At first, the scene before me makes no sense. Too much seems impossible. Too much seems wrong. My mind refuses to accept the information my eyes are sending it. It blurs the edges keeping the reality from focus. One would think adding red to white would make a pretty, soft pink. I always have. My boots touch the proof proving we are all wrong.
My mind focuses on the why of the new color, avoiding the cause of it. Red to white should make pink. It should not be this thick dark crimson shading encircling my baby sister, Lilly. What could she have spilled to make this much of a mess as it fans its damning proof around her still body?
Her blonde hair has become stained and clumped from the substance. The ivory flesh of her legs and arms are spotted with patterns of it making a mockery of her natural freckles. Even her tee shirt with its cartoon-dancing bears is heavy from the weight of it.
I watch Carol as her arms slide back and forth over Lilly as she tries to clean the mess. This is what my brain tells me she is doing. This is not what my mind is screaming. My mind is screaming this is wrong. Like a child watching a movie and asking for clue because they are too afraid to stare at the screen themselves, it’s refusing to help me put the pieces together as it begs for me to take a closer look.
“Carol?” I hear my voice call out, but it sounds strained. Not the cocky self-assuring flirt I hear all night long. Even my voice knows what is going on and it too is unsure why I am still here, much less using it.
I can see Carol freeze in a fashion that sets my body tight with fear. My muscles tense as if expecting a blow, but my brain can’t find the threat. Her yellow gown is soaked with a tint of red from where she has been kneeling and I can see the two-toned details as she stands in an unnaturally slow pace. Her shoulders lift as if being pulled from strings above and the rest of her slowly follows the force. Her arms are coated in the same red substance, giving them the appearance of slipping into long, delicate gloves. The shine catches the morning light from the windows, and if it were not for the pure panic the sight causes, it would be an almost beautiful effect. The second hand is back to shooting bullets as time slows before me.
Lilly is in full view now as my vision wraps around my mother’s body. My mind makes one final attempt to block the horrors before me, but the edges are in focus now. There is no choice but to see the truth, and I do.
Lilly is lying on her back in the wide hallway. The many shades of crimson are almost a halo around her fallen body. Her blue eyes stare up, unblinking. She too wants to see anything but what is before us. One arm is outstretched, touching the wall and leaving a child-size red print, mimicking an art project from long ago. Its pattern is screaming fragile. Its smear is screaming broken.
The other arm is torn in irregular patterns of gore. Huge gaps of flesh melding with the perfection of ivory only a small child could possess. The red freckles dance in specks and smears oblivious to it all until the whole combination meets the sleeve of what was once a pastel blue shirt. The smiling bears upon her chest rebel in their scenic glee to the reality around them. All but one bear is able to escape the horror as his body has been torn in two, framing the ironic twist of revulsion. The missing bear’s stomach highlights the same fact for Lilly.
What should be the soft velvet flesh of a five-year-old is torn open and jagged. It seeps the answer to the “why not pink” question I had as what can only be assumed as organs are shredded and missing. They spill their dark fluids out of her torn cavity. With reality finally upon me, my brain has no choice but to accept it and it releases the shield my senses were using to hide behind keeping me safe.
The smell collides into me, doubling me over in pure disgust. Sorrow and anger dance a duet upon my emotions blocking fear for a moment’s peace. My brain finally screams, Lilly has been murdered, but my mind still clings to the refusal of answering the question of how.
So, I again ask the only person standing before me. My voice pleading with her for answers, “Carol?”
Her gown sticks to her legs, adding an extra dash of stomach dropping disgust at the sound of it sliding against her flesh. She turns still in that slow, unnatural fashion of shoulder leading movement. My brain whispers through my senses she is just in shock, as any mother would be. It attempts to calm my body that is tensing for an unseen fight as her face comes into view. The second hand has run out of ammo. There is only white noise as our eyes meet.
