by Lana Sky
He heads for the door before I can say anything else.
When he leaves, he doesn’t look back.
Not once.
Ding, dong, the witch is dead. I should designate the date a personal holiday. But Mommy dearest always had to have the last laugh: I’m the one still paying for her mistakes.
Lately, it feels like there are two Francescas, both superficial copies. One is a lapdog who used to pine at her master’s feet. The other is a pseudo mother-chef-referee-office worker-consultant-grief counselor-banker-always-has-everything-together, no-shit-taker.
I’m not sure which woman is easier to be. I’m not even sure which one I like being more. Maybe it’s the mask that requires no real effort on my part to wear?
The pet who just lies there as she’s walked over, used, and screwed.
Or maybe it’s the performance that makes me feel—even for a little while—like someone worth being.
As long as I continue to do, and be, and have everything.
At least in one of those roles, I don’t have to smile as much. Here, trapped inside the house Maxim bought for my family, my lips are always contorted on cue. Voila. I’m caring, loving sister Frankie, ready to comfort, and hug, and offer reassurance that everything will be okay, as long as I’m here.
We don’t need her and never have.
I approach the living room, determined to put on a convincing act. I can hear faint sobbing even from here—Daisy probably. Sure enough, I round the corner and find her slumped on a leather couch, with Mikie by her side. At her feet, Ainsley is body-slamming Eric to the floor, while the twins, Ollie and Ray, trade insults over a video game playing on the television.
“Bet you can’t beat my score—”
“Bet your ass I can!”
“Fuck off!”
As the bickering continues, I sense my nails dig into the inside of my wrist, pinching. Gouging. I look down, recognizing the bright-red substance seeping from the tiny scratches, but the burning sting I should feel is nothing more than a dull ache.
Am I dreaming? Inside a parallel universe? One where up is down and down is up and dead mothers still exist?
“Hey, Frankie,” Mikie calls, drawing my attention. A frown tugs at his mouth, but otherwise, he looks fine.
In fact…everything feels so fucking normal.
Except Daisy. Her sniffling could signal yet another of her daily dramas—if it weren’t for what she has clutched to her chest.
My eyes hone in on it, narrowing. It’s a photograph, framed in one of those popsicle-stick frames you make in kindergarten. A photo only she would keep, long after I’d tossed out every other picture of this person in particular. The strange woman smiles up at me from between Daisy’s splayed fingers. With dark, curling hair and brown eyes, she looks like me—long before she took to dying her hair and caking makeup over her face. She looks so damn young. I can’t stop staring.
I can’t stop seeing that handmade frame as a goddamn mirror, reflecting everything I am now back at me.
Tired. Desperate. Pathetic.
“Oh, look!” Eric exclaims, ramming his elbow into Ainsley’s stomach. “Suck it—”
“Mikie!” Ainsley whines while the twins burst into a shouting match over their game.
All I can think to say is, “I… Can everyone shut up?”
Silence descends as suddenly as if I flipped a switch. I can think, finally. I can hear. Daisy’s sniffling. Ainsley muttering. Mikie standing.
“Frankie?”
“You...you do know that she’s dead?”
They all stare up at me, six blank faces, only one streaked with tears.
“Melanie,” I correct harshly. “You know Melanie is dead, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” Mikie nods and glances at the younger kids. “It’s sad, but I don’t want us to focus on it—”
“She was stabbed to death,” I spit out. Oops. It’s the wrong thing to say.
“Frankie!” Mikie slaps his hands over Ainsley’s ears.
She immediately attempts to shrug him off. “Let go!” she shrieks, only to have Mikie slap his hand over her mouth, too.
“Are you really doing this right now?” he asks.
“Why would you say that, Frankie?” Daisy lurches from the couch, still clutching that damn picture to her chest. “Why the hell would you say that?”
“It’s the truth.” God, I don’t even recognize the sound of my voice. I’m not used to sounding this cold. This callous. Like…
Like Maxim.
