Work Text:
I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star,
The dead bell,
The dead bell.
Somebody's done for.
- Sylvia Plath, "Death & Co."
When Maya wakes up, Mohinder isn't there.
She doesn't know where she is at first; she sits up with a gasp and feels beside her, because she feels like someone should be there – Alejandro, Gabriel – but there's no one, and the sheets are cold.
After a few moments, she remembers.
The loft is so large and empty and open, and she realizes she's naked and suddenly feels embarrassed. She clutches the sheet around her and gets out of bed. It's still dark, although the morning is just starting to creep in through the windows. She fumbles around for the light switch – she thinks it's near the front door…?
It is. The lights flicker dimly on. The loft somehow feels even larger now that she can see it again. She stumbles down the stairs and starts to search around for her clothes. Both her panties and her blouse are torn – she can't wear them. She remembers how Mohinder had given her money for her to buy new clothes while he took Molly to the airport. She had been so cheered by the bright color of this blouse – she felt guilty spending so much money that was not her own on it, but she had bought it anyway.
Maybe she could sew the buttons back on, if she can find them. But the loft is so big….
She's still sitting on the floor, trying to decide what to do, when the door opens. A wave of fear washes over her and she feels her eyes begin to go black, but it's only for a split second this time. Mohinder doesn't even notice.
"Mohinder!" she says. She stands up and nearly drops the sheet.
He's dressed in a hooded sweatshirt, and he's holding a brown paper bag. "Maya," he says. He walks down the stairs and places the bag on the table beside her. "I didn't think you'd be up yet. I went to the apartment to pick up a few things – I'm sorry, I should have left a note." He leans in and kisses her, and she holds the sheet around her with one hand and clings to him with the other. "What are you doing standing here wrapped in a sheet?" he says when he breaks away, smiling. "You look like a ghost."
"I – I don't have anything to wear," she says. She feels herself blushing.
He looks confused for a moment, then he blushes too. "Oh. Sorry. Um, let me see…"
He manages to find an old, stained tee shirt for her to wear. Her pants are not too damaged, so she pulls them on too.
"I got you some breakfast," he says. He hands her a greasy egg sandwich. It doesn't look very appetizing, but she smiles and thanks him.
Mohinder goes back to his equipment and returns to his work. "Have you eaten already?" she asks.
"Hmmm? Oh, no, I'm not hungry."
"Oh." He seems very busy, and she doesn't want to bother him, but she doesn't quite know what she should do with herself. "Can I help you with anything?"
"What?" Mohinder looks up from his microscope. He looks vaguely annoyed. "Ah, no, thank you, Maya. Listen, I'm going to be busy here for the rest of the day, and I really need to concentrate, so why don't you go back to the apartment and relax?" He reaches into his pocket and takes out his wallet, then presses a few bills into her hand. "And go out somewhere nice for lunch. I'll be home in the evening."
"Oh. Okay," she says. She looks dully at the money in her hand.
"Hey," Mohinder says. He lifts her chin up and smiles at her. "It's going to be okay. I'll help you. I promise."
She wants so very much to believe him, so she smiles as brightly as she can. "Yes, I know. Thank you." Before she leaves, she searches around the loft for the buttons of her blouse and manages to find most of them. She puts them in her pocket and takes the torn blouse with her.
The cab driver gives her a nasty look when she gets in the car. Or maybe it's her imagination. She doesn't really think he cares what she's been up to, but she feels dirty. She wonders if Mohinder is her boyfriend now. She's never had a boyfriend before. Yes, she fumbled around with boys when she was a teenager, just to see what it was like, but she always had Alejandro, and there wasn't room for anyone else in her heart.
Until Gabriel. And now, Mohinder. She feels like she's being passed along, used, and wonders who she'll go to next, once Mohinder is done with her.
She shakes her head. No, the doctor is a good man. He is going to help her – he promised. But even as she thinks this, a small, choked noise escapes her throat. And now the cab driver looks pitying. She doesn't look him in the eye when she pays him after they arrive at the apartment.
Maya has trouble with the lock; for a moment she's frightened that she won't be able to get into the apartment, and then she won't have anywhere else to go. But then the lock finally clicks, and she falls into the apartment.
It smells bad, like something rotten. She looks through the refrigerator and finds a head of lettuce and some other vegetables that have started to go bad. She puts them in the trash and takes it downstairs and outside; when she gets back, she decides to clean the rest of the apartment.
