoned from the whites and pooled into the crags of the grits.

"I am sick," she said.

Greer deconstructed herself; her shoulders scrunched to her ears, and her chin dug into her chest. Her hands opened up palms up to the ceiling. She jolted at the collision or her fork with the plate.

She clutched her hair into fists and bowed her head to her chest. Tears streamed down her face, ribboning her lips as she cried to the empty kitchen, to the birds singing their songs outside, to the cold contents of her breakfast.

****

Greer weaved through her neighborhood, shuffled past stores, and hurried past the police station. She covered her head with her hood, tucked her chin to her chest, eyes down. She only uncovered her face once she started trekking up the hill that led out of Arcat and saw the ragged roof of the Scribe's abode rise above its peak.

The Scribe's shack.

On a weathered dock that bridged the hill to the house - a white, wind-beaten shack. The Eilish River weaved between the two, threading underneath the pier, ribboning around the slope, and snaking into the neighboring forests, flashing like metal in the sunlight.

Greer remembered visiting the river with her father when she was younger. They would fish and wade through the green water. She didn't remember the interruption of the pier or the Scribe's home. The ripples had lapped at their legs, sending the fat-bellied fish in all different directions. Her father had folded her hands around the smoother stones, instructing her to keep the hold, until the last second. They would throw rocks for hours. His stones skipping toward the horizon, hers, one-hit wonders, leaving the echoes of attempts until they retired for home.

Greer looked from the woods to the house. White against the shards of the dock. White against the blue of the sky and depths of the river.

Greer was alone.

She took in a breath, full of the river's brine, and started padding toward the Scribe's home. The planks of the dock creaked as Greer got closer. Obscured words were carved underneath of splinters.

They looked like human nails had cut them, the arches of words featuring unnatural crescents.

She looked at the pliers; they didn't have anything on them. The water lapped at the wooden legs—the white caps salivating for a word. Greer padded closer to the door, on it was the word "Barricade."

"Come on in," a voice said behind it.

"Are — are you the Scribe?" Greer whispered.

The voice said, "Are you someone who has Feelings?"

Every inch of Greer's body tensed.

The voice said, "Well?"

Greer looked to her right. Down the slope, she could see Arcat. The citizens milled about the shops like a cluster of ants. Numb insects that were just thriving, unaware that the shadow of a boot may come one day.

A woman cleared her throat. A door creaked open. A few feet in front of Greer stood the Scribe.

She was beautiful - from her bone structure to her legs. She wore her long black hair in twists that landed at her lower back. What caught Greer's eyes the most were the words sprawled all over the Scribe's deep, dark skin. There were small words in silver, curly ones in gold, bold ones in white, some in red, and ice blue. They intersected each other - coexisting on this plane.

Two words stood out to Greer. The word "invisible" was in a glacial blue crescent engraved under her right eye. "Ugly" was in white lettering arched as her left eyebrow. The words "Trusted" and "Loved" were stacked like fingers alongside her larynx. The Scribe wore a sleeveless dress that showed more inscriptions along her body. She was like holding a heavy book and imagining how many pages there were.

"Sit and chat with me," she said.

She stepped back into her shack, beckoning Greer with her Saturn-heavy-ringed fingers. Trans-like, Greer obliged and stepped into the Scribe's home.

It was as if you were under a canopy of trees - or submerged under the Eilish River. Everything was green. The walls. The ceiling. The stairs in front of them. The doors on the upper floor. Greer could see through the ivy-shaded living room. Plants grew from the corners of rooms—thick vines, dainty ones, curtains that sheathed articles of the walls. The air smelled like spices and burnt paper. The Scribe pointed at the living room to the right. It had one coffee table set for tea, a deep green couch, plants on the window sill alongside the doorway that looked out at the dock and the town past it.

Greer said, "No TV?"

"No. No TV. People are more entertaining with their stories," the Scribe replied with a smile.

Nothing was written on her teeth that Greer noticed - they were pure white. The Scribe crossed past the girl and into the living room. The wooden floor creaked underneath her bare feet - aching from the salt caught in between their slats from the wind. The house was as if it were alive - the cavity of its body green and engrossed with leaves.

The Scribe's gait was dance-like, one foot after another. Greer squinted, then winced. Branded on her ankles were curse words. She thought they were all bad until she saw worse ones peeking up from the underside of her heel – stuck to her flesh like broken glass.

"You-your feet," said Greer.

"Come, sit," said the Scribe.

Greer watched her plummet onto the deep green couch. The Scribe beamed up at Greer with her vibrant eyes and teeth. She patted the vacant cushion beside her. Greer strolled into the living room and settled herself beside her. Her eyes wandered to the word "Trophy" engraved on the Scribe's thigh. Greer met the Scribe's eyes and shied away.

