by Tobias Wade
But it wasn’t just any voice. Somehow it was my father trying to reach me, and him I would trust till the ends of the Earth. I took the Doll and my phone and quietly slipped out the door. I wasn’t going to leave him stranded, so I took an UBER back home. While we were driving, I wrote him a long text message thanking him for being so understanding and apologizing for my behavior. I told him how much he meant to me, and that all of this was just because I was having such a hard time with Dad’s passing. He was so kind that he probably wouldn’t have even needed it, but it felt good to tell him anyway.
I hope he got a chance to read it before he died. The next I woke, it was to the hammering of police on my front door. They informed me that my husband was found dead in his motel room with three bullet holes in his chest. Future investigations revealed the coke habit wasn’t as ancient history as I thought. He owed a lot of money to the wrong people, and they followed our car to the motel. If it wasn’t for the Doll, I’d be dead too.
I still think Dad was wrong about Jordan though. I don’t regret a minute of our time together. And Dad was wrong about another thing too – the Angel Doll was going to have to lie awake with me for a long time before she cantake away the pain.
My Mother the Spider Queen
People think they're being discreet when they whisper from the side of their mouth. They think just because they're not making eye contact, that somehow I won't know they're talking about me. Even when they're able to restrain the thoughtless dribble from their faces though, I still know what they're thinking from the thousand others who couldn't be bothered to spare my feelings.
Disgusting child.
Attention whore.
They shouldn't let her out of the house like that.
And of course I grin and stare back until they are more uncomfortable than I am, but I still feel compelled to write this and defend myself, so here goes. This is the story of my mother the spider queen.
She isn't my real mother. I don't know what happened to my real mother, but I like to think of her as an actress involved in some celebrity scandal which made it impossible for her to keep me. I imagine the death threats she received from my father, the tearful nights and the decision which would rip her world apart, and the love which made her disguise herself and leave me in the care of Mrs. Willow.
The woman who raised me was part hyena and part boa constrictor by nature, although she successfully spun a mask of white lace and perfumed curls which might be mistaken for sophistication at a distance. She was adamant about the punishment fitting the crime, although I would argue being forced to drink dirty mop water isn't proportional to a soiled floor. Of course her own son Jeff wasn't subject to this parenting style, but as she often liked to remind me, I was her obligation, not her child.
Mrs. Willow was too disdainful of real work to get her hands dirty with me though, and I wasn't afraid of anything her bird-arms could hurl my way. It was Jeff who made my life there a living Hell. Three years older than me and at least twice my weight, Jeff made a sport out of tormenting me since he couldn't hope to compete in anything else. Glue in my sandwiches and shampoo bottles, broken glass scattered around my bed, profane words cut into my clothes that wouldn't be replaced – it's amazing that a boy with his creativity and work ethic could still be failing in school.
Retaliation was impossible. The slightest hint of resistance would send him howling to his mother. I think Jeff could have murdered me, and she would have still blamed me for getting him in trouble with the law. When I was 10, some of the teachers sat down and talked with my mother about my injuries, but she found it more convenient to convince a psychiatrist that I had Asperger's and was abusing myself rather than intervene with her angelic boy. It didn't help that I almost never spoke back then, but that's just because staying quiet always seemed to bore my tormentor more quickly.
I spent a lot of my time hiding in cupboards, trying to stay out of everyone's way. It was too dark to read or anything, but it was quiet, and I could listen to myself think without being interrupted. If I was lucky then Jeff would get distracted and forget about me, and I could spend a whole day sitting peacefully in the dark. Then came a weekend when I was 12 years old when Mrs. Willow was going out of town for a spa retreat. It was just going to be me and Jeff, and I knew no corner would be remote enough to hide from him.
I'd been sitting under the kitchen sink for about an hour before I was blinded by the sudden light of the opening door. I tried to crawl away from it, but Jeff's hand latched around my ankle.
"Stop being weird and get out of there."