It takes her a good three hours – the place is filthy. She pauses at one point in the room where the little girl had stayed – other than a barrette, a coloring book and a few crayons, there's hardly any sign that she had been there at all. How quickly she had left, Maya thinks. How quickly he had swept her out of his life…
She had felt very sorry for the little girl, being bounced around from place to place. The same thing had happened to her and Alejandro; their parents had died when they were very young. For the rest of their childhood, they were passed from relative to relative. Maya always caused trouble. She lied. She stole. She had violent tantrums and would scream until her voice was hoarse. But there was always Alejandro there to soothe her or take the blame.
They used to hide in small spaces, like closets and attics. They would lie on the floor with their foreheads touching and their arms weaved together. Sometimes their mouths would press together and they'd breathe each other in. Their eyes would flutter open and their gazes would lock, and they would be like one creature, so intertwined that they could never be separated.
When they were thirteen, their uncle discovered them like this and had beaten them both bloody. He shipped them off to a distant cousin the next week.
A sense of loss echoes through her. It almost doesn't feel like sorrow anymore – just emptiness, a pit inside her where her heart used to be, and she's done terrible things, unspeakable things, and maybe this is why she's being punished now, she deserves it for the people she's murdered, and for her betrayal of the one person who did not judge her, who held her hand and willingly stepped into hell with her…
And he was dead. Oh God – how had Gabriel done it? Had he shot him? Surely she would have heard that. Did he stab him? Strangle him? Bash his head in?
And it's happening again, the sickness. She tries to hold it back, but it feels so much bigger than she is. She tries to take deep breaths but ends up sucking the air in too quickly, and it chokes her. She heaves, and suddenly her breakfast is all over the floor.
But she's all right – the sickness curls back inside her. She thinks she can almost feel it moving in her, sliding down into her gut, settling in the very center of her being to wait for her to let it loose again.
Strangely, though, she feels better. She cleans up the vomit and then goes into the bedroom to changes her clothes. After she's dressed, she goes into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. She reminds herself how lucky she is – how Mohinder is going to save her and take care of her – and how she must not be ungrateful. It would be disrespectful to Alejandro, for him to have died for nothing. Maya makes herself smile as she brushes her hair. She sweeps up her hair on the sides and clips it in place with Molly's forgotten barrette.
Afterwards, she searches around the apartment for a needle and thread so she can repair her blouse, but can't find anything. She considers giving up – Mohinder will probably give her money for a new blouse – but it had been so pretty, and seeing it torn makes her strangely sad.
She remembers seeing an older woman enter an apartment a few doors down. Maya bites her lip and wonders if it would be all right if she asked her to lend her some thread. She has a feeling that Mohinder would frown on the idea, but she can't just sit here and do nothing.
She gathers up her courage and walks down the hall. She only hesitates briefly before knocking on the old, wood door.
A few minutes pass and Maya thinks that maybe there's no one home, but then the door creaks open. A pair of steely blue eyes stare at her through the crack. "Can I help you?" The woman's voice is brisk – not unkind, but also not inviting.
Maya finds herself tongue-tied. "Oh, I – I am staying down the hall, and – my blouse, he – it was torn, the buttons – I want to sew them back on, but I don't have a needle…"
"And you'd like to borrow one," the woman finishes for her. Maya nods nervously. The woman stares at her for what seems like a very long time but probably is only a few seconds, then sighs and shuts the door, undoes the chain, and opens it again. "Well, you better come in. Have a seat while I see what I can find."
Maya steps into the apartment and sits down on the plastic-covered brown sofa in the living room. The apartment is immaculate. There's an armchair, a small television, and a glass coffee table in the room, and a crucifix hangs on the wall. There's a bowl of hard candy on the coffee table, but Maya doesn't think it's there to be eaten.
The woman returns shortly with a small sewing kit. She doesn't give it to Maya, though; she sits down in the arm chair and looks at her thoughtfully.
The woman is old, but Maya can't guess her age exactly. She is surprisingly tall, and very thin, but not at all frail-looking. Her silver hair is swept up in a severe bun. She's wearing a plain black dress and a small gold cross.
"So are you visiting Mr. Suresh?" the woman asks.
"You know him?" Maya asks.
