by Amy Cross
Chapter Four
Eleven years ago
"You're going to see Dr. Larson once every two weeks," my father says as we sit at the kitchen table. "Between those sessions, you'll have certain exercises to carry out. You'll also be writing your thoughts in here." He slides a small notebook over to me. "Congratulations, Juliet. It's your first diary."
I stare at the notebook. It's just a tatty little spiral-bound jotter; in fact, I think I've seen it sitting in the kitchen drawer for a while, so it's not like he went out and bought a proper diary for me. Perhaps if it was big and bulky, maybe with a lock on the side, I'd be interested. But this thing doesn't look very inspiring.
"Why don't you give it a try?" my father continues, passing me a ballpoint pen. "Open it up and write down how you're feeling right now. Don't forget to include the date and time."
Reluctantly, I open the notebook to the first page. "Who's going to read it?" I ask, staring at the white, ruled page.
"Dr. Larson will read it at the start of every session," he says. "I'll read it, too. And any other healthcare professionals who get involved."
I pause. "So it's not really a diary," I say after a moment.
"It's a diary, Juliet. That's exactly what it is."
"Aren't diaries supposed to be private?"
"Not necessarily. In this case, the aim is for you to write down how you're feeling, so Dr. Larson understands the emotional rhythms of your days. You can write as many times as you want each day. Whenever something happens, or you get a strong emotion, just make a note of it." He waits for me to get started. "How are you feeling right now, Juliet?"
I stare at him. How do I feel? I have no idea how I feel. How am I supposed to answer that question?
"Okay," he says, clearly a little disappointed, "maybe we can get there through a process of elimination. How do you not feel?"
I blink. "How do I not feel?"
"Do you feel ecstatically happy?"
I shake my head.
"Do you feel absolutely miserable?"
Again, I shake my head.
"Okay, so somewhere in-between the two. Good. We're making progress. Do you feel angry?"
I shake my head.
"Do you feel resentful?"
I shake my head.
"Do you feel... depressed?"
I shake my head.
"Do you feel grateful?"
I shake my head.
"Are you scared?"
I shake my head.
He sighs. "Help me out, Juliet. How do you feel? Sum it all up in one word."
I take a deep breath. "I'm kinda hungry," I say quietly.
"You can eat when we're done with this exercise," he says. "How do you feel?"
To be honest, I'm starting to need the toilet, but I guess that's not what he wants to hear. I look down at the notebook and realize that my best bet is just to make something up. "I feel sorry," I say eventually.
"Sorry?" he asks. "About what?"
"About what I did to Martina," I say. "I mean, about the cat."
"Okay," he says, "that's good. Write that down."
I carefully write the word 'Sorry' in big letters on the first page of the notebook, before adding today's date on the next line. After a moment, I add 'about Martina'.
"Do you feel as if Martina's death robbed you of the chance to make it up to her?" he asks.
"I guess," I say, pretending to be upset. It's pretty easy to work out what my father wants, and to give it to him on a plate. Dr. Larson's probably going to be a lot more tricky, but at least this way I can practice.
"I'm sure she would have forgiven you eventually," he replies. "She was a very nice, very considerate person. She was upset, but I think the pair of you would have become really good friends over time. You know she wasn't trying to replace your mother, right?"
I nod.
"It's just that people have to move on with their lives," he continues. "You can't sit in stasis forever. You're a very smart girl, Juliet, but you have certain emotional problems. I'm sure you recognize that there are things about you that aren't quiet normal. That's why you're writing this diary. I want you to come out of your shell a little and learn to embrace your other identities." He stares at me. "Don't you want to be like everyone else? Have friends? Go out? Go to college? You're too young for all these things now, but in nine or ten years, you're going to really miss out on life if you haven't sorted out these problems."
I nod.
"It's for your own benefit," he adds. "I'm your father, Juliet, and that means sometimes making you do things you'd rather avoid. Do you really think I'm going to just let you go sit in your room and play all alone? No. I'm going to push you out there and make you become more social." He gets up and walks over to the fridge, pulling open the door and taking a look inside. "I know it seems daunting right now, but that's only because you're right at the beginning. Imagine you're at the bottom of a steep slope. Sure, it looks impossible from here, but eventually you'll be at the top. Now, what do you want for dinner? Pancakes?"
"Yeah," I say. "Can I go to my room?"
"What do you want to go to your room for?" he asks.
"I want to put my diary away," I say.
He pauses for a moment. "Okay, but come back quickly. I don't want you sitting alone in there. It's bad for your head."
"Okay," I say, getting off the chair. I'm about to go out of the room when I realize I should probably do something to make him think he's making progress with me. Walking over to him, I kiss his arm. "Thank you, Daddy," I say, with a big smile.
"That's quite alright," he replies, ruffling my hair before taking the pancake mix out of the fridge. "Go and put your diary away."
