Bless This Mess

By Heather Farrell

 The Y-Siccum virus has taken the lives of all humans containing the Y chromosome, including Johanna's husband and son. Humanity has begun adapting to the new reality, but Johanna struggles with acceptance. Lost in her grief and animosity, she begins to unravel. Johanna believes she is chosen to put the fear of God back in the hearts of her community. She begins murdering local lesbians (slackies). A local detective grows suspicious of Johanna since she is the last known person to see the victims alive. Can she hide behind her affable Christian façade? Or will she be stopped? Will justice be served? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heather Farrell
• Release date: May 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215766286

Book preview

Why do people continue to weaponize their religion? When religion is used for hate, you are playing God.

Chapter One

I can’t take this silence , Selah murmurs. Selah’s eyes are full of dysphoria. Stress from the recent events has aged her ten years. Her crow’s feet have grown into spider webs. The fine lines on her forehead have deepened, becoming creases. New lines appeared between her eyes, creating crescent moons around her inner eyebrows. The whites of her eyes barely show through the slits of her heavy lids. The silence is painful, I reply with matching sorrow. We should put music on, I suggest to break the muted room. Good Idea, Selah says as she turns on the radio. A Christian singer, Don Goodman, begins singing. I instantly feel sick to my stomach, Turn it off! I cry. I look at Selah’s pale as-paper face; we share the same revelation. All of them are gone. Music is dead. Movies are dead too. This catastrophe extends beyond our families and friends. This virus has changed the fundamentals of our world. How do we handle devastation of this magnitude? Selah says. We need to be strong. The Lord knows we can handle this. We must help our neighbors and ourselves. We will start by making our Caprese salad, deviled eggs, and apple pies. The whole town will be there tomorrow, and all of us will benefit from comfort foods, I say. I have never thought about it like that. I’m not sure how God could do this to us. We have been good Christians all our lives, Selah says. 

How can she doubt our maker? Disgust washes over me. I proceed to smile and begin rolling the dough for our apple pies. I must not be too harsh; she is not thinking clearly. None of us are. I will not intervene this time.

Although Selah cursed our Lord, I am comforted by her company. Selah’s placing the pies in her oven as I begin slicing the tomatoes. The ceramic knife slides through the tomato smoothly and satisfyingly. I feel a sense of enlightenment knowing our food will help our neighbors. God is proud of our strength, even if Selah is in denial. 

Looking around her kitchen, I realize she is surrounded by constant reminders of the family she once had. Above the threshold of her kitchen facing the dining room is a wooden sign that reads The Johansson’s. Selah is the only Johansson now, as I am the only remaining Adams. A photo of her and her husband, Brian, hangs on the refrigerator. I snapped this shot at one of our annual summer picnics. In the image, he has his arm draped around her shoulder, and she holds onto his hand as if she would float away without him. Their smiles are genuine because they had been laughing. I will miss the way he brought out the tender and coy side of her. They were not able to conceive a child. The poor darlings tried. Selah was distraught when she found out she was infertile. If she had been able to conceive, especially a son, she would understand my agony. 

The pies are cooling, and the salad and eggs are chilling in the refrigerator. Selah is yawning. She is fighting the urge to sleep as if she is behind the wheel. She is all I have left now. You look exhausted, I say. Forgive me; I can’t stop. Should I leave? You don’t have to leave so soon. Look at you; you need sleep. We give each other a small embrace. Neither of us is mentally or emotionally prepared for tomorrow.

I would not have been able to simultaneously handle losing Paul, Ethan, and my father. I would not be able to comfort my mother right now the way I was able to help her years ago when Dad passed. Although, this would have been too much for her, and I am sure I would have lost her as well. 

My walk home should be short since we live next door to each other, but today it seems miles apart. Both our lawns are overgrown with five inches of grass. We will be breaking a town ordinance if it continues to grow. How am I supposed to maintain a yard without Paul? He never allowed me to do a man’s job. How can we accomplish the work of the departed? The only women volunteering for yard services are slackers. I refuse to let sinners touch the lawn my husband diligently kept pristine for twenty-five years. I do not want them near my property. They would infect my yard and cause it to wilt and die. 