“She’s dead—”
“Shut up!” Daisy’s voice rises to a whistle-like pitch, her cheeks splotched and red. “Why are you here? Why is she even here?” she demands, turning to Mikie. “It’s not like you really give a shit anyway, right, Frankie? You’re never fucking here!”
“What are you talking about?” Genuine confusion has me frowning. “I’m always here.”
Always. Even when most people my age would have bailed on the responsibility. Long after Melanie did bail. I’ve always been here.
“Are you?” Daisy steps in closer, her arms wrapped tightly around the picture frame.
Up this close, I’m struck by just how different we look—not like siblings at all. She’s blonde-haired. There are no cuts on her wrists or scratches on her fingers. She doesn’t share the empty, dull expression of the woman in the photograph.
I can’t stop myself from reaching for it. My fingers only manage to snag the end of a popsicle stick before the whole damn thing snaps.
“Stop it!” Daisy rears back. “What did you do?”
“Everyone calm the hell down!” Mikie positions himself between me and Daisy, his palms outstretched to opposite ends. “Everyone just relax—”
“No!” Daisy pushes past him, her arms wrapped around that goddamn picture. “I don’t want her here. It’s not like she really cares anyway,” she blubbers. “Do you? Or maybe you’re glad, huh? Maybe now you can stop trying to be her—”
I don’t register the slap until the moment my palm connects with the smooth skin of Daisy’s cheek. The resounding thwack echoes like a gunshot. Suddenly, it’s too damn quiet.
“Frankie, what the hell?” Mikie rushes toward Daisy, dragging her back.
She stares at me, her mouth open in shock. Even now, she’s still holding that goddamn picture.
You don’t care, do you?
But does anyone, really? I glance around the room and surmise the answer on my own. No. No one really gives a shit. Our mother is dead, but it might as well be another day. Another fucking Sunday. Another goddamn, grueling, unbearable day.
Do I care?
I should. The shackles that have weighed me down for so damn long should have fallen off the moment she drew her last breath. Daisy’s right: I don’t have to be her anymore. I don’t have to fill her shoes. I don’t have to wear her mask and be all those things she never was.
The bitch is dead; I should be free.
“Frankie?”
The soothing color scheme of the living room blurs into gray as I whirl on my heel and ignore the hand that paws at my shoulder.
“Where the hell are you going?”
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Somewhere.
Anywhere.
I just need air. Ironically, I don’t find any when I finally wrench the front door open. My lungs expand on nothing. I can’t catch my breath, no matter how quickly I race down the walkway. Up ahead, a car waits and the driver stands at the back seat door, ready to usher me inside.
“Ms. Marconi?” He clears his throat pointedly when I start past him, reminding me of my unspoken boundary. Even thrown away and exiled, I’m still on a leash. “Ms. Marconi?”
I walk faster, inching toward the gate that bars this wealthy community from the outside world. Then I keep going, following a path that cuts through a scenic park, toward god knows where.
I’m not running.
Maybe I’m still looking for that elusive fresh air? Ever
ything I breathe in feels tainted. Dirty. Dusty.
A bit like my soul.
Melanie was always a stain inside me, seeping through flesh and bone. Like a fool, I always believed that her inevitable death might act like soap and scrub it clean. Everything I’ve done—the worst, most disgusting acts—has been because of her.
Or has it?
Desperate to regain my bearings, I collapse on a random bench, cradling my aching head in my hands.
She’s gone.
I have to say it out loud, just to hear the way it sounds. Hollow—that’s how. Melanie is dead, but I…
I’m not.
“Here.”
I flinch as a white strip of fabric appears in front of my face, offered from above by someone behind me. A shadow fans out before I can react, painting the pavement black as I sense a presence settle onto the narrow bench. I look over and find Maxim seated there, staring resolutely ahead. It stopped raining hours ago, but the stench of it still taints the air. Odd. I can finally inhale it now, tasting the nuances of the past storm and the evening chill.
“I just needed some air—”
“You do not have to lie to me.”
