I follow the sound of his voice with the elbow of my good arm, and ram it back into what I hope is the centre of his face. He grunts in pain and his grip on my nose loosens. I twist my body around, wriggling like a serpent with my broken arm crushed against him. I realise that I’m screaming only when I turn and see him wincing and afraid, his nose a calamity of freshly-shed blood.
Despite his obvious fear he manages to grab my hair once again, but instead of allowing him to get a good hold I lunge forwards and sink my teeth into his cheek. He wails as I tear out a chunk of fatty flesh, and in the midst of the horror I marvel at the strength of my own incisors. My attacker pulls my hair but as he tries to drag my head back I lunge again, this time chewing into his neck like a famished vampire. Blood bubbles into my mouth and I taste copper and soapy skin.
He takes hold of my skull in both hands, his eyes tearful and his face and neck crimson. I go to bite him again but he yanks my head sideways. I have enough time to realise that this impact will be unlike anything I have ever felt before, and then I hear the crunch.
My head feels as though it has shattered like an Easter egg.
My vision greys at the edges, but from my leaning position against the wall and above him, I can see his side profile. The back of his skull rests against the edge of one blood-soaked step. He has stopped struggling and although his eyes stare upwards they appear glazed. The hands he holds to his throat do nothing to reduce the blood streaming from his wounds and running from his silent mouth.
Something is wrong inside my head; it’s in the slamming of my temples and the skew of my broken-glass vision. I imagine brains peeking out of a split skull. Something irreversible has taken place, and if I don’t pull myself up and away from this dying man, I could very well perish alongside him.
Unsteady, I use the handrail to haul myself up.
The man continues to clutch his ragged throat, staring at me as the life abandons him. I only wish that I could make him suffer more, and for the briefest moment I consider thrusting my thumbs into his eye sockets, or stomping his head back against the edge of the steps; even castrating him with my teeth.
I teeter against the bannister, considering my next move, but then see the ring of keys in one of his outstretched hands. He coughs on a viscous mouthful of blood, and with an almost endless wheeze both the air and the life seem to leave him. I crouch and pluck the keys from his fingers, suddenly torn between leaving this charnel house immediately or following a gut instinct.
I feel as though I’m sleepwalking as I descend the remaining stairs. A corridor awaits me at the bottom, identical to the one that had led to the girl’s secret room. Have I become so disoriented that this is the same corridor, and this is simply the entrance to the girl’s room? I totter forwards, knowing that I could fall at any moment.
I reach out and push the key into the lock, and for some reason all I can picture is a cock entering an awaiting hole, a cock that thrusts and savages without consent or concern.
If I open the door and find the girl spooning her dead father I’ll tell her, “Sssshhh, it’s okay, everything will be fine. All you have to do now that your daddy is dead is let a few more men rape you, with their swabs and speculums and fingers. Sssshhh, good girl…”
The soundproofed door swings wide, revealing another room with the same shape and layout as the girl’s. This one, however, seems to contain no pornography, and the ceiling appears insulated and painted a warm beige. The walls bear photographs of a smiling family, a picture of a red balloon floating above fields into the cloudless heavens, and an impressionist painting characterised by sun-scattered waters.
As I take in the sight my head seems to splinter, and with this new agony my legs almost give way. I remember my babies, still alone in the bath where I had left them a lifetime ago. I stagger through the doorway and collapse. I land sprawled before a pair of peach-coloured feet, their pristine nails painted a metallic purple.
“Who are you?” a woman’s voice asks. “Where is Jeffrey?”
As the nothingness swallows me, I wonder, has this room always been here, waiting on the other side of the girl’s wall?
27. Girl
I have a window by my bed – that’s what you call a bit of screen in the middle of a wall. It’s My Window and it’s in My New Room.
Being in My New Room is different to when I was in My Room, where I could only see things when I had the light switched on. My New Room is really white, and My Window here is sometimes bright, and sometimes dark. Debbie, the Good Girl who talks to me, told me that when it is dark I should sleep, and when it is bright I should read or watch TV. It’s a bit like when My Daddy used to turn my light on and turn my light off, except that when it is dark here in My New Room I can see more than 15 little white lights through My Window, instead of just the red flashing light of Daddy’s Eye.
