Unwound

by Yolanda Olson

  Unwound

  Many were the nights that she would sit in her room or in her

  dungeon or anywhere she chose in her home and I would hear the

  machines whirring and her maniacal laughter drifting toward me.

  Some nights that would go on non-stop until she tired and then

  the silence would take over the home for a day or two. She would

  work so hard on her creations and she never wanted to stop, but I

  guess the human body can only take so much. One thing I learned

  quickly in her nights of torment where she forced herself to keep

  working was her telltale sign that she would soon be resting for as long as she could stand it. She would sing a song. She would sing

  London Bridge is Falling Down as quickly as she could at first.

  Then it would slow to a normal pace, until finally it became but a whisper coming from her and then the sound of a body hitting the

  floor and the sounds of tools and metal clanking around the room.

  And then the silence. How I longed for those nights of silence

  where I wouldn’t hear the materials tearing, where I wouldn’t

  hear the sounds of metal clanging around, where I wouldn’t hear

  her laughter or her screams of frustration. But I also feared for her in those moments too, never knowing if she died in her hysteria

  and if it would be too dangerous to check on her. I never was

  allowed in her work spaces or her private living quarters; she had made that very clear that she would take the life she gave me if I ever invaded her spaces. I wondered how many before me, if

  there were any before me, that had crossed her before and that’s

  why I was the only one that she kept alive. If I am the only one, I 16

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  thought as my eyes flickered back toward the wall that divided

  me from the other.

  I looked back at the task at hand and taking a deep breath, I

  grit my teeth as I slid it between the lock and the chain and started the painstaking task of trying to pry the two apart. I grunted with effort and immediately reminded myself that I had to be quite.

  Any loud sound would bring Mother to my door to find out what I

  was doing. Taking a deep breath, I bit my lip as hard as I could

  and gave all my effort into relieving the chain from the lock that was holding on to it so dearly like a devoted love.

  With one final yank, the lock finally gave way. I stood there

  breathing heavily for a moment as I let Mother’s tool drop to the

  ground. Shaking away my fatigue, I quietly undid the chain and

  pulled the somewhat broken doors open slowly. I don’t know why

  but I steeled myself for whatever I might find in there. I reached a hand in slowly, without looking, and pulled out the first thing I

  was able to get my hands on.

  It was book of some sort which I could tell because of the

  shape. Curiosity got the better of me, because Mother would

  never allow me to have a book so I creaked open the door a little

  more and I pulled it out. It was covered in dust so I blew it off and examined the cover. Emblazoned on the front of it was “three two

  five seven”.

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  Something about that number seemed to bother me for some

  reason. But I set the book aside. For now it wasn’t of importance

  to me. Pulling open the doors as widely as I could I study the

  contents that Mother had so desperately protected and found

  myself wondering why?

  Inside was a pair of dark pants, a dark shirt, and an over shirt

  (or at least that’s what I had assumed it to be) made out of

  materials that I had never seen before. Mother would never use

  anything that wasn’t alive at one point to make things.

  I pulled the clothes from the closet and quickly dressed

  myself. Everything fit so well and so comfortably, almost as if

  they were meant for me, and even though I loved her dearly, I

  knew she would never be this kind to me or any of the others. If

  any of the others would have survived anyway, I thought to

  myself again.

  As quietly as I could, I closed the doors and looked around for

  the book which had caused a curiosity to rise in me.

  Picking it up again, I held it for a moment in my hands

  wondering why that number sounded as familiar as it did. As I

  shrugged, I opened it to the first page and almost dropped it.

  Inside was a sketch that Mother had made that she had named

  three two five seven. I stared at the picture for a moment, my

  mouth dry, because I knew what it was.

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  I studied it in disbelief.

  The cogs and wheels on the first diagram with a detailed

  explanation of what she intended to do with them. I knew them

  well. I heard them with every breath I took. When I laid my head

  down at night to rest, I would feel them slow down.

  Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to continue examining

  the book.

  On the next page was the second diagram; a myriad of words

  and a semi constructed being; more so than the first page. The

  chest of the being was a gaping wound, showing how the inside

  would be put together. The eyes closed in a peaceful silence.

  I ran my fingers down the tracing of three two five seven.

  I pulled the book closer to my face and squinted at some

  writing that had been scrawled onto three two five seven’s “arm”.

  I began to shake.

  The shape of the body was so oddly familiar.

  I flipped to the third diagram. The strong hands that had been

  attached to three two five seven were so haunting. Scrawled next

  to the out turned hands were the words to let me know where she

  had obtained them. “Butcher’s hands”, was scrawled out on either

  side of the drawing on three two five seven.