My lips seal together, a slave to his command. Don’t lie. I might as well say nothing ever again. It’s all I fucking seem capable of lately.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
“Are you going to be watching me forever?” I wonder. “Waiting to jump the second you think I won’t play by your rules?”
I don’t receive an answer. Just as well, I’m used to responding to myself these days.
“I’m so tired of everyone treating me like a punching bag, or a piggy bank, or a toy.” Oops. The confession spills out of me, hot and raw. I grit my teeth, biting back more—but it’s like a dam breaking. Boom. Everything spills loose. I’m on my feet before I realize, pacing on the path of grass beside the pavement. “How could she do this to me? How could she be so fucking selfish?” A strangled sound cuts off the tirade. God no. My eyes are on fire. I reach up to rub them, but shit, the motion just triggers an avalanche. I’m sobbing in no time, gasping. “I hate… I hate her!”
Someone grabs me harshly, spinning me into a wall of muscle. Maxim. His smell trickles down my nostrils, tripping every nerve on the way down. The nearness stings, like touching a hot stove, and I instinctively jerk out of his reach.
“Get off of me!”
He doesn’t move, but a slight tensing of his jaw conveys a silent warning. I’m making a scene. Even now, there are people out strolling the paths, enjoying this quiet hour just before dusk. They giggle and gossip, oblivious to the crime lord casting a shadow over this secluded corner.
He’s a demon painted red in the glow of the blood-red sky. The sinking sun ignites the horizon, adding a chilling backdrop to his gaze. It’s beautiful. And terrifying. Taken altogether, he’s a striking contrast: smooth ebony silk and impenetrable flesh.
“You’re in shock,” he murmurs in a tone that makes my blood run cold. Maybe he’s talking that way because he’s never seen me like this: crying, sobbing. He’s never seen the disgusting shell of Francesca Marconi his pretty dresses and bruises used to disguise.
“I’m fine.”
“Look at me.” His nails capture the underside of my jaw as his body moves in, nearly knocking me over to keep me close this time. Trapped.
My lips part, ready to deliver my customary response. I’m fine. It’s right there on the tip of my tongue.
“I-I’m so tired.” Fuck. My cheeks burn, but nothing can snatch the answer back. It’s there, lingering on the air. “I’m so fucking tired. I’m so tired.”
Of what?
He doesn’t need to ask the question out loud—his grip tightens, wringing the confession from me.
“I’m so tired of pretending and being everything for everyone. I’m so...” Another sob triggers a burning rush of tears. They sink into the front of his shirt, alerting me to just how close he is—no longer entirely of his doing, either. My hands snuck against his abdomen without my realizing, seizing handfuls of his coat. I flinch, forcing my fingers to open, letting him go.
“I just… I don’t want to be like her!” I’m channeling Daisy in her most dramatic of fits now, choking back sobs and sniffling snot. “I don’t want to be like her anymore.”
Lost.
Useless.
Worthless.
“I’m so tired of taking care of everyone all the time. I just want—”
“What?” He grabs my chin again, forcing it back so that I have no choice but to face him.
“I want…to be free,” I hear myself croak. Though what the fuck does that mean? “I want…” My brain overloads and stalls like a crashing computer. Rebooting takes a few breathless seconds as I watch him watch me. “I just want something that’s mine. Something that I can have for myself. I don’t have to pretend. I’m not her. She never did anything useful. All she did was screw people over and…”
Survive. Just like me.
There are so many things she wasn’t. Successful. A good mother. Happy. “She never went to school. I couldn’t, either. She never made something of herself without fucking someone else over. But what I have done? Bedtime stories, money for field trips, the rent! She never took care of any of these things and still Daisy thinks she walks on water. I sacrificed everything! And for what? To be someone’s whore? A pet? It’s not like I’m made for anything better. God! I couldn’t even help Daisy with Algebra—”
“Education,” Maxim says over me. “Is that what you want?”
I blink. Like any delinquent, I have my GED, but beyond that?