"No," the woman sniffs. "And his father never had much time for me, neither. That's the trouble nowadays – people don't get to know their neighbors. Tragic what happened to the father, although I suppose not too surprising in his line of work." She sets the sewing kit on the coffee table. Maya doesn't know if she's supposed to pick it up or not. "My name is Mrs. Winters," she continues. "What's yours?"
"Maya," she says, and then thinks that maybe she should have introduced herself as Miss Hererra, but it's too late now.
"Are you planning to stay for long?" she asks.
"I – I don't know," Maya says. "I have a sickness in me, and Dr. Suresh, he is going to help me."
"Doctor?" Mrs. Winters says, surprised. "And here I thought he was a taxi cab driver."
Maya's confused now. "No, he is a geneticist. His father, too. He wrote a book about…people like me, people with this sickness. I came from my country to see him, but he was dead. His son, Mohinder, says he is still working on a cure."
"Goodness," Mrs. Winters says. "It must be very serious for you to come all this way."
Maya looks at her lap. "Yes," she says quietly. "It is."
"Oughtn't you be in a hospital, then?"
"Oh no," Maya says. "It is – more like a condition. It only comes sometimes. And the doctors at the hospital would not know what to do for me."
"And this Dr. Suresh – he says he can cure you."
"Yes."
Mrs. Winters eyes her skeptically. "Well, it all sounds very strange, if you ask me, but I suppose it's none of my business." She pushes the kit across the table towards Maya. "Here you are – don't worry about returning it, it's yours to keep."
Maya picks up the small plastic case. "Thank you," she says. She knows she should get up and leave now, but she hesitates. The woman hasn't exactly been warm and welcoming, but Maya dreads going back to the empty apartment.
The woman looks at her thoughtfully. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asks.
"Si!" Maya says, absurdly grateful. "I mean, yes – I would like that very much."
They go into the kitchen for the tea. Mrs. Winters' tea cups are patterned with roses; they are so delicate looking that Maya holds hers with exaggerated care. She blows on the hot liquid before bringing it to her lips.
"So, Maya, where are you from?" Mrs. Winters asks.
"The Dominican Republic," she answers.
"I'm afraid I don't know much about your home country," Mrs. Winters says. "I've never traveled, really, except the time I spent a week in Paris as a girl, and I've always regretted it. How are you liking the United States?"
"I have not been here long enough to know."
"I expect things are a lot different than where you come from," Mrs. Winters says thoughtfully.
Maya shrugs. "I have been through many countries on my journey here. Some things are different, but people are much the same, so it makes no difference."
"Now that's a very wise observation," Mrs. Winters says. "Did you come alone?"
Maya almost drops her cup. "No – my brother came with me, but – he's dead now."
"Goodness! What happened to him?"
"An accident," Maya lies. "It was a car accident."
"You certainly have been through a lot," Mrs. Winters says.
"Yes," Maya says, staring into her cup. She doesn't know this woman at all, but she's just so full of feeling that she has to let it out, so she says: "I am so alone – not even God is with me. I do not deserve His love; I've done terrible things…" And it starts again – she can feel it begin to rise in her, making her blood feel like it's boiling and will soon seep out her eyes…
"Nonsense," Mrs. Winters says. "I thought you were a smart girl, Maya – you ought to know better."
Maya blinks. It isn't exactly the response she thought she'd get. She had thought Mrs. Winters would tell her she was a good girl, or maybe hug her, or shed a compassionate tear. But the woman is sipping her tea and looking at Maya not unkindly, but in a way that makes it clear that she is not interested in histrionics. The sickness, vaguely embarrassed under the old woman's disapproving gaze, slinks back inside her to sulk.
Mrs. Winters considers her carefully. "I'm going to go to Mass today," she says. "Would you like to come?"
Maya hesitates. After all that she's done, she feels like it would be a desecration for her to set foot in God's house, but she misses it so much. "Yes," she says after a few moments. "Yes, I would."
They ride a bus to the St. Augustine Roman Catholic Church and arrive just in time for the noon Mass. Maya is not sure she can feel God, but the familiar words and motions, as always, soothe her. She remembered her time in the convent in Venezuela and the peace it had offered her.
Afterwards, Mrs. Winters goes to make confession, although Maya can't imagine what she could possibly have to confess. Maya can't bring herself to do it – she isn't sure that anyone could offer her absolution after all that she has done.
She goes to the alter and lights a candle, but it immediately blows out. Puzzled, she tries again. And again. But the candle won't light for her. An uneasy feeling settles over her.