Standing outside my front door, hesitating to enter. I would offer my life to know Paul and Ethan were in there, smiling and talking about sports. Their last days were full of suffering. It started with hot flashes. It was an ordinary Wednesday when Ethan got home from school drenched in sweat. I thought he had just gotten out of gym class. He went directly to the bathroom to take a cold shower. Paul came home shortly after him in the same state. They walked around the house in boxers, wearing ice packs on their necks and ankles. I thought they had the flu, but usually, fevers make you feel cold. I spent the last two weeks of their lives donning a full snow suit and hat with three air conditioners and five fans going. I wanted them to be as comfortable as possible. They were not eating but gaining a significant amount of weight. They watched endless hours of television due to not being able to sleep and too weak to move. I had them set up in the living room, using both recliners. The hospital and doctor’s offices were full in a thirty-mile radius, and some were closed. I was not sure how to help them. Mass hysteria broke free once everyone talked about their loved ones falling ill with bizarre symptoms. People were saying it was terrorism. But nobody knew was it was yet. None of the specific terrorist groups took credit for it, either. Arguments claimed our government released something, and others claimed it was another country. People were afraid to leave their homes. When they did, they wore masks and gloves. We did not understand how it was spreading. Was it airborne? Was it in the water? Initially, we did not notice the only people going out seemed to be mainly women. The government had not set out warnings because it hit the politicians in synchronicity.

On their last day of living, they could not even speak. They stared at the ceiling in catatonic states. Ethan was the first to go. I later found out many of the young men suffered major strokes. I held Ethan’s hand, telling him he would get better and see his friends at school soon. Part of me believed it too. How stupid am I to think this was a minor virus that would run its course within a week or two and subside? While soothing Ethan in his last moments, I did not realize Paul was going into cardiac arrest. I was robbed of saying goodbye to him. He died alone. He was next to me but might have been in another country. Did he know Ethan was dying? They were trapped in their bodies. I did not know what they needed. I will never know what they were thinking. I do not remember their last words. Due to the mass number of deaths, I was forced to stay with them for two days before government officials came to get them. I lay in the middle of them until I could not stand how cold and stiff they became. Some of my neighbors dragged their husbands and sons out on the front lawn and covered them with whatever material they had available. Some women used blankets, and others used tarps. Eventually, an emergency broadcast told us to tie blue fabric to the mailbox to signify deceased members in the house. The black freezer trucks piled our loved ones into the freezer, stacking them like pizza boxes. 

As I open the front door, I am greeted by darkness and persistent silence gnawing at my sanity. Moving from the foyer to the kitchen, I switch on all the lights. Having every light on makes me feel less alone. The smell of the house is different. It does not smell like home anymore. It has taken on a new unrecognizable scent. Proceeding straight to the wine cellar, I grab a bottle of Sangiovese wine. It is a red Tuscany, given to Paul and me at our wedding thirty years ago. I sit in the chair Paul retired to after work. Paul was the Vice President of Ahoy Alloy Manufacturing. He worked twelve-hour shifts six days a week. Paul was 6" 4’ and husky. His chair was his throne. I sink into it like quicksand. 

The memorial service tomorrow will be a joke. The whole town will be there, or what is left of it? Only women remain, mostly widows and slackies. I take a long slow sip of wine. I allow the flavors to roll around on my tongue. The tart cherry, red plum, roasted pepper, and tobacco play a tug of war on my taste buds, then settle gently. Tonight, I drink to my loss. This is for Paul and Ethan, I say, raising my glass to an empty room. I will take a sip of wine for every thought that clings onto them, like a cat avoiding water. Paul died in this chair; I think as I finish the bottle. 

Chapter Two

Iwake up in Paul’s chair with the empty wine bottle in my lap. My head is throbbing as if a black vulture is chewing on my nerves like carrion. Looking at the time on the cable box, I still have two hours until the memorial. I take two painkillers and head towards the stairs to shower.