"It's okay to be nervous; people always are with their first Cleanse. Mostly because they are experiencing "Feelings" or because of my title," she said.

Greer nodded, watching her hands brush over her legs.

The Scribe said, "Tea?"

She nodded to the tea set in front of them. Steam twisted and twined from the teapot and the cups.

"No, thank you, I just want to -,"

"Get it over with," the Scribe said. She placed the teacup back on the table and nodded, "I understand, human nature."

"Does it hurt you?" Greer asked.

"Not at all," the Scribe said. She extended her hands to Greer, they had nothing on them, except for countless bracelets, which were hanging from her wrists. Greer placed her hands on top of the Scribe's.

"Now, I am going to ask you some questions. They are to settle your nerves. Then, I will start the Cleanse, okay? We are going to find the Root of your Feelings," the Scribe said.

Greer met her eyes. The Scribe grinned; she had probably been in this practice for countless years, calming people down before shucking out their emotions. The Scribe's thumbs rolled over Greer's hands. The word "root" rolled around on Greer's tongue until it fell out.

Greer asked, "Root? What do you mean by Root?"

The Scribe hummed and massaged Greer's knuckles, one finger at a time. She looked over the girl's porcelain hands. She then pulled away to show Greer her riddled bridle bone, where the word "Hungry" curved like a crescent. The Scribe then showed the other samples of text that were goose-bumped on her arms and punctuated her face.

"These are roots, the base of what caused that person Feelings," she said.

She stroked her throat. The word "loved" rippled under the pressure of her fingertips.

The Scribe said, "This belonged to a woman who was "Confused," she was loved by this man who beat her repeatedly for years."

Greer winced.

The Scribe guided Greer to look away from the word. She proceeded with a golden comment on her left forearm.

"Unwanted," she read aloud, tracing the lines with her pointer finger, "This belonged to a man who was "Shameful" and "Sad." He was bullied growing up. He was alienated from his family. It was easy to get the Root of his Feelings. He sliced the word, "Unwanted" into his wrists."

Greer said, "Feelings have names to them?"

The Scribe nodded and returned her hands to their proper place, underneath Greer's.

The Scribe said, "Are you ready to find out what yours is?"

Greer looked down. She focused on the woman's thumbs passing over her hand - like a dark wave washing over the shore, taking everything on the surface with it.

"I'll repeat," The Scribe's voice said.

Greer looked up, "Oh - I am so sorry I wasn't -,"

The Scribe squeezed her hands, and she said, "You were relaxing. That's what I wanted you to do. Now, let's start. How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"Do you go to school?"

"On break right now, but, yeah, out of state,"

"Favorite color?"

"... Yellow."

"Favorite animal?"

"Beta fish -,"

"A beta fish? That's the first time I've heard that - explain, I am interested,"

A giggle slipped out of Greer's mouth. The Scribe squeezed her hands.

"My grandfather always had a beta fish, and he would give them funny names," she said.

"Like what?"

"Gill-Bert, Tuna Turner, Ron Swimson," Greer said. The names bubbled out of her mouth.

The Scribe laughed with her. She squeezed Greer's hands.

The Scribe said, "Your grandfather sounds like a funny man."

"Was - was a funny man," Greer said.

The heaviness sunk in her chest. Her neck couldn't hold the weight. Greer stared at their hands. The Scribe weaved her fingers in between hers.

"Was," said the Scribe, "My condolences; when did your grandfather pass away?"

Greer tensed at the question. The Scribe thumbs picked up the pace of massaging her skin; they were starting to blur together into a muddy shade - after a few blinks, they resumed being two pairs of hands.

"He died ... two weeks ago," Greer said.

She cleared her throat and adjusted her position on the cushion.

The Scribe stopped.

"An infection ... he was too old and sick to be operated on," Greer said.

"How long did it take?"

Greer cleared her throat.

She said, "The hospice nurse said two weeks ... he died after two hours."

The Scribe sighed, her fingers interlocked with Greer's, who took this as a sign to look up. The Scribe studied her face. She didn't wear a disgusted frown as her mother had. No. The Scribe's golden eyes were full of tears.

"That must have been quite a shock," she muttered softly. Her hands were squeezing once again.

Greer nodded and cleared her throat.

She said, "I think... I'm hurting."

Her voice was small now.

She coughed, but she wasn't sick.

A tear ran down her cheek, but her eyes weren't irritated.

The Scribe's fingers cradled Greer's wrist, "Tell me more," she said.