Instead of praying, she wanders towards the bell tower. It's open to the public, so she climbs the stairs and looks up at the bells, large and smooth. It's so peaceful up here that she feels able to think without triggering the sickness.
She thinks of Alejandro. She had loved him, perhaps too much. When he had met her and fallen in love, she felt like she would never be able to forgive him. Which is why when Alejandro found her in Venezuela and had reached his hand out to her, took her hand in his and led her down the aisle, there had been a small spark of happiness in her heart lurking just under her feelings of horror, because she knew he could never leave her after that. It had become his curse, too.
They had gotten into the car he had rented and drove so fast – too fast – until the engine finally sputtered and died. It was night then; the moon was new and the only light they had came from the stars. They were too frightened of being caught to check into a hotel, so they had crawled into the back and curled around one another, just like they used to when they were children – inseparable, like they were supposed to be.
"Magnificent, aren't they?"
Maya turns her head, jolted from her memories by a strange, deep voice. There is a man beside her. She hadn't heard him come up the stairs. He has wild blue eyes and a white beard. He is dressed in an impeccable suit. He does not belong here.
"Yes," she says hesitantly. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She does not like this man at all.
"They're beautiful, but they can be dangerous and difficult to handle. Did you know that an inexperienced person can be killed if they don't ring them correctly?"
"No, I didn't," she says. She wants to get out of there, but the man is blocking her path.
"In the old days when that happened, the bell was cast aside and would not be rung until jubilee." The man steps casually closer to her, his gaze still fixed on the bells. "I think it's a waste, personally. All that magnificence silenced because someone was too stupid to know how to handle it."
Maya mumbles something and tries to pass him, but he steps in her way. "Your friend isn't done with her confession yet, Maya. We have time to talk."
She stares at him in disbelief. "How did you know my name?"
"I know a lot of things about you, Maya. That you're a killer, for instance."
"No," Maya says in a shocked whisper.
"Oh, but you are, my dear," he says. He doesn't sound accusatory – in fact, he sounds almost gleeful. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. People got in your way, and you took care of it. Granted, you could use some discipline, especially with your brother being dead."
She shakes her head. "No, it was not like that – it was an accident. I did not want – "
"Oh come now, Maya. You said it yourself – you wanted his bride dead. You wanted them all dead, because of how they laughed and celebrated as she took what rightly belonged to you. And they deserved it, didn't they?"
"No," she says. Her voice is still quiet and flat.
"Why fight it?" The man leans in. His tone is conspiratorial, and his blue eyes twinkle. "Just think of it. If you realize the full potential of your power, no one would ever be able to hurt you again. Wouldn't that be nice? You don't have to be a victim anymore –not ever again."
"No, this is not me. It is a genetic mutation – it is not something that I want!"
The man shakes his head. "Maya, Maya, Maya. You ought to know better. It might be a mutation, but you're the one who lets it out. The hate and fear that power it all come from you."
"Are you the Devil?" Maya asks.
The man just smiles. "Come to me when you're ready, Maya. I want to help you."
Maya swallows and takes a deep breath. "How will I find you?"
He winks at her. "Don't worry – you'll know when the time is right."
And then he walks out the door. She does not hear footsteps on the stairs.
She stands there, still trembling in shock and fear. And suddenly her mind goes back to her brother's wedding day. She remembers stepping out the door and seeing all those bodies. She screamed until her throat burned, and then she sucked in a lungful of air, and suddenly it was as if she'd been plunged underwater. The silence was a thick, heavy presence around her. Her brother took her hand, and she drifted forward, her limbs slow and heavy. They moved almost dreamily through the square. She saw a woman lying collapsed on the steps of a building – her hair was fanned out around her head, and her arms lay above her, bent at strange angles, as if she was floating. Her eyes were black and glossy like volcanic glass, and thick trickles of tar streaked her pale face.
She had heard her brother calling her name, but his voice sounded distant and flat. She turned her head toward him in slow motion, but then something in the sky caught her eye. It was a black bird, floating above them. It drifted downward, and suddenly Maya realized that it wasn't flying – it was falling, and she watched with horror as it plunged towards them, gaining speed until it crashed at her feet with a sickening thud.
And then there was a dead, dull ringing – the church bells had started to chime. They must have been automated, because there was no one left to ring them.
She can feel the sickness rising up in her at the memory, but she closes her eyes and breathes. After a few minutes, she calms herself enough to make her way shakily down the stairs.
