by Alice Ayden
Cora’s stomach churned. “How long as this been happening?” She asked aloud, but she was really just asking herself. She closed her eyes. She knew what she had to do. “I have to remember, don’t I?”
Mrs. Kiness nodded hesitantly. “We all think it would be best for you.”
Cora took a deep breath. She didn’t know if she was more afraid of what she would remember or what she would forget, but she couldn’t live like she had been living. Not really living, but existing. Functioning. She couldn’t even describe it as surviving. Funny how life can seem so routine until the realization hits of just how much of a prison we have forced ourselves into. Cora tried to snatch another cookie, but was thwarted.
Mrs. Kiness guarded the cookie plate and focused her attention on the TV. Her eyes filled with tears about to spill. “The press conference is starting. That poor girl’s family.”
Cora curled her lip at the apple Mrs. Kiness placed in front of her before glancing at the TV. A blonde woman in her thirties wearing a dark blue vest and long black coat stood in front of reporters with outstretched microphones. She held up a sketch.
“I’m Detective Weever…”
“Oh, she’s Detective Maines’ partner,” Mrs. Kiness beamed.
“Oh, Samuel is a good lad,” Father Brude said as he slyly stole another cookie from the plate. “I miss seeing him at Ausmor.”
“We need your help in identifying this young woman.” Weever held up a picture. “She would have been between eighteen and twenty two with brown hair and brown eyes. On the inside of her left wrist is a tattoo of a green four leaf clover and a purple heart split in two. On her back, she has a tattoo of a totem pole with an eagle’s head. If you have any information, please contact …”
Cora studied the picture. “I know her. I’ve seen her before.”
Chapter 23: The Journal
Natalie exaggerated every loop and comma in the journal as the serrated edge carved through Anne’s skin with the whoosh and gush of slicing into a ripe mango. As long as Natalie focused on the journal, she wouldn’t see the more intimate details. Hearing them nauseated Natalie. Johnston leaned against the wall eating an apple. His part done, he enjoyed the finale.
It’s been hours. Not much longer now. She’s barely conscious.
Natalie hesitated. She didn’t write Anne’s mantra: ‘You won’t get away with it.’ It didn’t faze Oliver. He never stopped once he started; his eerie calm confused. They expected their nightmares: a crazed, foaming at the mouth psycho. He perfected silence, precision, control.
A hushed whimper betrayed his progress. He snapped his fingers to get Natalie’s attention. He never spoke during his ‘sessions.’
Johnston sauntered to Natalie and sat down in the dirt beside her. She didn’t make eye contact. He pushed her hair away so he could peer at the journal. She tightened her jaw and stared at Anne.
Anne’s gaze descended into an abyss. Was it pain? Fear? Relief? Then, her expression morphed into a smirk of defiance. Anne opened her mouth and whispered: “They know.” The knife pierced her again. She lurched up. Her entire body rigid, Anne gasped and fell to the ground.
Natalie inched back as far as she could as Anne’s blood seeped into the dirt.
Johnston clapped. “Bravo.” He rested his chin on Natalie’s shoulder.
The vinegar aroma permeated the space, and Natalie wanted to ask why he reeked of it.
He leaned in close to whisper, “Makes my skin soft. Remember?”
Natalie’s head pounded. She wrote. Johnston caressed her hair. She wrote. His fingers fumbled along the back of her neck. She wrote. Johnston grabbed Natalie’s hair, wrapped it around his fingers and tugged hard. Natalie had to force her chin down so she wouldn’t whiplash. Johnston pulled harder. The sharp pain intensified, but Natalie wrote. If he pulled out every piece of hair, she wouldn’t acknowledge. She wouldn’t cry out; she’d write.
Johnston untangled his fingers and showed her a jagged swatch he’d pulled out by the roots. “Mind if I keep this? I’ll be back. Maybe when he’s not here.” He slowly got up and left Natalie’s side.
The back of her head throbbed. A few tears fell on the journal from the pain, but she didn’t stop writing. She wouldn’t hear them spread the plastic tarp and roll Anne’s body inside. She wouldn’t hear Johnston’s hyena laughter. Anne’s defiant eyes wouldn’t haunt her, and her last gasp wouldn’t reverberate through her.