"Tell you what?" Greer said, "I am sorry - I don't mean to be rude. I just --,"

"Don't know what to do," the Scribe said.

She nodded.

Greer looked at the woman. A dark look came over the Scribe's face. Her lips were tight in a scowl—her face firm. The glint in her eyes was snuffed.

She said, "That's the problem with today ... but tell me what you physically felt when he passed. Did it feel like something was in your throat or that the world was pressing down on your chest?"

"Yes," Greer whispered.

She bowed her head and focused on her shoes. They were clean. White. Untouched. Her gaze gravitated to the sweeping motion of the Scribe's hands-on hers. They were soothing, caressing, like someone clearing tears off a child's face or a mom recovering a child that had skinned their knee.

Her grip on the Scribe's hands faltered.

"I'm Heartbroken," Greer said. Her body shuddered as she coughed out more tears. Greer folded her arms on top of the Scribe's knees and wept.

Greer said, "I'm breaking. I feel like I am going to pop at any second!"

"Let it out," whispered the Scribe.

Greer peeled off of the woman's knees. The Scribe was a blur. The dark green wall behind her was a canvas of watercolors. Greer closed her eyes as she felt one of the Scribe's hands cradle her skull.

Greer said, "No one is saying that - no one says anything!"

Greer stood up now.

The Scribe said, "What are they saying?"

She didn't touch Greer. She watched the woman pace the living room. The wooden panels were crying under her shoes.

"'It was two weeks, Greer! He was sick! We saw it coming! We prepared for it! Get over it!' "

A few seconds passed where the only sounds were Greer trying to collect herself and the whine of wood.

Greer said," 'Get over it?' "

To the green of the living room, Greer said, "He was your dad. He was your soccer coach. He taught you how to ski. He gave me a beta fish every two years. He was there through it all -,"

The Scribe said, "Who are you talking to?"

She leaned in, her elbows perched on her knees and her arms crossed. Greer furrowed her eyebrows. She stood there, panting.

Greer said, "My mother."

The Scribe exhaled through her teeth. Greer pivoted to look at her.

A red light glowed underneath her bracelets, the aura segmented by each bangle. Greer took a step toward the Scribe. The woman parted her jewelry to reveal a word inking through her skin. There were five symbols swatched in red on her wrist. They couldn't read the Root, it was only shapes.

Greer said, "My mother."

She marched out of the living room.

The Scribe said, "Wait! Wait! We aren't done - you can't -,"

Greer slammed the door behind her. Down the slope, people were slipping into homes and buildings as the Sun snuck behind the horizon. The sky was bleaching the blue, showing the scars of red and orange from the sunset.

The Scribe said, "Stop!"

Greer bolted down the hill. The wind screamed in her ears and clawed at her hair. She kept running, weaving in between townspeople, cutting people off as she did.

The Scribe yelled, "You don't want to do this!"

In the corner of Greer's eye, she could see the heads of her fellow Arcatans run to her. A Feeling was loose. The shadow of a boot was eclipsing the anthill.

Greer pelted past the police station, her legs pumping faster and faster.

A woman cried out, "Police! Police!"

Someone said, "Is that Greer Shade?"

Voices rose in the air. Greer pushed past a man that wouldn't get out of her way. She felt hands tug at her shirt. She pulled herself free; her eyes fixated on home.

A man cried out, "Stop her!"

A hand made contact with the back of Greer's head. She lost her balance and rolled to a stop on the ground. She propped herself on her arms, panting at the ground. Greer looked up and narrowed her eyes at the crowd of people that were now pursuing her. Men, women, children, their eyes shining as they charged toward her. Their hands outstretched to the woman.

Greer gritted her teeth. She pushed herself up to stand.

Greer screamed, "Get away from me!"

She pushed off, running toward her home, weaving through houses until she heard the cries of the townspeople start to fade away into the night.

***

Mrs. Shade said, "Oh, honey, don't slam the door-,"

She was priming and prepping a bouquet, her back to Greer's flared nostrils and scowling face.

"Congrats on your first -," Mrs. Shade froze.

She fretted at Greer's balled-up fists.

Mrs. Shade said, "Greer? What's wrong? You're sweaty."

Mrs. Shade looked her daughter over. She then returned to adjust the arrangement.

"You," Greer said.

Mrs. Shade said, "Honey... I don't think it worked. You should go back - Cleanses help."

"No. It's you, Mom. You think that everything can be solved by taking away pain," said Greer.

She took a step forward.

Mrs. Shade furrowed her eyebrows and frowned. She looked to the right at the sound of people crossing her yard. Her muscles tensed. Out the window, she could see a group of people clustering.

