by Amy Cross
"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 grow. 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. "What the hell is this?"
I stare at him. I already know what's coming.
"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 all my 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 say, 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 int he 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, heading over to the cooker.
I reach down and grab my slipper, carefully put it back onto my foot. Right now, I want nothing more than to hurt him. 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, and any error could be very costly. 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 doing things by the book, 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 retirement home 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?"
"I don't know anything about him," she says, "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 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, pre-meditated 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, killing everyone who doesn't match up to your moral standards? Put it another way, Juliet. What if closing this place down might actually b
e 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 him?" 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 been 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.
"This is only the paperwork for the past year," he continues. "God knows how long he's been doing this".
Two.
"How long's he been in charge around here"?
One.
At the last moment, Mr. Cymbalista suddenly tilts his head back and looks straight at me. I pause for a fraction of a second, and then I ram the scissors straight into his face. The blades crunch through his skull, and I see a single trickle of blood run from the wound as he stares straight at me. Realizing he's not dead yet, I slowly twist the scissors around, causing the metal to scrape against his broken bone. He still seems to be alive, though, so I start jiggling the scissors about, hoping to destroy enough of his brain. After a moment, he opens his mouth and a huge dollop of dark red blood flows out. Determined to finish him off, I force the handles of the scissors apart and then twist them again. As I stare into his eyes, I see his pupils get bigger and bigger, and finally I realize he's stopped moving. I wait a few minutes, and then I let go of the scissors and check his pulse.
He's dead.
Over in the doorway, Jennifer start clapping me slowly.
"It's done," I say, stepping back. It's weird, but I expected him to cry out, or to try to say something, or at least to scream. Instead, he just stared and stared until he was dead. I've never seen it happen like that in a film.
"How do you feel?" Jennifer asks.
"I don't know," I say, unable to stop looking at Mr. Cymbalista's dead eyes. Slowly, a creeping sense of panic starts to rise through my body. "We have to get him hidden," I say, finally looking over at Jennifer. "Right now. We have to move him".
"What's the hurry?" she asks, smiling. "We've got all night".
"We've got to do it now," I reply, trying not to let her see that I'm terrified. We have to get the body to the abandoned ward so that I can get rid of these emotions. "Now!" I shout.
"Okay," Jennifer says. "I'm not really a fan of dragging dead bodies along corridors, so I'll meet you there. Do we have a deal?"
"Sure," I say, grabbing Mr. Cymbalista's arms and hauling him onto the floor, before pulling him over to the doorway. "Can't you help?" I ask, turning to Jennifer but finding that she's not there. I glance around the room and realize she's already gone. I guess she's returned to the abandoned ward so that she can get ready for this second body. With no time to waste, I continue pulling Mr. Cymbalista's corpse across the carpet, heading for the door to the abandoned ward.
Chapter Six
Eleven years ago
"So," says Dr. Larson, taking a deep breath as he keeps his gaze fixed on me. "I hear you've developed a tendency to bite people".
I nod, though I don't say anything. It's important to not seem overly eager. After all, he has to believe that this is a genuine problem, rather than something I've made up purely for his benefit. The way I see it, I need to distract Dr. Larson and my father, and to make them think they're making progress with me. That's why, over the past week, I've bitten three separate people at school: first, I clamped my jaws on my teacher's arm while she was showing me how to solve a math problem; later, I bit a girl's ankle while we in the playground; and finally, I bit my father's hand during dinner. I don't particularly like biting people, and I've been very careful to only choose people who look clean, but I figure Dr. Larson will be fascinated by the biting and will focus on this, rather than exploring my other problems. So far, my plan seems to be working.
"Why do you bite people, Juliet?" he asks.
I shrug.
"Are you seeking to hurt them?"
I consider the question for a moment, and finally I shake my head. It's better to keep things very vague, so that he remains curious.
"Is it a sign of affection?"
I shake my head again. How can he think I'd doing this as a sign of affection? I'm starting to wonder whether Dr. Larson is a proper doctor at all.
"Is it a means of gaining attention?"
I shake my head. I figure the best thing to do is to just deny every suggestion he makes; this way, I can drag the questioning out for as long as possible.
"Is it an attempt to distract me from your real problems?"
I stare at him. Is it possible that he could have
guessed my motives already. I shake my head yet again.
"I'll tell you what I think, Juliet," he continues. "I think you want to play a little game with me. I think you're a very smart young lady, and you think you can trick me into wasting my time on this matter". He smiles. "Well, here's the thing. I don't care about your biting. You can bite all the people you want. For all I care, you can eat an entire classmate. It's not going to distract me from the fundamental question of your deeper-rooted issues". He pauses for a moment. "So, why don't you tell me about your social phobias?"
I take a deep breath. Social phobias? I have no idea what he's talking about.
"I've spoken to your father," he continues, "and he informs me that you have no friends. I find it hard to believe that a clever, pretty young lady such as yourself should have trouble making friends at school. In fact, I should think that you have to go out of your way in order to avoid making some kind of connection. Is that right? Do you intentionally seek out ways to repel people?"
Feeling as if this conversation is getting out of hand, I get out of my chair, walk over to Dr. Larson, grab his hand and bite down hard on his flesh. My initial instinct is to stop immediately, since he tastes like garlic mixed with tobacco, but I figure I have to keep going in order to make my point. Realizing he hasn't pulled away, I bite down harder, waiting for him to show some sign of pain; when he fails to respond, I tilt my head up and look into his eyes, and I see that he's staring at me with an impassive look in his eyes. Determined to get a reaction, I bite down as hard as I can, sinking my teeth deeper and deeper into his skin until finally I feel a hot, wet bead of blood against my tongue. Shocked, I step back and spit the blood out. I hate blood.
"And what did that achieve?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Would you like a drink to rinse your mouth out?"
I stare at him. What's wrong with this man? When I bit the other people, they all acted as if I'd done something awful; Dr. Larson, on the other hand, seems to find the whole thing amusing.