Her once a week salon-styled locks now appear to belong to an angst filled teen with their coloration patterns and not to the leading socialite of town. The tips are a blending effect of reds and crimsons. Her natural curl is now taut with their weight as they attempt to spiral up into her lighter hues. There are sparkles of colors that reflect the light resembling tiny stars adorning her, but my brain can no longer ignore the truth that my mind was attempting to shelter. What she is wearing is not sparkling stars. It is Lilly.
My mother’s artificially sun-kissed face, always having been so perfectly made, is now a red smear of a clown styled design. Her pastel blue eyes have lost their light, leaving her with a sleep walking appearance, but there is no denial in the fact that she sees me. Her mouth emits sounds belonging to nightmares, dreamed in too dark rooms as her red-gloved arms begin to reach for me and yet my body, which was just doing everything it could to escape, can no longer move.
Carol’s eyes twitch to something behind me, causing her vocal attempts in her grief to become louder.
“Mommy?”
It is a soft, gentle whisper at first that gains the strength of a full scream in one sudden inhale of breath. The scream is a blow to my spine, causing my chest to flex from the force of it. I feel my body move before my brain admits that it is. I turn to block the sight of Lilly from our siblings with my body.
Ashley is the source of the screams, using her voice almost as a weapon at such pitches. Her grief and fear causes my own to unfreeze and my knees buckle to hold her. I can hear my voice whispering words of empty comforting thoughts into her soft hair as if it belongs to another. The words are meaningless, and they go unheard over her screams. She is fighting to get past me to our mother. Someone I have forgotten completely amid my sister’s distress.
Conroy in his blue pajamas of cowboys and horses stands frozen, staring at the scene before him. His eyes are darting from one point of interest to another. They have no set pattern as he tries to win his own war with his brain and mind. With Ashley’s struggles I can’t reach out to him but can only coax him forward with words and the repeating of his name. They all go unanswered.
Up until now, they have lived the perfect Hallmark fantasy. The biggest disappointment for Conroy in his seven years is the fact a horse could not fit in our backyard. My parents fixed that by renting a stable for him. I want to feel pity for him, really, I do, but I am tied up with other things at the moment. Like a ten- year-old in my hair.
Chapter 2
In moments of mind-numbing tragedy, it’s easy to overlook reality. We cling to only what we want to see like a fractured mirror of the event. Our minds become too afraid of the smaller shards that could so easily cut us. We focus on the largest shards that hold the biggest images. Those images stand out the most. They are the boldest. We never see the small shards that are hiding and silently waiting for us to notice them. This is a pity. Often those shards do the most damage.
Conroy’s eyes stop their dance of confusion and become wide- eyed with terror. I can see the effects as his body begins to tremble. His arm lifts, pointing an extended finger behind me. Even Ashley’s body becomes stiff and ridged. The whole room seems to become electric with a new energy as both children react to some unseen shift of mood. My mind, still locked in its precious cocoon, begins to switch gears when my senses warn me some- thing is not right yet again.
My world had become so focused on Ashley’s screams and her fighting that now, in the silent aftermath, even the soft whispering footsteps behind me seem as loud as thunder. Carol’s steps are slow and steady, unlike my own pulse th
at is mounting in my throat. My whole being is telling me to not turn around.
In the short life span of time that has loomed before us, Carol has gone unnoticed by me. Ashley, who had just moments ago been ready to claw her way through me to reach her mother, has begun to mirror Carol’s steps. The difference being that she is going back- wards towards Conroy. Conroy in return has figured out his sister’s new path. She steps to the side to shield him behind her and I kneel watching it all unfold before me. I am a detached audience member of a well-choreographed show. Minus the mood inspiring music and the safety net that real life always seems to be lacking.