"Greer Shade, we are going to give you ten minutes to get out of Arcat, we will not tolerate you being here," said a man.

Mrs. Shade flared her nostrils. She looked at her daughter, her lips curled back in disgust.

"Greer. Go back to the Scribe," she warned.

Greer said, "Why? Are you scared of me now? Because of my Feelings? Why? Why are you so worried about me?"

Mrs. Shade looked Greer up and down.

Mrs. Shade said, "This is why Feelings are illegal - to keep Anger and Aggression out - to stop wars," Mrs. Shade said. She stole a glimpse at the mob on her property.

"Go back to the Scribe because it is not appreciated here or out there," Mrs. Shade said to the window.

Greer studied her mom. She was tense, staring out like a caged animal. Her hands were flexing from open to fists at her sides.

"Fine," Greer exhaled.

Mrs. Shade rooted her heels into the floor as Greer stepped towards her. Greer grabbed her left wrist. Mrs. Shade gasped - as if blood or grime or sin had touched her skin, even though she was wearing rubber gloves. Mrs. Shade scowled at Greer. She slipped her wrist out of the grip. She rolled them and massaged the infected flesh, stealing looks at Greer.

"You win," Greer said.

She looked over Mrs. Shade one more time, holding onto her wrist. Greer let out a small snort and nodded at this image; a mother horrified of her child because the world told her to be afraid.

She turned a heel and walked away from Mrs. Shade, the bouquet, the Pledge scented kitchen, the stream-lined foyer. The picture of Greer on an antique dresser by the front door. She was gap-toothed and five years old, beaming after a T Ball game.

"Always smiling, you were always smiling," Mrs. Shade had said, musing over the picture.

Greer slammed the door behind her. She turned right to see the mob watching her. They clustered tighter together as she came closer until she stood before them. The boot and the anthill. She noted how they were holding hands, banding together before the evil that was her. Greer smiled at the gesture. She met eyes with the mob.

They held their breaths.

"You all win," Greer said.

She took a step toward them all. They shifted, pushing them as far away as they could from the touch of Greer, granting her passage to the town. Their eyes following her every move her only farewell.

In the corner of Greer's eye, something glowed on her right wrist. It itched like a scab that was healing, radiating and pulsing and burning and healed, all at once.

"Failure," unfurled across her skin—one dark purple letter at the time.

"It's… it's a Root," breathed Greer.

****

Greer said, "Scribe?"

The dark green walls, couch, and tea set were all cast in black. Through the blood roaring in her ears, the only thing Greer could hear was the buffet of waves against the dock and the creaks of the old shack.

The purple cast from the Root cast a faint halo from Greer's hand.

"I told you to stay for the Cleanse," the Scribe said.

Up the stairs, Greer could see an imprint of a person against the shadows. Different colored lights glowed from the silhouette.

Greer held her affected hand out to her.

She said, "What is happening?"

The Scribe said, "I said 'no', 'stop', 'stay', but you kept running."

One step after another creaked. Her Roots were translatable as she came closer to Greer. The Scribe hesitated on the last step. Greer could feel her eyes on her, scanning her face and skin.

Greer jumped when she felt a hand grip the infected wrist and turn it over to show the glowing underbelly.

The Scribe clicked her tongue.

"I have a Root on my skin," Greer said.

"You are one of us now," The Scribe said. She passed Greer to the living room. The floor creaks led Greer after the woman.

Greer said, "One of us? One of you?"

"Yes," the Scribe said.

She winced when the light to the living room came on.

"Aren't you lucky? You are now a vessel for those who do not understand how to feel. We know how to empathize, so we take on the weight of their worlds by taking words and wearing them on our skin. We take "weapons of mass destruction away" so people can be numb and have a numb taste in their mouths and love numbly. You are a Scribe now. You will listen to mothers' cry over babies, women beating themselves up over love, men not being good enough. You will listen to it all, and you will take it all. You will be a healer, but you will be cast out. You will be needed but never wanted," she said.

"I – don't understand," said Greer.

The Scribe closed her eyes, tucked her lip, nodded her head. She uncrossed her legs and leaned in.

"I could tell you would do this. I thought finishing the Cleanse would stop but - you are Sensitive - someone who feels deeply, so Cleanses are defective on you," she said, looking Greer up over and over. Her eyes were distant.

Greer said, "What - what happens now?"

She crossed her arms and looked around. The green walls were closing in around her - and they had faint words of hate on them.

The Scribe chuckled and stood in front of Greer. Her golden eyes were bright.

She clapped her hands over Greer's shoulders, bringing her closer.

"A change," she said.