Natalie scribbled - grateful her job kept her occupied. He demanded the details of the serrated knife, the desperate promises, and distorted torment. He never wanted Johnston mentioned in the journal. She complied. She didn’t know how much to write of Anne’s last words. What did she mean? The muscles in her hand shook, but Natalie continued writing. She remembered that horrid private school her mom had sent her. She closed her eyes and saw the oversized second floor classroom. She sat about three seats back on the left with the flippy top desk. One of the rusty hinges had worked itself loose, and Natalie had to be careful the top didn’t fall off when she opened it.
“Clear your desks. Take out several sheets of paper,” Evil Teacher said. Her demon eyes dared any of the frightened 3rd graders to challenge her.
The students hesitated. Their pleading eyes wondered what treasonous crime had been committed. Evil Teacher opened a random book and read aloud dictating as fast as her shrill voice formed words.
The poor students grabbed their pens and furiously wrote what Evil Teacher read, and her voice sped up as she read faster and faster. Natalie couldn’t remember what they’d done to deserve the teacher’s favorite degradation. They wrote through tears and clenched hands. The other students gasped and cried, but the pain didn’t break Natalie.
Natalie clasped her left hand over her right one to stop shaking. She wrote. No matter what. When Evil Teacher slammed the book shut, students handed in all papers. Anyone missing more than a few words from what Evil Teacher spouted would...Natalie couldn’t remember about the extra punishment but made sure she never received that.
“She’d never get by with that today,” Natalie whispered. She had no idea that Evil Teacher’s little punishments would prepare her later in life. “Maybe I’ll look Evil Teacher up and thank her. How would I word it? ‘Dear Evil Teacher, your sick ass punishments helped me survive when I was trapped in a cellar by a psychotic dickhead and his creepy assistant. I figured if I could survive some lower life form like you, I could survive anything. Thanks for being such a crazy ass bitch. Hope to see you at the reunion. Thanks again. Get therapy. Lots.”
Natalie looked up from the journal. Alone again. She noticed a folded piece of paper beside her. She opened it.
This one was different. Natalie peered at the handwriting, written around blood. She had to be taken. Vile creature. It was clever of me, don’t you think? It didn’t take too many hours to break her.
Natalie. She had a hard time writing her own name. My constant companion. My guide. My willing participant. Natalie’s heart raced, and tears distorted the writing. She didn’t wipe the paper off. In reading over the writing, Oliver liked the words smeared with tears. ‘It was more authentic,’ he’d tell her.
Natalie took a deep breath. She had to continue. If she didn’t finish the journal by the time he got back...
It should have been you, Cora, but you weren’t ready. Natalie has proven an adequate accessory. She didn’t fidget or question my motives. Natalie never questions me at all. She complies with my every request.
The words stabbed. Natalie lifted the journal over her head. She wanted to throw it or hurl it out of sight. Why wasn’t there a fireplace? In the movies, a convenient rolling fire always helped to get rid of something quickly. Natalie stopped herself. If she threw the journal farther than the chain could reach, maybe it would amuse him. So many things amused him, but Natalie couldn’t take the chance.
Natalie continued her task. With you, Cora, I found myself. My true self. Most would have denied. I embraced it. If it hadn’t be
en for you, I would have been anonymous. You are the blood that flows through me, the thoughts that inspire me, the breath that fills my lungs. You are my power. My reason. My everything. I hope you know how special you are. I took all of them because of you. The human body is so fragile, but I didn’t dare risk you. The others sufficed as proxies.
Natalie jumped up and paced faster and faster. She waded through the pool of Anne’s blood oblivious it stained her bare feet. She wondered about Cora’s amnesia. He’d told Natalie about it. He did anything to Cora, and the horror would make her forget. “So you can’t deal? What about your scars? Bruises? Old broken bones? Are you that stupid, Cora? He’s right there. Why can’t you see what’s right in front of you?”
