The Sacrifice of Lady Lazarus **************************** She scuffed at the sandy dirt with the toe of her boot. Strands of the dried grass stuck in the gap between the upper and sole. She crouched to pull them out, her finely manicured fingernails a vast contrast to the cracked black leather of the boots. With little regard to her manicure she began to slowly push aside the sand and dirt, pulling up the loosely rooted grasses that had grown there in the past six months. The task was difficult as the dirt tried to slide back into the rapidly growing hole. After about a foot, the digging became both easier and messier; water began to well up, making it easier to pull out muddy clumps. The pile around her grew, walling her off from sight from anyone who might think to look at the beach near the warehouses. Soon, she jumped into the hole to facilitate her excavation. She paid no mind to the mud and sand that matted her hair and streaked her clothes. She worked steadily, her pace never slowing as she widened and lengthened the hole as she deepened it. She stood waist deep in water and was black with dirt when she suddenly stopped. She crouched down, uncaring as the water closed over her head, her long, waterlogged hair floating to the top. After a minute, she stood, pulling a large muddy bundle up with her. Lifting it over her head, she pushed the cloth-wrapped object over the mound of dirt at the lip of the hole. She pulled herself up after, unconcerned as the sandy dirt began to collapse back into the pit. Pushing her hair behind her ears, she gently picked up the long, thin bundle and carried it to a sheltered area between two nearby warehouses. After pausing to look at both ends of the narrow alleyway, she began to carefully pull apart the wrappings on the item on the pavement before her. The water-soaked fabric parted easily, soon revealing a sunken, horrific face. Its eyes were open, but the eyeballs were shriveled into the sockets. The skin had pulled back, leaving the mouth gaping and the cheekbones prominent. Despite the sight, she tenderly ran her fingers down the sunken cheek before she revealed the rest of the body. Ignoring her own soaked person, she pulled a clean white towel from a black duffel bag hidden in the shadows. Gently, she cleaned and dried the body as much as she could. She twisted the now filthy towel, wringing out the water, then folded it and placed it under the head of the body. Reaching once more into the bag, she pulled out a pocketknife. Flipping open the longest blade and carefully locking it into place, she placed it on the ground next to her. She shrugged out of her wet corduroy jacket and pushed up the sleeve of her flannel shirt. Retrieving the blade, she unhesitatingly plunged it into the soft skin at the bend of her elbow. She pulled the blade free and, as the blood began to drip from the wound, she held her arm just above the mouth of the corpse on the ground. The crimson drops splattered on the shriveled lips of the body and slowly slid into its mouth and throat. As the wound in her arm began to close, she sliced at it with the knife, reopening it. This process continued for nearly an hour. One last time, she sliced at her arm, squeezing the cut to make the blood flow faster. Suddenly, there was a shudder from the body and the mouth closed over the arm above it. It sucked hard at the arm and she allowed it. As she watched, the skin began to loosen, making the cheekbones less prominent and allowing the eyelids to close over the sightless, sunken eyes. Jerkily, the body's arms bent and skeletal hands grasped the arms and pulled it even closer. The fingers began to fill out and strengthen as she watched. They pressed into her skin with an increasing grip. After some minutes, the pressure on her arm, both from the mouth and the hands, began to slacken. Slowly and gently, she moved her arm away, pulling down her sleeve as she did so. They eyes of the reanimated body remained closed, but the arms moved to touch the face of the woman. The fingers moved clumsily over her features, tracing her bone structure. She smiled and the fingers hesitated over her lips. An answering smile stretched the newly supple skin. "Open your eyes," she whispered, moving the hand aside. The one on the ground did so, revealing perfect green eyes that greedily roamed over the face of the woman above him. "Oi," he whispered scratchily. "I'm alive, I am. Me peepers 'ave seen th' light." He tried to push himself up, and she helped him to sit. He rubbed his hands over his body, seemingly to make sure it was all there. She reached into the duffel bag and pulled out clean but old clothes: ragged blue jeans, a faded green t-shirt, and a gray holed sweater. She helped him out of his waterlogged death clothes and into the clean ones, his body clumsy from so long without nourishment. "Thank ya', Janette," he said solemnly. She smiled and rubbed her hand over the top of his smooth head. "What are mothers for, *cherie*?" **************************** The End. ****************************