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  The fourth diagram detailed the face. The strong, young face

  that had been so lovingly pieced together. She chronologically

  wrote of how she had manipulated the stitching so that the scars

  would never show on its face. It took her 11 days to get the face

  looking “normal and perfect” she wrote.

  The eyes, they struck me the most; so dead and unfinished.

  One eye was open and showing no signs of life. The other did

  not exist. In the hole that should be an eye socket that housed a

  beacon of vision was a small series of cogs.

  I felt the world starting to spin underneath me.

  It was almost as if she never intended on finishing me.

  I took a deep breath to steady myself and flipped through the

  pages until I reached the last drawing she had made in this

  macabre how-to book.

  Gasping, I let the book fall from my hands. I didn’t care if she

  would be able to hear it or if it made a sound.

  The last page was the most haunting. It detailed all the

  materials that went into three two five seven. It named the most

  grotesque things imaginable and the most common things only a

  genius like Mother would think to put together.

  The smile. Oh God, the smile I had seen in my “youth” so

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  many times when I looked into the mirrors. When I didn’t mind

  looking into the mirrors. When they didn’t taunt me the way they

&nbs
p; do now.

  Smiling back at me on the last page was what Mother had

  deemed “My Masterpiece.”

  I wanted to kick the book away from me. I didn’t want to face

  the truth of what I was seeing. I didn’t want to, but it was so

  taunting.

  I picked up the book again and stared at how she had colored

  in the teeth on the yellowed paper so brightly and white. She had

  once told me she had picked the son of a dentist when she was

  thinking of the perfect smile she wanted to give the perfect boy.

  She told me how she had sedated him and began the painstaking

  task of carefully removing each tooth so that they wouldn’t break

  or be marred in anyway. She told me how she had to fish through

  the blood that came pouring out of the torn gums to get the teeth

  by the root. She told me how the medication she had given him

  had worn off and how every time he yelled out in pain, she would

  laugh just a little bit harder. She told me that he had no chance of escape because of how tightly she had fastened him down to the

  dentist’s chair making sure that he could not so much as move his

  fingers. She told me of how she was determined to give the

  perfect smile to the perfect little boy she had so desperately had 21

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  failed to create so many times before.

  Those were the kinds of stories Mother would lull me to sleep

  with.

  Not ones of heroes slaying dragons for a beautiful princess.

  Not ones of where the world was in Utopia.

  No.

  Mother’s bedtime stories would be of how she destroyed

  things, unknowing, beautiful, and innocent things, to create me.

  Shoving away from my mind the nightmares I suffered as a

  child because of her stories, I forced myself to look at the finished diagram again.

  I felt the air leave my body because I knew what I held.

  I knew who he was. I didn’t want to believe her stories, but

  now I couldn’t deny them. Not with the proof in my hands. I

  locked eyes with the diagram and I couldn’t fight the horrible

  truth anymore.

  Smiling back at me was three two five seven.

  Three two five seven was me.

  As I wished at this moment that I had been given the ability to

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  produce tears for the betrayal I had let myself feel of trying not to add much merit to Mother’s stories, I could hear her laughter

  echo down the hall and the sound of her drills whirring soundly

  into the night.

  I decided not to leave at that moment. The horror of what I

  had finally found to be true kept me stuck in my place. I couldn’t bring myself to sit or lay down. I couldn’t even bring myself to

  look at the book anymore. I just held it and wondered if I had

  brought this upon myself. Maybe this is what happened to bad

  boys that tried to leave her. They would find their way into their own closets, drawers, or trunks hiding the truth of what they were.

  Maybe it drove them mad. It was enough to make anyone mad. I

  had spent the night standing in my same spot wondering if mother

  would care if I found some way to dismantle myself, but I knew

  that would be a cowardly thing to do. I couldn’t, for the sake of

  any that would come after me, leave without being able to help

  me. Spare the rest, don’t make any more Mother, I thought

  silently to myself.

  Forcing myself to move, I tossed the book onto the bed. No

  matter if I left now or years from now, that’s not something I

  would dare leave behind. If this was the only way she would

  know how to put something like me together, then I would make

  sure she would never be able to do it again.

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  I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. Such a slew of defiant

  thoughts I had been thinking lately. Maybe I could find it in

  myself to do it then. Maybe I could find the will power to leave

  her.

  My only chance for survival depended on it.