I managed to wriggle free for a second, but then he got hold again. Both hands this time – it felt like he was going to rip my leg right off. I groped through the darkness and clung onto something, immediately letting go when I realized it was the pipe for the garbage disposal. Whatever I got wouldn't be nearly as bad as the sanctioned violence for breaking her precious kitchen. Jeff was still tugging relentlessly on my leg. I allowed myself to go limp, closed my eyes, and waited for the inevitable to come.
"Oh shit what was that?"
He let go of my leg, and I felt a rush of cool air replace his hulking presence. He was reeling back as though something hit him. Then I felt it – the soft tickle of a spider crawling down my arm.
"Smash it and get out here," he said. Jeff was already half-way across the kitchen, actually trembling. I couldn't believe my eyes. 15 years old pushing and 200 pounds, and he was actually scared of an insect. I gently cupped my hands and let the fuzzy little guy wander into them.
"I told you to kill it!" Jeff shouted.
I let it meander up my arm, enjoying the sight of Jeff squirming in discomfort. I pretended to swat the thing, then scooped it up again and placed it in my hair. I giggled – not from the soft tickling of its legs, but rather at the white bleached horror spreading across Jeff's face. I cautiously climbed out of the cupboard, waiting for him to attack me at any moment, but he was absolutely frozen with terror.
"You can't just leave it there," he finally spluttered. "It's going to bite you."
But it didn't, and why would it? Animals aren't like humans. They need a reason to cause suffering; humans only need an opportunity. Jeff followed me, but remained a respectful distance for the rest of the day.
What I had anticipated being the worst weekend of my life was actually the best I can remember. The spider and I were inseparable, and I named it Swish because of the feeling of its fuzzy legs on my skin. Jeff wouldn't even get close to me, and it didn't take long before I figured out how to use Swish as an excuse to control him completely.
"I wouldn't sit there," I'd say. "Swish was hiding between the cushions."
Or
"You sure you want the last donut? Don't you see the little footprints?"
It was like a miracle. He locked himself in his room for two days straight, and I had complete freedom. First thing I did was make a fly trap out of some honey and glue, then fed Swish for his hard work. Then I got to take a shower in the bathroom with hot water, and let it run for as long as I wanted without being yelled at. I even used real shampoo and everything. Swish waited for me on the sink, so I rewarded him with another fly.
It was a dream to think that kind of respite could last. Before Mrs. Willow had even set down her luggage, Jeff was already spinning the most incredible lies.
"She chased me with it! All over the house, wouldn't leave me alone. She put it in my food and wouldn't let me eat – I had to starve the whole time you were gone. I think it's bitten me, look!"
Mrs. Willow had come back earlier than I expected. I didn't have time to hide Swish. After everything it had done for me, it was my fault what happened. Mrs. Willow grabbed me by the hair and dragged me all the way to the bathroom. I told her it wasn't still in there, but she wouldn't listen. She chopped off all my hair with kitchen knife, then shaved the rest of my head down to the scalp. I didn't struggle, because I knew that would just give her an excuse t
o cut me.
After that, she tore my room apart until she found it. I'd built Swish a home out of a shoe box and some twigs. Mrs. Willow didn't want to touch it, but Jeff was howling so badly that she just dropped the whole nest in the bathtub and lit the thing on fire. I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to watch the poor creature struggling to escape. I knew exactly how it felt, wanting so desperately to get out but having nowhere to go, and when it burned alive, I couldn't help but envy it for finally being free.
After her trip and that ordeal, Mrs. Willow was too tired to do anything more to me that night. Tomorrow though – she gave me her word like she was swearing her righteousness before God – I was going to pay for what I did to her son.
"Girls with Asperger's," Mrs. Willow said as she closed me in my room for the night, "have been known to do horrible things to themselves. I even heard of one cutting off her own ear with a pair of scissors. I don't think anyone will be surprised by what happens to you."