Before I can answer, he sighs. “Consider it done. As payment for your continued silence. Stay here.” He steps away, adjusting his coat. “I will have Lucius come for you.”
He turns and advances down the path without an invitation for me to follow.
And I’ve never felt more alone.
Chapter Nine
Melanie never spoke about what she wanted when she died, at least not around me. Funny, because we damned each other to hell on a daily basis, but I don’t even know if her body belonged in a church.
We could be Jewish for fuck’s sake.
Regardless, Maxim takes over the “arrangements,” leaving me blissfully in the dark. Good. Would knowing she’s in the ground, tainting the earth, be any better than having her ashes on the mantel while the kids played on the floor beneath?
It’s one of the myriads of things I don’t want to think about—but Maxim’s taken careful steps to reinforce his previous promise: he handles it all.
I can hear the kids being marshaled, presumably by Lucius, and ushered out the front door of the house. So I stay, trapped within a room like one from a fairytale. A deranged, twisted story in which the innocent victim isn’t really all that innocent. Her monster prepared a special place for her in his substitute lair: one with white walls and carpeting and a bed with a gossamer canopy. But in the end, it’s nothing more than a cage. A way to keep her separated from his real dwelling.
She’s expendable.
“Ms. Marconi?”
“Coming.” My heart pounds furiously as I follow the direction of the voice and find Lucius in the living room.
“The au pair took the children out for dinner,” he explains. “I hope you don’t mind. Also, Mr. Koslov asked me to bring you this.”
He extends an object in my direction, and I warily accept it. It’s flat, like a book. A brochure? On the front is an ivy-covered building underneath text proclaiming a name I vaguely recognize. One of the city colleges?
I look up, eyeing him warily. “He’s serious?”
He can’t be.
Lucius nods. “Should you accept, he will handle the tuition. Pick your courses. Tomorrow, you go for the preliminary tests.”
“He can’t be serious.” I sound like a broken record—emphasis on the broken. Something seeped into my voice without permission
. Terror?
Men like Maxim do nothing without expecting more in return.
Looking at Lucius’ stoic expression, I can’t tell what the price is this time.
“He doesn’t have to bribe me to stay silent,” I say in a rush.
Lucius raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure what you mean, miss.”
“I…I don’t even know what to study.” I never had the time to wonder before. In fact, the only “educational pursuit” I’d probably be good at is business management, all things considered.
“Have you changed your mind?”
I stiffen, shaking my head. “N-no. I just—”
“Then I will come for you tomorrow.” He nods curtly and heads for the door. “Oh, and my condolences for your loss. Your mother’s memorial service is tonight.” An uncharacteristic emotion colors his voice. Hesitation? “All you have to do is arrive.”
Arrive, most likely, to a funeral home, where some priest will give her the pomp and circumstance she never gave me, let alone any of the kids.
“Don’t you think this is moving too fast?” I hate how fucking breathless I sound. Weak. “I mean, d-do the police even know who killed her—”
“Mr. Koslov thought it would be best to move quickly to give your siblings closure,” he explains. “Her body hasn’t been released, but a drawn-out investigation can be…taxing on some. He thought this way would be easier. Unless…” He furrows his eyebrows. “Do you not want to go?”
My teeth descend into my lower lip as I rebel against the obvious answer. Good daughters would attend their mothers’ funerals, even if they hated them. Even if they wished them dead on a daily basis. Even if…
That “good” daughter sees her mother’s smug fucking face wherever she looks, haunting her. Taunting her. Don’t you see, baby? she croons from the grave. We’re the same…
“I can convey your wishes to Mr. Koslov if that is so.”
“No.” My cheeks burn in the aftermath of the confession. It’s like I’ve said a dirty word. “I don’t think I need to. I mean…”
“All right.” Lucius nods. “That just gives you more time to study.” The reminder is paired with a deliberate nod toward the brochure still clutched in my fist. “Have a good evening, Miss Marconi.”