The morning sun is beaming through the transom window, my favorite feature of the house. I fell in love with it when Paul and I were house hunting. This window alone set this house apart from the others. I stop to bask in it. I always see dust floating in the air regardless of how often I vacuum the stairs and sweep the floors. It is as if I am stuck in a snow globe. The red Kazmir stair runner is as faded as I am.

I have not removed Paul and Ethan’s toothbrushes yet. Removing them is accepting neither of them will be used again. Ethan was independent as soon as he could walk. He used to stand on his step stool and smile the entire time he brushed. Thinking about his smile sends jolts of pain to my chest. As the bathroom heats with steam, the scent of Paul’s Old Spice soap permeates the air. I inhale the bold, spicy scent as if his arms are wrapped around me. I miss the smell of his soap mixing with sweat and oil on his skin.

I should have purchased a new outfit; my dress is dull from over-washing. I refuse to wear clothing that Paul never approved. It is a simple black pure cotton dress. Mixed fabrics are sinful. Paul always preferred that I wear bright colors, but he said this dress is lavishing on me. The top is conservative; it does not reveal cleavage. If the cut were higher, it would be a turtle neck. It is the tightest-fitting dress I own. My cardigan will conceal my curves. I finish my outfit with a golden heart locket necklace Paul gave me on our tenth Anniversary. Engraved on the inside is Together till the end, appropriate for today.

I walk as slowly as possible to Selah’s, leaving my foot suspended for three seconds before taking the next. I feel the muscles in my thighs and calves tense and release. Each step sends me further into a pit of dread. I am not strong enough today. I do not want to go. I could turn around and get into my car and never return. But I must be stronger. Paul would do this for Ethan and me.

Standing, staring at Selah’s gray door. I knock, and she answers abruptly, with her wild blonde hair going in all directions off her head. She is wearing a dress but missing stockings. Mascara only on her right eye and bags under both. I didn’t sleep a wink. You look great, though, she says breathlessly. I had the assistance of wine. I’ll get the food in the car. Just focus on getting ready. Don’t forget to put mascara on your left eye, I tell her. Speaking of, I could go for a bottle of wine myself. I’m a mess already, though. I can hear her move from room to room, dropping items as she goes, like an Alzheimer’s patient on speed. She enters one room and forgets what she needs. Selah, can I help you find something? No, I’m fine. She mumbles and proceeds to talk to herself softly.

We are silent on our ride, frozen from what we are about to experience and numb from our loss. I want to thank you. I honestly don’t know what I would have done if it wasn’t for your help. Selah says. I cannot muster the strength to respond. I nod at her with a gentle grin.

We continue in silence with the mutual understanding that the world has come together to help one another. I never thought I would be helping my best friend wrap her dead husband in a tarp with ice and dragging him to the front yard. Sitting with your deceased family is unbearable, but it is also comforting. Usually, when you lose the ones you love, their bodies are ripped from your life, like a mother’s young is ripped from her body. Except you see them again in the form of dust or painted like a wedding cake in a box. I had weeks to sit and say goodbye. Eventually, I had to move them to the yard, and Selah helped me, but it was a nightmare since I insisted on keeping them in the house for so long. They started to liquefy. Their stains remain on the floor. I think as I lean out of her window and throw up. All I have in me is the wine burning my throat as it leaves. I’m nervous too, she says, giving me a reassuring look and patting my shoulder. I heard the truck rolling onto the street like a garbage collector for trash. They piled bodies in these trucks, then sat parked in the fairgrounds as if the carnival arrived. The local funeral homes could not keep up with the bodies. Eventually, they took the bodies to the outskirts of town in an area they had blocked off. They did a mass cremation. The smoke billowed towards the mountains, like a death blanket smothering them.