I lay awake the whole night, imagining what may be in store for me. Mrs. Willow didn't usually like to break the skin with her punishment, but between her zealous worship of her son and the wild look in her eyes, I didn't rule out any possibility. Worse than anything though, was the feeling that I betrayed Swish. I hadn't built the house for him at all – I built it to keep him trapped so he wouldn't run away and leave me alone. It was my fault he'd been in there when Mrs. Willow found him. Maybe I should have tried to run away too, but I was convinced she would find me again, and it would only make matters worse.
If I'd learned anything from living here, it was resistance always made things worse. I just had to close my eyes, try not to cry, and let it happen. I wish she could have just done it tonight. The anticipation was the worst part. If I could just fall asleep it would be morning, and then it would pass, but no. All night long I lay awake, listening to the soft swish of little legs no doubt scurrying to flee the house.
I must have fallen asleep at some point, because next I knew I was woken by the midday sun flooding through my window. I couldn't believe she didn't wake me. I quickly patted myself down, making sure she didn't cut off anything in the night. Then I crept from my room, peering around the house. All the doors were closed. All the lights were off. It was as though no-one had woken up at all. Maybe this was part of the punishment – she knew I hated the waiting. She was just going to let the fear keep building up until I least expected it and then –
KNOCK. I gently tapped on her bedroom door. The lights were off, but the door swung open, and I saw her sitting on her bed. Fully dressed, white lace straight, hair perfectly curled. She waved at me and smiled, and I immediately shut the door. So she is awake. This is just a game to her. Well it wasn't fair, and I wasn't going to play. I couldn't just sit and wait for it to happen. I couldn't just be quiet and still forever. I was going to tell her what really happened. I was going to tell her that her son is a liar who hurts me whenever she isn't looking. I'm going to scream it in her face, and if she hits me, then all the better. At least I can let her anger out and get it over with.
Opening the door again took all the strength I had.
"Mrs. Willow," I said it loud and defiant into the dark room. "Your son is the one who deserves to be punished. Not me."
Her head tilted to the side as though unable to support its own weight. She turned to face me in small increments, unable to believe what I'd just said to her. All my instincts roared at me to close my eyes and hide, but I stared her fiercely in the face. She'd burned Swish alive, so now she gets to see my fire.
"He's a sadistic brat, and the more you lie to yourself, the worse it gets," I said. She stood shakily to her feet and took a step toward me.
"You think you're protecting him, but you're not," I said. "Because one day he's going to go out in the real world where he's accountable for his actions."
She was almost on top of me now. I was going to get it worse than ever, but I didn't even care. I wanted to fight back.
"I just want you to know that you're a terrible mother, and at the end of Jeff's miserable destructive life, he's going to blame you and hate you for it. And if you don't already, you're going to hate him right back."
There. I finally said it. She dove at me, but I didn't try to run. The last of my strength was gone, and my old protective instincts flared up. I closed my eyes. I let my body go limp. I told myself to accept the pain.
Swish.
"You're absolutely right. I'm so sorry, my love."
I felt her arms around me, but she wasn't trying to choke or restrain me. She was... hugging me. It was such an alien sensation that I immediately opened my eyes. That's when I saw them. Hundreds –no thousands of gossamer spider webs holding up her body like a marionette doll. I recoiled immediately, and she let me without the slightest resistance.
Swish.
The spiders were everywhere. Crawling across her face, through her hair. When she opened her mouth, I saw more of them inside her, pulling the threads to work her jaw. Her throat pulsed, and I knew more must be further down to vibrate her vocal chords.
"But he's never going to hurt you again. You have our word."
I was too shocked to fully understand what was happening. The alarm in my mind wouldn't stop, and I still felt like I was about to pay for my rebellion. I didn't want to stare, but couldn't look away. I didn't want to go and see, but my feet carried me there anyway.
