So, I do the only thing I’m capable of right now. Holding her. Comforting her. Loving her.
She lets loose almost two decades worth of trauma, abuse and sadness. She cries so hard, sometimes it takes a full minute for her to regain her breath again. Over and over, until there’s nothing left of her to give.
I cry with her, tightening my hold. Feeling her skin on mine. Warm, and soft. I’m desperate to feel her skin, so I hold her hand in my own, while she uses the other to quiet her pain.
Slowly, she regains her composure. Scrambling for her pieces and shoving them back inside her. Still broken, but at least they’re not lying at her feet anymore.
Wiping away her tears and then cleaning the snot from her nose with a tissue lying on her nightstand, she straightens back up and clears her throat.
“You shouldn’t have had to see that,” she says, her voice even but exhausted.
“You shouldn’t have gotten punished for my mistakes,” I argue.
She shakes her head. “I’m here because of my own mistakes. You’re here because of my mistakes, Sibel.”
I shake my head, opening my mouth to argue, but she holds up a hand to stop me. A hand that looks like it belongs to an eighty-year old woman, not a twenty-nine-year-old.
“Everything will be okay soon, Sibby. You’re stronger than I am. That’s why you’re the only one that can stand up to Leonard. You have fire in you that I simply do not possess.” She pauses and takes a deep breath, as if she’s gathering strength for what she’s going to say next.
“Which is why you’re the only one who can stop him.”
My eyes widen as I stare at her with incredulity. She can’t be saying what I think she’s saying. She gathers herself and leans down into her nightstand. She pulls out a beautiful knife. The handle is a beautiful pink, the wood hand carved and ornate.
It’s so… pretty.
I don’t know where it came from, or how long she’s had it, but it no longer matters. She’s giving it to me now. And I’m not sure how to feel about it.
She hands me the knife. When I go take it from her, she resists and looks me deeply in the eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” she asks, placing her other hand on my thigh and squeezing.
Choppily, I nod my head.
“Good girl,” she says, patting my thigh and releasing the blade into my hand. “Let’s get to bed now.”
A strange, overwhelming sensation tugs at me. Without thinking, I wrap Mommy in a hug and hold her tight. In this moment, I know that if I don’t, she’ll slip through my fingers. She hugs me back just as fiercely, not a single complaint spoken.
“I love you, Mommy,” I whisper in her ear.
It takes several swallows before she manages to utter out a, “I love you too, sweet girl. You’re going to do great things in life, I just know it.”
I leave her alone after that, but I don’t take my eyes off her. I lay awake all night, staring at her still form, clutching my new pretty knife in my hand. Hardly blinking, refusing to take my eyes off of her for even a second. She doesn’t move from her spot. And that’s when she finally slips through.
Early in the morning, when I force my eyes away from her, I look at her alarm and watch it ring out, blaring loud. But she doesn’t stir. She doesn’t move from her spot at all.
What I didn’t know is that before she came to our room, she poisoned herself. I found Ricin left on the bathroom counter after I realized she was dead—she never even tried to hide what she did. The only people who could’ve gotten that for her are the trusted people who go out every month. When Daddy found out someone betrayed him, he didn’t even try to figure out which one got her the poison.
He killed them all.
And I was glad for it. None of those people were pure. And one of them allowed Mommy to leave me here alone. And I hate them for it.
I’ll never know the exact moment she took her last breath. I’ll never know why she chose to kill herself rather than running away with me.
Or why death was more appealing than a life with me.
But what hurt most is knowing that I spent the entire night staring at my mother’s dead body and never even realized it.
“It’s cold here,” I complain, whispering low as staff members roam throughout the house, finishing setting up. The big stuff is easy, it’s all the small props that become tedious. Picture frames lining the walls, putting fresh linen on the beds. The dozens of mannequins and the rest of the props. I imagine it’s tiring.
Good thing Satan’s Affair hires a crew in every location to help set up the houses. We’re only given a small window of time to settle in the new location and start building before the fair opens. It’s fast-paced and can be a little overwhelming with the amount of people that come through.
I always hated waiting for them to put up the walls before I could sneak inside them. I have to wait outside until they’re done, keeping away from wandering eyes.
Jackal sits beside me, observing me while I observe the small world outside my walls. Sometimes, I wish I could join them. But it’s safer that I stay behind the walls. The less they know about me, the easier my job.
Something tells me they wouldn’t be so accepting of me if they knew I’d prefer to lurk behind the walls. That makes people uncomfortable—knowing someone can see you when you can’t