I feel the trembling of fingertips on my shoulder and my spine shivers from the touch. Carol’s low moaning comes from above me with a never before heard tone from her. It snaps my eyes straight ahead and tenses my body. My eyes roll up the walls tilting my head backwards to keep my sight ahead of me until I am staring up into my mother’s face. What I see paralyzes me with confusion of how such a beautiful woman could melt down to such pure animalistic hunger. When I feel her push against my body, it rocks me to the floor and the screaming starts anew. Except this time, the screams are my own and my pitch is just as high as Ashley’s. I have never been in any form of altercation with my mother before. Our battles were always more of the passive-aggressive showdowns. Now as she collapses upon me with no heed to her own well-being, I am at a loss as how to combat this. I brace her neck with my forearm with chanting prayers of hope to keep her snarling face from mine. The stench and sounds coming from her throat add a new spice of panic to the attack. It kicks my lulled brain into action.
I can feel her body pinning mine with our struggles. Her hands try to grab some part of me, but her frenzied attacks are making her clumsy. They claw at my face and shoulders, but my curled legs keep enough space between our two torsos. Only her finger- tips rake to land their marks.
Slowly, I pull my legs up tight against me, fighting for every inch it provides between us. Every inch is safety as my body is fighting for survival. I fight for every inch until I am able to use the tight ball of my body as a counterweight, rolling us over and lifting myself away from my mother. She fights with the same urgency to keep me near her.
I drag my body backwards in some over-played-girl-victim-crawl to escape. Carol wastes no time crawling forwards after me. She is a pure hunter in motion and I finally realize I am her new prey. My chanting to God is growing louder by the heartbeat.
My back collides with the wall and yet I still make the motions of escape leaving me treading, reaching nowhere. The constant vibrations of my movements send the lowest framed memory crashing to the floor near me. I scream, afraid some new attack is upon me, but it’s only a picture of my mother smiling and posed in a spring garden. It frames some mockery of the current events as my real mother is grasping at my jean-clad legs, snarling and crawling up me no matter how hard I kick at her.
I start to raise my hands to defend against her assault when the mental clarity of needing a weapon settles over me. My mind is finally switching gears from seeing this thing before me as Carol and now seeing it as my death. What I had refused to see only moments ago is now flashing before me and it is wrong. It is all so very impossibly wrong.
Carol was not grieving. She was not cleaning. She was killing. As I stare into those faded blue eyes glaring back at me, I know somewhere deep inside myself that this is no longer my mother. It’s some kind of monster wearing her skin. The noises were never from shock but from a deep well of pure hunger and need. A need no sane person should have. A well none of us ever want to admit to owning much less from drinking.
Time seems to slow as I glance from the monster ahead of me, to my siblings beyond and Lilly beside me. My hands that I am holding out before me are shaded in red. I can feel my legs becoming cold as the blood from the carpet sneaks its way into the fabric of my jeans. It chills me with its truth. Spots of the blood dot my exposed stomach from my crawling escape and stain the tank top of my work shirt. The same exposed torso that I am fighting to keep safe is now covered in the damning evidence of what I was refusing to see before.
Sounds explode as I come back to myself. Screams, my own and my siblings, fill the air around us in a nonverbal punctuation of the situation. My eyes land on the smiling frame staring at me with its scenic beauty. The ironically twisted part of my self swears to hear the laughter captured in the picture as it watches the events unfold around us.
That imagined laughter strikes a cord of anger deep inside me. It’s the anger over Lilly’s death at her hands. It’s the anger over being attacked. It’s the anger over all the past smiles that were never for me and it fuels my desire to survive.
My hands grasp the picture before I even realize what I intend to do with it. With strength unknown to myself, I raise the fragile glass encased memory and bring it down upon Carol’s head. New sounds fill the room as I lift and smash the frame, releasing all the fear and anger inside me with a scream each time.