She arrives downstairs just in time to see Mrs. Winters leave the confessional. She walks over to Maya and peers at her with concern. "Are you all right?" she asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Did you see a man in here – a man with a white beard?" she asks.
Mrs. Winters frowns. "No. Was someone bothering you?"
Maya looks around. There's no sign of him. "Oh," she said. "I thought…never mind."
Mrs. Winters' frown deepens, but she says nothing.
On their trip on the bus back to the apartment, Maya looks around at all the people, standing or sitting, staring into space, their faces vacant and stolid.
The man was right. The sickness came from her. She had been so excited when she found Dr. Suresh's book; she had carefully laid it out in front of her on the bed with her Spanish/English dictionary beside it in the cheap hotel room she and Alejandro had rented and read through it in one sitting. Although much of it was beyond her, she did understand that she had a genetic mutation. Her genes were twisted and wrong.
But really, she knew that it was the love in her heart that had spoiled like milk that had been set out in the sun. She was rotten, so putrid that her hate poisoned everyone around her.
It was why Alejandro had died. When he had fallen in love with another woman, she had been so angry that it made her sick. She could not forgive him. And then after they finally reached America, he had threatened to leave her again. And Gabriel, her angel, had swooped in and shown her that she did not need him – that she could leave him first.
She thinks about Alejandro again, how his body is in a ditch somewhere, or a dumpster, denied burial. She thinks of Gabriel, and how when they had traveled together, she would sometimes catch him staring at her, his eyes heavy-lidded and his lips slightly parted. In her naiveté, she had thought that they'd been looks of love. But he hadn't been in love, she knows now. He'd been hungry.
She thinks of Mohinder, who brought her back to life, who was going to abandon her but then changed his mind, who now looked at her greedily – first for her blood, then for her body.
Everything's going to be okay, Maya; I'll take care of you. Each of them had said that. Each of them had lied.
She does not know if she can take another blow. If she is struck, she thinks, she will ring like a church bell, and the sound will radiate from her, and they will fall like flies, all of them, the whole city, maybe. She chews on this knowledge thoughtfully, dispassionately.
When they reach their destination, Maya bids Mrs. Winters farewell after promising to visit again. She walks to the market down the street, and with the rest of the money Mohinder had given her she buys good, fresh food.
When she gets back to the apartment, she puts the groceries away. She takes the sewing kit out of her pocket and sits down to repair her blouse. She's proud of how careful and neat her stitches are; when she's done, it's as good as new. She finds a hanger and hangs the shirt on the bedroom door instead of in the closet, like a picture.
She decides to prepare chile rellenos for herself and Mohinder, and sets the table with the nicest plates and two candles she found.
She waits for hours. Mohinder does not come home.
At eight o'clock, she calls him. At eight fifteen, she calls him again. Finally, at eight thirty, he answers.
"Yes?" he says impatiently.
"It's Maya," she says. "I've made dinner. Are you coming home?"
"Ah, no," he says. "I'm in the middle of something – it could be important. I don't think I'll be home tonight."
She feels a flash of anger. "You should stop, Mohinder. You need to eat."
"I'm fine," he snaps.
"Please come home." She hates the neediness in her voice. "Please don't make me sleep here alone."
"I said no, Maya!" The intensity of his anger surprises her. "I can't babysit you and find a cure at the same time. Do you want to always be the way you are – always a breath away from murdering someone?"
Maya says nothing. She feels as if she's been slapped.
Mohinder sighs loudly. "You can come by tomorrow. Just – try and get some rest. I'm doing this for you, you know."
Liar, she thinks. She's about to say something when she realizes he's hung up the phone.
She heats up her dinner and eats it and throws Mohinder's portion away. She tries to watch television, but can't concentrate on anything they're saying. Something compels her to go to the little girl's room again. She finds the coloring book and the crayons and brings them out to the living room. The book is filled with princesses wearing beautiful dresses, smiling sweetly at nothing. She colors all of their eyes in black.
At ten o'clock, she sheds her clothes and takes a shower. When she steps out, the mirror is foggy – she takes her hand and wipes away the condensation. She sees herself, her thick hair as black and sleek as a raven.
She does not want to be a killer. In the morning, she will wake up and eat breakfast. She will get dressed, go downstairs, and hail a cab. She will go to the loft, and she will pretend that she is fine.
She will give them every chance.