When I had first woken up in My New Room, everything echoed and felt really soft and I wanted to see Serenity. I couldn’t move or see anything properly and they had closed up the hole above my nice smooth cunt. My cunt isn’t smooth right now because they won’t give me a razor.
Some Daddies came and talked to me, but I screamed, “No no no”, and that’s when Debbie came. Debbie has short blonde hair, nice white clothes, and I think that she probably has big tits. Debbie asked me some questions, and wrote things down, and shook and nodded her head. I haven’t seen any Daddies since.
At first, I could see some other Girls just outside of My New Room. I don’t think that the other Girls liked me, especially when I was screaming or scratching the Bad away. Now I’m all by myself and it feels better, even though they keep telling me to put on these long white body-clothes, and I keep taking them off.
I’ve tried walking around a bit by myself, but there are always two Girls in black-and-silver clothes standing at my door. They don’t let me go anywhere unless there’s someone else with me, even to do a piss.
The books and the films they show me on the TV at the end of my bed don’t show any hard cocks, tight assholes or nice smooth cunts. They usually show Daddies being nice to Girls, and if the Daddies aren’t nice they usually go to sleep and don’t wake up, or they start being nice to the Girls before the end of the film. If there’s any fucking, all you see is the Daddy and the Girl kissing in bed, and then it changes to the next scene.
Debbie gave me a book to read about a little Daddy called Harry, who nobody fucks. Harry goes to a big place where there are people who can lift things up without touching them, but there were lots of things in the book that I didn’t understand. When I told Debbie that I didn’t understand it, she said, “Here, watch this,” and showed me a film with the same name as the book. I think that I understand more of what the book is talking about, now.
The last time that it got dark, Debbie told me that she would have a surprise for me when I woke up. Daddy’s surprises were usually a new buzzing toy or a new way to fuck or a new Daddy to meet, but I don’t think that Debbie’s surprise is going to be like that. I keep scratching the Bad away, and I keep thinking about getting fucked and being burned and hurting, but I feel sort of safe here, at least when Debbie is around. “Mother safe”, not “Daddy safe”.
When I wake up today, Debbie is sat in a chair next to my bed. She smiles and says, “How are you today, Elizabeth?”
That’s what Debbie calls me.
“I’m Good,” I say, but my head feels heavy.
“You have a visitor,” Debbie says. “I need you to stay calm, if you can. Any screaming, any fighting, any trying to run, and she’ll have to leave immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Debbie goes to the door and lets someone else into My New Room. It isn’t Serenity.
This new Girl walks two steps inside. She stands there and looks at me. She is a big Girl, and she isn’t pretty, but she has nice green top-clothes and long black leg-clothes. Her eyes go watery, like a Girl in one of Daddy’s films. She puts her hands up to her face and
I think that she’s going to scream but she doesn’t. She just breathes out really loudly and puts her hands against her sides again. She says, “My baby. What did they do to you?”
I just look at her, because she reminds me of My Room back in Daddy’s big place. She doesn’t look like any of my Daddies, though, and she is too big to have been in any of the films. And she doesn’t look like she wants to fuck me, either – she looks like a really, really Good Girl.
The new Girl takes three more steps. “Elizabeth,” she says. “Can you speak?”
“Yes,” I say, and my arms start to shake, because now I know who she is.
Looking at her makes me think of the hug that Serenity had given me, and of My Daddy saying, “Don’t be silly, don’t be silly, don’t be silly.”
I wasn’t being silly at all, though. My Daddy was the silly one. It’s Good that I hit him with the TV and made all the red stuff come out, and I hope that he never, ever wakes up.
The new Girl reaches my bed. She looks like she feels really, REALLY shaky and different. “I said Good morning and Good night to you every day, after that bastard put me in a different room,” she says. “I spoke to you all the time, Elizabeth. I spoke to you through the wall, because I knew I’d see you again.”