Gore sticks to the broken metal and the glass in my hands. It coats the smiling face before slipping into the spider web design of broken glass I am causing with each slam until the room becomes still. I hold it high, holding my breath, waiting, but there is no movement from the thing before me. It’s slumped over, half covering my legs and half draping onto the floor. Only the largest piece of glass still remains in the frame, leaving the precious memento vulnerable. It’s as if Karma has reached out her hand in her own sick style making the two scenes match now.
I stare at the broken skull of my mother with neither remorse nor victory. The tiny glass shards entwine in the ruin of her blonde hair. They sparkle up at me like glitter in a red hue. These are the small shards. They get us every time.
Chapter 3
I kick Carol’s body off of mine with a mixture of sick satisfaction and relief in my own recipe of survival. The sound of her dead body slowly sliding down the stairs brings a smile to my face as it gains speed from the weight of her limp body. The patterned sound of her head bouncing off the stairs as she falls almost brings a laugh. I am not sure if I need a smoke or a hug, but I do know there is time for neither. Something has gone horribly wrong in this house. We have to get out.
I use the wall to help me stand and for the first time I see myself in the glass reflections around me. Their beautiful stolen moments a stark contrast to my own image. My dark hair is wild and unkempt. Something I know would cause my mother angst if she were not dead on the floor below us. The flesh of my face is hardening from the splashed gore upon it. With the dark makeup from last night still going strong, my torn soaked jeans, newly decorated stomach and shirt I look like a bad B flick horror star.
I really wish there is a Director to scream “Cut!” right about now, but this is not a movie. There is no Director to coach me through whatever comes next. There is just Ashley and Conroy staring at me with their wide eyes as if I have some secret knowledge as what to do next and me, the mother-murdering-sister-slasher-savior. Try saying that three times fast with a straight face.
We exchange no words as I take their hands and lead them down the stairs. The normal morning routine is blown to hell and forgotten. There is no need to fight over getting dressed. Pajamas are just fine when your mother goes on a psychotic murdering spree. There is no need for breakfast. Whose stomach could hold down a meal at this moment anyway? The only thought process now is to get out. We need to get help. We need to find someone to make this seem okay in some small shape of a way, if that is even possible at this point.
We do not even pause to glance one last time at our mother’s broken body. I think we have all accepted that it is not Carol. It will make it easier that way. It was not our mother that did these horrible acts just moments ago. It was not our mother that killed Lilly in some Dahmer-like fashion. It was not our mother who was possibly eating our baby sister for a light breakfast snack. It was not even our mother who attacked me in some unnatural killer rage. It was just a thing. It is a dead
thing now. It cannot hurt us anymore. We believe all of this as we exit what we once thought of as a safe place. It is a pity how the world does not hold our beliefs as precious as we do.
We drive in silence for a long time. We are each locked in a prison of their own point-of-view. The surrounding landscape is silent in an almost inconsiderate way. Where is the panic-filled scenery that we are each feeling? Where is the screaming town with their mad, high speeding cars to escape? I will even settle for some form of gridlock traffic in a desperate evacuation attempt of the town. Someone, somewhere, should be running out to motion us to safety. There should be some acknowledgment around us of the horrors we just escaped. Some form of solidarity. There is nothing and leaves me with even more confusion as where to go. I just killed my mother. Do I run into the closest police station to confess?
The birds are still singing in some overly optimistic tune of theirs with cords and pitches that mock my frightened mood. The sun still shines in an all too vivid refusal of the past events and we drive forward to the one morning routine we still have to cling to in our own denial as noon starts to creep upon us. School.
“She was a zombie,” Conroy’s small voice startles me.
I over steer the car for a brief moment, and meet the rolling eyes of Ashley in the rear view mirror as the cost.
“Conroy, there is no such thing as zombies,” I reply, matching the eye roll in the mirror.
“Think about it. She was eating Lilly. She was trying to eat you. That makes her a zombie. Hello, I’ve seen the movies!” he stresses his response.
“Conroy, there is no such thing as zombies!” Ashley and I shout together.
Dawning (The Risen Series Book 1) Page 2