I turn and walk through to my bedroom. It made me feel almost physically sick to be so nice to him, but at least it should get him off my back for a while. Tossing the diary onto my bed, I sit down on the floor and grab the ring-box from the bedside table. I open it carefully and find Harry the maggot wriggling around inside. He's eaten the small piece of lettuce I gave him earlier, and I think maybe he's grown a little bigger. It's weird, but I'm really enjoying watching Harry develop. He started out in Gizmo's dead body, but since then he's really made progress. I can't wait to find out what he's going to look like when he grows up and stops being a maggot.
"Juliet?" my father asks, standing in the doorway. "What's that?"
I close the ring-box.
"Let me see," he says, stepping toward me and holding out his hand.
I shake my head. My heart is racing, and I feel really stupid for letting him sneak up on me like that. I should have shut the door; I should have been more careful.
"Alright," he says, grabbing the ring-box and opening it. He stares at Harry for a moment. "What the hell is this?"
"It's mine," I reply.
"Is it a worm?" he asks. "Juliet, is this a maggot?"
I can feel something growing in the pit of my stomach: a kind of sickening feeling, as if something awful is about to happen. It's as if someone has grabbed my guts and is slowly, determinedly twisting them tighter and tighter. As I stare at my father, I feel all the goodness start to rise out of my body, replaced by cold, hard fury.
"Okay," he says, turning and marching out of the bedroom, taking the ring-box with him. I stay where I am, and after a moment I hear the toilet flushing. When he comes back through, there's nothing in his hands. "I imagine you can guess what I just did," he says, staring at me with a kind of cold, angry intensity.
I don't say anything; I just stare at him, with hatred bubbling up through my body.
"Come on," he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the door.
"I want to stay in here," I say, trying to pull away.
"No fucking way," he replies, yanking me across the room. I stumble a little and bang my shoulder against the door jamb. "It hurts!" I shout, trying not to lose my temper as he pulls me through into the hallway. One of my slippers comes off, and I try to reach out for it.
/> "No!" he says, pulling me along the corridor toward the kitchen.
"My foot's cold!" I shout.
Letting go of my arm, he hurries back to the slipper, and then kicks it toward me with such force that it hits me right in the face. It doesn't hurt, and it doesn't do any damage, but it's still kind of startling.
"Sit down!" he says, pulling me through to the kitchen and forcing me onto a chair. "Stay there while I make dinner," he says angrily, heading over to the cooker. "I'm fucking sick and tired of this behavior, Juliet."
I reach down and grab my slipper, carefully putting it back onto my foot. Right now, I want nothing more than to hurt my father. I know it's wrong, and I know that in the long-term it would be a bad idea, but I just want to do something that makes him go away forever. The thought of ever having to even look at him again makes me feel sick to my stomach. I turn and stare at the table, feeling this anger boiling in my soul. Then again, I can't blame him entirely. It's my fault that Harry was caught and flushed away; if I'd been more thoughtful and more careful, he'd still be alive. If I'm going to deal with my father, I have to be smarter; I have to come up with a plan, and it has to be something that's smart enough to slip past him. He's not the smartest man in the world, but he's not an idiot either. My stupidity has already cost Harry's life, but I'm going to make sure I never make another mistake again. Harry was just a maggot, so his death isn't the end of the world; but from now on, the stakes are going to be higher. If I can't keep my father under control, how can I ever hope to deal with Dr. Larson?
Chapter Five
Today
"I'm not happy," says Mr. Cymbalista, sitting in the office with his arms folded across his chest. He's a loud, obnoxious man who seems to delight in causing trouble. I mean, it's 1am and he seems to have nothing better to do than to sit around here, picking arguments with us about his mother's healthcare. "What kind of half-assed operation are you running here?" he continues. "These old people, they need care and attention. Instead, it's like you just tuck them away as if they're a bunch of battery hens. I mean, fuck, what am I paying you for, if you can't even change her bed once in a while?"
"I can assure you that all our residents are given proper care and attention," Jennifer says, smiling calmly. To her credit, she seems to be completely unruffled by Mr. Cymbalista's overbearing tone. "If your mother's bedding was not to your liking, I can only apologize and promise to have a stern word with the manager of the day shift. Perhaps your feedback can help us to -"
"Screw it!" he barks at her. "I don't want to hear your bullshit. You know what the problem is with you people? In fact, you know what the problem is with the whole fucking world? No responsibility! You fuck up, and then you use all these weaselly words to avoid taking the blame. Well, it's not gonna work with me." He grabs some paper and a pen from Mr. Taylor's desk. "I'm gonna make a complaint. I'm gonna get this fucking place closed down. I wouldn't treat a fucking farmyard pig the way you treat these old people."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Jennifer says, remaining calm. "If we -"
"Your name!" he shouts, pointing the pen at her. "I want your name! You're going in the complaint!"
"Jennifer," she says after a moment. "Jennifer Mathis."
"Jennifer Mathis," he says, writing it down. "And what about you?" he adds, glancing up at me.
"Juliet Collier," I reply.