We arrive at the cemetery early. We park by the entrance to avoid congestion on the way out. It is colder than usual for an October morning. I am glad I remembered my petticoat. An abundance of leaves fell due to torrential rain two nights ago. The clouds create an overcast light. Walking towards the memorial, I see the granite slab. It stands twelve feet by eighteen feet. Dark grey with hints of black, the heading reads, In loving memory of the Vauntington Victims of the Y-Siccum Virus. Below is an inscribed list of all the townsmen that passed away. The names are in alphabetical order. I see my son’s name engraved Ethan Adams. My heart palpitates, and my body trembles. Tears slink passed the grip of my lids. I promised myself I would remain composed. I wipe the tears away and search for Paul’s name. Going through the names slowly, Nathaniel Adams, Steven Adams. Checking twice and a third time, Paul Adams is not there. I am not mistaken. If my heart pounds any harder, it will explode. The ground approaches my head quickly.

I awake to find several women, including the pastor, Mayor Cook, and Selah surrounding me, speaking all at once. The cacophony of women is torment to my throbbing brain. I’m okay, I say as I regain my stature and dust the damp leaves off my dress. They disperse, having conversations amongst themselves. I notice one of the women is wearing a face mask. Why is she still wearing that? She should be ashamed of wearing that mask here. As I am pulling Selah to the side, she asks, Are you alright? My husband’s name isn’t up there, I whisper. You’re kidding!? From the look on my face, she knows I am serious. Who would joke about something like that? I will speak with the Mayor when the service is over. I do not want to create more of a spectacle than I already have. How can you stay quiet at a time like this? I’ll say something. She says as I grab her arm. Selah, I’m not diverting the attention away from you or any other women here. Now is not the time. Please don’t. I say and squeeze her wrist harder. Selah nods in agreement.

We gather with the rest of the Vauntington women around a small stage set up near the plaque. The Mayor and pastor appear on the stage. The Mayor is clad in a navy-blue pantsuit. Why is she not wearing a dress? A lady must always wear a dress. Could she not wear black either? Ladies of Vauntington, I wish we gathered today for better circumstances. Every one of us here has experienced a devastating loss. There hasn’t been a bigger loss in the history of time. Not only has this been more detrimental than any war, but it’s also been more damaging than all wars combined. We’ve lost fathers, grandfathers, brothers, sons, husbands, uncles, cousins, friends, and co-workers. Please approach the stage, take a candle, and join us in silence. Women weep as we form a line. I feel more anguish than sadness. Some women rub the memorial as if consoling their loved ones. It’s impossible not to be impacted by this profoundly sad time. The Y-Siccum virus has stolen the lives of all humans that contain the Y-chromosome. Cringing at the politically correct Mayor, I want to scream they were men! Call them men! We lost our defining pillars in the world.

The Mayor and pastor take turns speaking. My attention is drawn to the memorial. My husband was the only man forgotten. Does someone hold a vendetta against my family? Jessica Graham? That is a woman’s name. They forgot my husband and included a woman? I create cuts in the palms of my hands from holding them in fists so hard. The Mayor ends her speech with the reassurance that scientists and doctors are working towards finding a cure. How is that comforting to us women that lost our husbands and sons? Finding a cure is pointless unless we also have a time machine. How can we conceive babies without our men? This is an endless nightmare.

Women have already begun conversing. I hear a few laughing. Who is the uncouth monster laughing? It is disrespectful to be having a gleeful conversion right now. You may have hated the men in your life, but you are surrounded by women that loved their men. I cannot wait to go home.

I am grateful we parked near the entrance, as traffic is hectic, worse than the grocery store parking lot before a blizzard. Main Street is blocked off by traffic. Food carts, plastic banquet tables, and picnic tables line the street. What do you think you’re going to say? I’m going to tell her that she forgot my husband. I was respectful back there. If she doesn’t act quickly enough, I won’t be for much longer. You’re taking this better than I would. I would have lost my mind back there. Paul wouldn’t want me to act hysterical. That’s all that kept me calm.

She finds a spot on a side street. The short walk will allow me to focus on the right words. Oh dear, there sure is a lot of food here, Selah says as we approach the long banquet. Selah and I locate a clear spot on the appetizer table to put our deviled eggs and Caprese salad. Walking down the line of tables, passing by bacon-wrapped scallops, chips and dips, and fruit and cheese platters. We continue until we see the desserts. Of course, there are already five apple pies made