Her eyes stay watery, and when she holds out her arms I sit up in bed. She wraps me up. I close my eyes.
My Mother kisses my face, and her arms feel like the warmest place I’ve ever been.
28. Serenity
My head seems to hurt all the time, now. My family is worried about me, but I just need time to adjust.
I’ve cut contact with dad but I still talk with mum, from time to time. Now that the funerals are over and people have stopped pestering me and asking how things are, I can focus on improving my situation. It’s hard to concentrate with all these headaches, though.
Lilith is struggling, but I think she’s young enough to cope. I’ve been making sure to give her extra attention, and prepare her favourite foods as often as I can. I’m sure she’ll thank me in the end.
Today, Lilith sits in her high chair with her feet swinging backwards and forwards.
“Yum. Did you enjoy your porridge and syrup?” I ask.
She stares back. She hasn’t been talking much, lately.
“I said,” I tell her, putting on my best monster voice. “Did you like your yumptious, scrumptious, grizzly bear’s breakfast? Nom nom nom…”
Lilith looks as though she is going to laugh, but then her face straightens and she just sits there, blinking, her legs swinging back and forth.
“They’re gone,” I remind her, back in my normal voice. “It’s just us, now.”
I refuse to be sad. My parents had looked after the twins while I was in hospital, but mum isn’t capable of protecting them like I will and I don’t want dad going near them..
“When I come back, we’ll play Hide and Seek,” I say. “Okay, honeybunch?”
At the stove, I scoop out the remaining porridge from the saucepan. I consider adding some syrup to the bowl, but I think better of it. Only good girls deserve treats like that.
As I leave the kitchen, I have another one of those funny thoughts that I’ve been having lately. I’m not going to act on them, of course, but it does seem like certain tools and meds would be easy enough to find. The tricky part would be avoiding infection.
“Stop,” I mutter.
At some point I’ll arrange a larger room for my little survivor, but this will have to do for now.
The lamp’s wire trails out from a crack in the sealed closet door. I lay the bowl on the floor and put the key into the padlock. When it’s open I pick up the porridge and tug the door. Light spills inside.
“Here,” I say, adopting a stern voice; cruel to be kind.
My head pounds.
I place the ceramic bowl onto the wardrobe’s base and slide it towards Phillip, who is pressed into the corner. The plastic spoon falls out as the bowl spins on the wood before coming to a rest.
Phillip looks up at me, face slack, and pushes a hand into the porridge.
I try to smile, but these days whenever I look at Phillip I also see Stuart, or Declan, or my uncle Ron, or one of the men from the house next door. Part of me wishes that things could have stayed the same, because it isn’t Phillip’s fault.
It’s society.
It’s biology.
I watch my little survivor lick fingers that are coated in lumpy gruel, and consider those funny thoughts again. I’m being silly, though. I mustn’t do anything rash.
I watch Phillip’s glazed expression, licking those gloopy fingers, backed up against the wooden corner of the wardrobe.
On a whim, I decide to try out a new phrase, just to see how it feels in my mouth.
“Good girl.”
My voice is strained, but the words seem to make my headache fade.
“Good girl,” I say again, and close the door.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jonathan lives and writes in Birmingham, UK.
From the day he was able to transcribe ideas onto paper, he has been writing strange stories. He hopes he never stops.
If you want to stay updated with his fiction writing, follow him here: www.facebook.com/jonathanbutcherauthor
Let’s keep things weird.
Jonathan Butcher also appears in the following publications:
The Chocolateman (from The Sinister Horror Company)
Flash Fear (as editor – from Quantum Corsets)
Death By Chocolate (from Knightwatch Press/Great British Horror)
12 Days (from Burdizzo Books)
Dark Designs (from Shadow Work Publishing)
Trapped Within (from EyeCue Productions)
Dunhams Does Lovecraft (from Dunhams Manor Press/Dynatox Ministries)
Weird Ales 3 (from Quantum Corsets)
The Sinister Horror Company is an independent UK publisher of genre fiction. Their mission a simple one – to write, publish and launch innovative and exciting genre fiction by themselves and others.
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What Good Girls Do Page 9