Natalie tripped and fell. Her feet were bloodied as if she’d skipped through a field of broken glass. “What have you done to me?” Natalie slowly retreated back. “This isn’t me.” She stretched out her dirty sleeve. She spit into her hand, but the ring of blood wouldn’t budge. She sat for awhile with her back to the wall and stared into the cellar. “You always have a choice, Cora.” Natalie yanked at her wrist handcuffed to the stove. “You’d rather drown in denial then live in reality.”
She rattled the chain more until her wrist ached. “I hate you! Can you hear me?” The scream echoed through the cellar and escaped through the tiny cracks around the door. Natalie stared into the darkness. She didn’t care if anyone heard her. “I’m tired of feeling guilty about poor, pathetic Cora. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make sure you suffer. You hear that? I hate you, Cora!”
Chapter 24: Day One
Cora sat straight up in bed. Her pulse raced as if she’d been downhill skiing. She tried to listen in between the blood rush in her ears. “Sounded like someone screamed ‘I hate you, Cora.’” She looked at the clock: 8:00 am. She relaxed. “Probably Bitty’s daily shriek. She’ll be the death of me.”
Cora took a deep breath. “Day one of remembering.” Cora jumped out of bed, threw open the armoire and found a Regency style dress – Turkey red with a tiny white lace trim around the bodice. “Definitely not in the mood for that.” Instead, she threw on jeans and a red turtleneck. Cora pulled her hair neatly back and added a delicate hint of makeup without her normal smoky eye.
Darcie chewed on a toy. Only one ear, attached by a small thread, remained of whatever animal it used to be.
Cora flipped open her laptop, checked the website, answered a few email, and loaded a flash drive with the new pictures Lillia wanted uploaded. She opened Mrs. Kiness’ Question of the Day page and added a new one: “Why do bras have bows?”
She opened up the contest page. New naming contest for the latest snake found. Sorry, I cannot upload a photo. As of yet, snake hasn’t been properly introduced. He does play with some of the young foxes on the property, so he is sociable.
Cora surveyed the handiwork and closed her laptop.
The cat eyed Cora up and down and sighed; she tugged on her victim’s tail until it ripped off.
She left Darcie to her fun and pounced down the stairs.
Cora opened the side door and steadied herself as a nauseating burned onion and month old carcass stench assaulted. “I can do this. I can remember.” A sharp twinge jabbed through her head as if she’d stood up too quickly. She wobbled a bit. “I can do this. My family supports me. I can do this.”
By the daffodils, six tourists with orange striped shirts and whistles watched her. For the uninitiated, a Cora sighting required a calm focus and a contingency plan.
“It is beautiful spring April, yes?” one of the bolder tourists approached.
With only three orange stripes across his chest, Cora figured he must be the leader. Fewer orange stripes had to be a good sign. “Yes, a good day if your brain isn’t leaking, you’ve found the missing memories, know why someone is stalking you, and aren’t in the loo yakking up things you ate as a child. This is remembering day one because I’m afraid of what shit face Johnston does to me, and I have to remember where I know the missing girl from.”
The orange striped group stepped back in unison. A few grabbed their whistles ready to request an immediate evac from hostile territory.
“Sorry.” Cora mentally flipped through various excuses. She hoped there wasn’t a place on some official Ausmor paper that someone could mark off ‘because that Cora girl freaked me out’ as a valid reason to get a refund. “We’re practicing living history. I’m one of the family who supposedly went mad.”
“Ah,” the one with the most orange stripes said and began clapping. “Very clever. Yes, like alive movie. Sehr gut.”
“Deutsche?” Cora asked.
Their ‘not quite sure about her’ grins merged into more trusting smiles as they inched closer. “Sprechen Sie Deutsche?”
“Bitte.” Cora hoped her German held. “Das Wetter ist gut, aber die or der or das. I can’t remember the wind gender, and why does wind even have a gender? The vint ist esta bueno um caw alted.” Officially exhausting her entire foreign vocabulary, Cora hastily blew past them. She made a mental note. Notify State Department that I am immediately available for translation work.
Across the circular driveway, Tour Guide Taylor lectured about a dozen people as they studied their garden maps which highlighted every leaf, toad, snakeskin, and flower. The snow white roses guarding the entrance to the front gardens posed as some tourists snapped pictures.