I opened Jeff's room and found him on his bed. His hands and feet were bound with countless loops of spider web. More of it was across his face, tying his tongue securely to the roof of his mouth. His skin was perforated with a thousand holes, and spiders were crawling in and out of them as they carefully partitioned and wrapped each piece for consumption. His eyes blinked at me, although I don't know if that was a sign of life, or simply the successful attachment of yet another internal strand. I quietly closed the door and let them finish their work.
So if I seem strange to you, walking down the street with spiders in my clothes and hair, don't think I'm doing it for attention. They were a gift from someone who wants to keep me safe. I love them, and I love her for it. My mother is the spider queen, and she's the only family I've ever had.
Don't let him steal my child
I’m not afraid of the darkness. Spiders don’t bother me, nor do snakes or heights or any of the regular things. I’m afraid of the child growing inside me, breathing my blood, displacing my organs, until he eventually rips his bulbous head free from my body and leaves me in ruin. I’m afraid that I will resent all the pain and obligation and loss of opportunity in life, and that all that hatred will make it impossible for me to love him. I’m still more terrified that that I WILL love him – so much that it hurts. So much that I sacrifice everything for him, neglecting myself and my friends and my art…
… until the day when his own ambitions pull him away from me, and I’ll be left mourning the dissolution of my dreams and the emptiness of my life. And then I will sit down my aching limbs and wait for the weariness of old age to erode my cherished memories and free me from this heart-breaking desire to be someone. Then I will bless the day when I finally forget to ask myself what might have been, if only I had been selfish and lived my life for me.
I wasn’t afraid at the beginning though. I thought I wanted it – that we wanted it. My husband Kirk and I had just moved into our first house, and I was ready. Sure we still fought about stupid things, but we loved each other, and that should have been enough to make him love the child too.
“Okay. Do you want to make the appointment to take care of it, or should I?”
That’s all he said. We’d been married a year, and he didn’t even ask if I wanted to keep it. We started to argue, and then the fight took on a life of its own in that insidious way which leaves us screaming at each other about nothing and everything. I thought he was being immature – he thought I was the one who needed to grow up and quit painting. I said he didn’t take enough initiative at w
ork, and he said I didn’t respect him. Before I knew what was happening, his pickup was spraying gravel in my face as I sobbed incoherently in the driveway.
I didn’t see him again for four months, which was more than enough time for me to doubt every decision I’ve ever made in my entire life. Then suddenly one night he was crawling into bed at 2 AM, stinking like death, blubbering apologies and promises. I was so relieved that I didn’t even mind that he was drunk. We were intimate as a husband and wife should be, and when I fell asleep on his chest afterward, I thought everything was going to be okay.
“I’m so happy you came back,” I whispered, nestled against him.
“I changed my mind,” he said. “I want the baby now.”
"He's yours," I promised as I drifted off to sleep.
There was so much blood when I woke up that I thought I’d been stabbed. I rushed to the bathroom, screaming for Kirk to help me, but he was nowhere to be found. A miscarriage doesn’t just plop out and leave you as good as new. The baby drained from me over the whole next day, taking my soul with it. Big bloody clots, leaving me shrieking in anguish on the bathroom floor. I chanced to see myself in the mirror, and the sight of the network of bloody trails running down my thighs was enough to make me smash my fist straight through the glass. The pain was good. It reminded me that I had a body outside of the one that had just died.
I couldn’t flush it. I couldn’t toss it. I couldn’t even touch it. I just left it there on the floor and crawled back to my empty bed. I tossed and turned for hours until the clenching pain subsided, but it was nothing compared to the pain of knowing Kirk did this to me. I don’t know how, or why, but when he came back last night, he killed my baby. And if my feelings in that moment were any indication, then he might have killed me too.
I wasn’t expecting to see Kirk again. I took myself to the doctor as soon as I was able to drive, and that was when I got my first big shock. The ultrasound confirmed a perfectly healthy, growing baby boy inside me. There wasn’t even any indication of blood loss – all my vitals were strong, and I didn't have anemia. The doctor couldn’t explain what happened, but finally convinced me that I had a hysterical hallucination and that everything was fine.