  I’ll do it today. I won’t stay here any longer, if she even sees

  me in anything other than the tattered pants she gave me to wear,

  she’ll torture me again.

  I let the medley of tortures Mother had used against me play

  through my mind like a deadly sonata. How I had survived them

  all was a miracle. The most brutal was the time she tied me down

  in a murderous rage when I was sleeping, and used an unstitching

  tool on my body. I woke up screaming in pain to which she just

  pulled harder and more crudely. I hadn’t done anything to deserve

  that that night and to be honest I had never done anything to

  deserve any of the vile and cruel things she did to me.

  While I had laid there in pure agony as she unstitched and

  then stitched me back up again, I wondered what horror she had

  faced that made her what she was. What horrible things had been

  done to my mother? Who had done these things? How did she

  survive them still somewhat intact?

  Yes, while she took great pleasure in hiding in her rooms and

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  building things, she would have days where she would be almost

  normal; days where she would enter my room and sit with me and

  just talk. Those days were very rare, but those days where the

  ones that I held onto when I convinced myself that she was still

  worth loving and respecting.

  Sometimes she would even tell me how proud she was of me.

  She would tell me that even though she created me that she was

  proud of what I had become and was becoming.

  I could feel my insides flutter with a soft sadness as I thought

  of those days. Not only were they very rare, they were long gone.

  Stop thinking of things like that or you’ll never leave her, I

  thought to myself. Finally stirring from where I stood all night I made my way to my bed ignoring the stings of pain from the

  makeshift carpet and sat down next to the book. I put my head in

  my hands and sighed deeply. I had to do it now because if I didn’t, I never would.

  I stood and turned toward the window that she had used to

  shelter me from the world. Sliding my fingers into the cracks I

  took a deep breath and pulled on the first plank as hard as I could.

  I had to catch my balance as I almost fell back. It snapped easily in my hands. I stared at it in disbelief wondering how she had

  used nails to hold it in place I was able to pull freely so easily.

  Letting the shattered pieces of wood fall from my hands, I

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  reached up for the next plank and gave it a soft tug and it too

  pulled freely quite easily.

  It seemed that without meaning too, she had given me some

  kind me so extra strength. If I had dared to try to escape sooner, I would have known this. She never would’ve kept me tied down

  that night had I tried to fight her. She never would have tortured me; ever.

  As I ripped each piece of wood free and the sunlight began to

  pour in through and illuminate the room, I couldn’t help but

  wonder how easy it would be to find her and squeeze the life out

  of her.

  When the last plank was free, I stood there breathing in the

  fresh air
and staring into the crisp, blue sky pondering this idea. I dismissed it after a moment though. No matter how hurtful she

  had been to me if I killed her, I’d be no better than her.

  Grabbing the book from the bed, I hoisted myself up onto the

  windowsill and for just a moment, the thought of killing London

  crossed my mind again.

  London?

  Had I dared to think of her as anything other than Mother?

  While the thought somewhat frightened me, it also gave me an

  exhilarated sense of freedom. If mentally, I could start

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  disassociating her as my mother, then I would never care about

  what would happen to her or think about her ever again.

  Yes. Her name is London, I forcefully told myself, and

  London is not my mother. London is not my keeper. London has

  no control over me.

  I tucked the book into the waistband of my new pants and

  looked down. It looked like I was at least four windows up.

  Maybe she never told me stories of castles because she lived in a

  home almost as big? No; she wasn’t that thoughtful. She never

  told me those stories because she knew I would then find a way to

  escape this prison I had been kept in since my “birth”. That was

  one thing I knew she couldn’t risk.

  Looking down again, I took a deep breath and leapt to the

  ground below.

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  Two

  I had never run before but I had seen it done on those nights

  when London would come into my room and watch movies with

  me. Before I was completed into a full torso, she would take my

  upper half, place it in a wheelchair, and cart me down to the main hall. She would then lift me and set me on the couch and turn on

  the television. I recognized the motion I was doing because of

  that sole reason.

  I had just robbed myself of so much. Surrounding London’s

  home was a lush forest of trees and animals I think, that I had

  never gotten the pleasure of seeing. Some of the animals ran with

  me, others ahead of me. Almost as if they were trying to help me

  escape or shield me from her if she were to see me.

  There were a great deal of different lives around me in those

  trees and I had never known them, nor did I give myself the

  opportunity to do so as I ran.

  As quickly as my legs would take me, I pounded the ground

  underneath me and ran until I could feel myself begin to tire. It

  wasn’t tiring really, it was my insides; I felt them starting to