Cora flashed a quick smile to him.
He smiled back and shout-whispered to his tourists, “That is one of the Austens who reside at the house full time. The Austens - as you will learn from the tour - descend from one of the oldest and most respected Virginia families.”
‘Oohs’ and ‘awes’ followed Cora. Then, something changed. The sense of dread crept over her like mold. The birds didn’t sing. Birds sensed what humans couldn’t or wouldn’t. Cora respected their abilities and their vantage point. Was her watcher close? Cora peered around half wanting to see something and secretly hoping she wouldn’t. In the oak tree closest to the front steps, Miss Bates patiently prepared an ambush for the young squirrel with a prized peanut. The blue jay cherished thievery as her preferred method of food accumulation.
Cora relaxed a little. “I can do this. Remembering day one. Miss Bates, grab a peanut from the feeder like everyone else. You’re scaring all the other birds.”
Cora stayed ahead of or just behind the tours and stayed out of the way of the staff busily preparing the gardens for the 120th. New arbors dotted the back gardens, sky blue ribbons fancied all the windows, and white lawn chairs waited to be unleashed.
“I love this place.” She looked up at the balcony above her where Darcie watched and traced her favorite bricks along the house. She studied the tiny gouge out of the left pillar leading to the side door where twelve year old Evan dented it carrying so many books he couldn’t see where he walked. “I don’t want to forget this.” Cora wondered about the good memories also held hostage by the bad.
Aunt Bitty stood in Cora’s path and shielded her eyes from the sun as it crept through the dogwoods. She angrily swatted at a few stray hairs which escaped a messy ponytail which looked like it was about a month old.
That I’d like to forget. “Hello, Bitty.” Cora tried to sidestep her aunt.
Bitty stood her ground. “The hell are you doing?”
Cora wanted to say something, but, whenever she faced her aunt, she had a hard time believing her graceful grandmother, Grand Maeve, actually gave her birth.
A tour guide with a dozen tourists stopped in front of Cora and Bitty. She looked at Bitty’s dark blue checkerboard patterned dress, white bonnet, and apron. “Oh, are you one of the kitchen maids?”
Bitty glared at each person equally. “No.”
The tour guide waited for Bitty to say something that would alleviate the tension, but Bitty bathed in tension. “I’m from the historical. I’m Sienna.”
“Sienna? The hell kind of a name is that?” Bitty asked.
A
n actual kitchen maid spilled out of Bitty’s outdoor kitchen. Her poor bun capsized and thousands of hairs plotted their escape from all angles. Few could keep track of Bitty’s rotating staff, but she had the same wide-eyed, bee caught in a web expression most of them had.
“Well?” Bitty tapped her foot. “Did you find the list?”
The girl nervously felt all over her uniform and dug into every pocket before bringing out a paper and pencil. She dropped each then both then each again. “Yes.”
“Do you leave a window open when you cook?” Cora wondered if the fumes could induce zombies.
Bitty sneered at Cora. “I need strawberries and sour cream and whipped cream and six and one half jalapeños for the strawberry jalapeño dip.”
“Ick.” Cora told herself not to scrunch up her sweater. Once Bitty described something she made out of sugar and chicken fat, and Cora clutched her scarf so tightly she had to discard her beautiful purple scarf; Cora mourned for it still.
“Sixteen bananas, three clumps of parsley, one chickpea, fourteen honey melons, one quarter of a half of a head of lettuce. Thirty black olives, two green olives, a third of the best part of a clove of garlic, and half of an older potato.” Bitty waited. “Well?”
The assistant madly scribbled then stopped. “Got it.”
“Then go. And don’t stop to dawdle. Remember to grab your bonnet from your car this time. And if I smell cigarette smoke, you’ll wish I caught you pouring arsenic in the tea. No trying to find Evan. Like you could ever have a shot with him. And put on some more perfume. You’re starting to stink.”
Cora shifted positions. “Nice.”
“Choke on a sliced turnip dipped in piss.”
Cora laughed. “That one I hope I remember.”
