The Ghost of Frida Kahlo Follows Me Night and Day… and I am in Love

What does it mean when a dead artist is obsessed with you?

The spider monkeys approached first from the shadows, before I ever saw her.

I was in the tub, enjoying the feeling of running water on my back, when the first little black monkey dropped down from behind the shelves.

“Christ!” I said, jumping up.

I lost my balance and fell forward, face-first into the hard ceramic of the bath. Two more monkeys let themselves in, keeping the door open behind them.

I heard a soft laugh.

She spoke in Spanish, which I do not understand, but my mind was able to make out her meaning.

“Beautiful, your back is so straight and your skin covers you without wounds. Except… there,” she reached out and gestured towards my bleeding cheek. “It mars your perfection,” she tisked.

“Are you — are you really — Frida Kahlo?” I asked stupidly. Who else could it be? One monkey began to splash and signal the others to join in. They did not. They distained me.

“I am. I am not allowed to leave this Earth. I have too much business to attend to. Your education, for one.”

I felt myself gulp without my permission.

She traced my spine with her middle finger, then cupped my bottom with her same hand.

I stood stalk still. I didn’t know what was expected of me, or what was going to happen.

As she drew nearer, I saw that hers was a tired face. The skin was perfect, but under her eyes held many creases and deep bags. She was exhausted from being a ghost.

She leaned in and kissed my neck, softly, and with a bit of resistance. Did I… disappoint her? Had she chosen the right protégée?

A small breath escaped my lips.

“That’s right. Lean back. Everything will be all right.”

She parted my legs and began rubbing. My breathing became faster and embarrassed me. “Give me your energy, sweets.” Then she brought her lips to the place where my cheek had hit the tub, and ran her lips over my blood.

The monkey who had splashed the water earlier began shrieking. I was glad we were alone in the house. The other two joined in, and finally, I did, too, with a total release.

Frida Kahlo cradled me in her arms, lips stained with my blood, somehow dry, although I was of course soaking wet.

“This will be the first night,” she promised, “we will have 72 more together. Prepare for me. Make a mark on your skin, or cut yourself. Open your veins to open yourself to me.”

She clicked her tongue and the three monkeys scampered out to the hall. I wondered if they would be exiting through the front door and into my very ordinary street.

Later that night, she came to me again. I couldn’t help it — I had pricked my finger to see if I could summon her. She used my finger as a brush and milked it to make a rough sketch of us on my wall. Then she finished me again, and I fell into a long sleep.

It was two long weeks before she returned. I was frantic with despair. She didn’t come, no matter how large the wound I inflicted on myself. I even stooped to defiling her art with my blood, rubbing scrapes and cuts against the wall, trying to recreate the magic we had had.

Then, after a fortnight, she appeared in my room as I was staring out the sliver of my window in the dark. I could hear her before I could see her. “Beautiful, you are everything I want to be.”

“How can that be true,” I asked, disoriented once again by her tongue on my collar bone.

“You are alive. And I… am not. I was. I had such life coursing through my veins. I was a wonder to behold. But now, I am not gone, and I am not here. I live only through you.”

She spread my legs and went down on me, and although it is common to say so, I actually saw colors pop and dance in front of my eyes.

I had to be careful. My desire for her would consume me.

We spent many nights together. I learned of her resentment towards Diego, and her passion to be the best in the world. But as time went on, she became less mobile, only able to suck the blood off my skin, less able to give me other pleasures.

It was a great loss for me. But her presence more than made up for it. Such a giant in intellect, deep-feeling and pure.

I fell in love with Frida. And on our 72nd night together, I gave her all of myself to celebrate that love. I slit my neck and watched from above as she lapped me dry. I would never have another lover, and I would never have it any other way.

Now she follows me night and day. We are equals at last. I am whole.

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Another tale by Mrs. K