"Juliet... Collier," he says, adding my name to his piece of paper. "And what about that boss of yours? What's his name?" He waits for one of us to answer. "You know what? Never mind. Fuck this." Grabbing the first file on the desk, he starts leafing through the pages. "Gotta be some interesting stuff in here," he mutters. "Looks like I've found a bunch of invoices. Let's see if this place is has got any secrets, huh?"
"I'm just going to talk to my colleague in the corridor for a moment," Jennifer says, before leading me by the arm into the reception area. "This is a problem," she whispers. "Trust me; Charles Taylor hasn't exactly been running this place by the book. If Piotr Cymbalista starts causing trouble, the whole of Crestview could be dragged down."
"So what do we do?" I ask. I pause for a moment. "I've got an idea," I say eventually.
"What?" she asks.
"We do what we did to Lizzie," I continue.
She stares at me, and finally a smile forms on her lips. "You want to kill him?"
"Why not?" I ask. "He's nothing but trouble."
"You think he deserves to die?"
"You think he deserves to live?"
"You think you deserve to decide?" She pauses. "I don't know anything about him, and neither do you."
"I know I don't want him ruining everything," I continue. "What if he gets this place shut down? They'll find..." I pause for a moment, imagining Lizzie's body being found in the abandoned ward. "I can't let him do this," I say, feeling a cold chill run through my body. "I can't let anything happen that might..." My voice trails off. "You have to help me."
"Me?" She smiles. "My dear Juliet, what do you think I can possibly do to help you?"
"The same thing you did with Lizzie," I say. "Help me hide the body!"
"This is a little different to Lizzie," she replies. "You killed her in self-defense. It was a reflex reaction; you were scared for your life. This is cold-blooded, premeditated murder."
"With the same result!" I hiss at her. "A bad person is prevented from causing any more damage!"
"And that's a solution to you?" She stares at me. "Are you just going to go through life like this, killing everyone who doesn't match up to your moral standards? Put it another way, Juliet. What if closing this place down might actually be a good thing? The residents don't get the care they need. Charles Taylor pisses all the facility's funding up the wall and then expects his staff to work double-time for half wages. Why do you think he left you alone tonight? Do you really think he couldn't find someone else to work with you? Of course he could! The problem is, he's not prepared to pay a full wage for his staff!"
"The guy in there is an asshole!" I say, pointing at the office. "I can't believe you're defending him!"
"I'm not defending him," she replies. "I'm just saying that you can't go around killing every annoying human being you come across, otherwise you'll have to wipe out the entire planet. Standing here and plotting to kill that man isn't the same as killing Lizzie McGuigan in self-defense."
"So you're saying you won't help me?"
She smiles. "I'm not saying that at all, Juliet. I'm just saying that you can't turn around later and claim I didn't warn you first."
"So you'll do it?" I ask. "If I kill him, you'll help me hide the body?" I pause for a moment, waiting for her to tell me she understands. "We're like superheroes," I add. "Between us, we can stop all the bad people!" I sigh, realizing I might be sounding a little naive. "Okay, not superheroes, but you get the idea. We can make a difference! We can put his body in the abandoned ward, and then..."
"And then what?" she asks, still smiling.
"And then you can do what you did last time," I continue. "You can make it so I don't feel bad."
"Can I do that?"
I nod. "You've done it before."
She stares at me. "Do what you think best, Juliet. I'll help you with the body. But don't forget what I said yesterday. There's a very important question that you still need to ask me."
"I still don't know what you're talking about," I reply.
"I know," she says, "and I find that very strange."
"Hey!" Mr. Cymbalista calls out from the office. "When you two ladies are done out there, I've got something you need to see!"
Taking a deep breath, I head back through to find that he's got a pile of files and folders open on the desk.
"Is there anything I can help you with?" I ask, glancing over at the large pair of scissors on the desk. Is it possible that I'm going to have to kill this guy in the same way I killed Martina's cat all those years ago?
"Look to me like your boss, this Mr. Taylor guy, has b
een cooking the books," he says, with a grin of self-satisfaction plastered across his face. "His car payments, his mortgages... It's all being paid for out of the company's accounts, and guess what? The official accountant hasn't flagged anything up because she happens to be the fucker's sister!" He shifts a little in his seat, clearly warming to his theme. "I'm no expert, but it looks like they've siphoned a six-figure sum out of this place in the past year alone."
"Uh-huh," I say, carefully picking up the scissors while he's focused on the paperwork in front of him. I start walking slowly around the desk.
"There's money leaking out of the accounts all over the place," he continues. "This is fucking insane! How the hell can he think he's going to get away with this?"
"No idea," I say as I come to a halt right behind him. Looking down, I see the back of his head; I think back to the time I killed Martina's cat, and I remind myself that this is basically the same. I just have to ram the scissors into his brain, and it'll all be over.
"This is illegal," Mr. Cymbalista goes on. "He's going down for this, and his sister's going down with him."
I hold the scissors directly above the top of his head. Taking a deep breath, I decide to count to three and then strike. I glance over at Jennifer and see that she's loitering in the doorway, watching me with a look of curious excitement on her face.
"This whole place is one big slush fund!" Mr. Cymbalista says.
Three.
