by Ian Hall
Her responding laughter chilled me. “Kill you? Baby girl, I’m bringing you back to life!”
My eyes moved to the ominous mixture. Iridescent flakes drifted prettily through the water; I followed them down to where a thick layer had settled. The cool liquid could not dissolve it properly. My mother roused the powder once more and lifted the spoon away.
“You don’t trust me?” she asked. “We can always test it on the brat so you can see for yourself.”
With that my mother delivered her most devastating blow. There could be no doubt she was capable of following through on her threat.
Whatever fate awaited me at the bottom of that glass would be mine alone. I would not willingly subject Little Luck to it.
Slowly, I rose to sit. She handed me the glass. The smell seemed more potent now. Its effect, intoxicating; clouding my wits, further charming me with its allure of a quick end.
I touched my mouth to the rim and a bitter drop of the stuff coated my lips. Instinctively, my tongue darted out to mop it up. It tasted like it smelled: viscous and lethal.
My mother encouraged me to go on. “It’s only bad for a minute. Finish.”
I took a second, less timid, taste and let it trickle over the lining of my cheeks, down into the vestibules. The liquid stung the fleshy tissue. It began to burn, corroding through the gums and the enamel of my teeth.
Only one minute more to live. I indulged in one final gulp of oxygen, letting it out in a slow hiss. My mother’s expression never softened, no sympathy touched her eyes; neither doubt nor hesitation.
“Fuck you,” I said.
My parting words made no impact.
Deliberately, I threw my head back and let the poison wash through me. Jagged knives of pain followed the liquid down my throat. My lungs seized. Brutal convulsions shuddered through my body. Some innate will to live tried to overpower the death coursing through my veins. I felt flung onto my pillow. The glass shattered to the floor.
Every particle in my body simultaneously imploded and exploded. Sensations mixed. There was no distinguishing touch from smell, color from taste, or even my own thoughts from the irritant of itchy sheets. Utterly, I felt without form.
Until, on the very edge of consciousness, a voice tugged me back to self. Awareness returned like beading rain drops forming a puddle.
The burning pain, the convulsing and gasping all had ceased. A dim light filtered through my lids. Only then did I realize my eyes were closed. I wanted to open them but found I could not so much as twitch.
My mind tried to find the ligaments of my fingers, to stretch and test them; but they, too, were unresponsive.
I could feel my lungs inflate and release. My heart thrummed in my chest. My body had resumed all involuntary functions from what I could tell. Yet, no muscle would respond to my will. As promised, I was alive; but, incarcerated within my own skin.
“Look at me, Casey.”
My eyes popped opened spontaneously. A purple neon sign flashing outside my window illuminated one half of my mother’s face. She smiled.
“Welcome back, baby girl.”
She dabbed at the sweat of my brow with the sleeve of her robe. “He told me to go easy; said it’d only take a pinch to do the trick. But, I couldn’t take any chances. I didn’t mean to put you through all that. Heaven knows that shit hurts enough as it is; next time won’t be so bad.”
Like her expression, her words betrayed no malice. This was my come to Jesus. Somehow I was supposed to be saved.
She spoke the next command with absolute authority. “Get up.”
I responded – a robot under her control. I rose and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My bare feet brushed over pieces of glass. I wanted to lift them away, protect myself, but could not. My feet settled onto the broken bits. Spikes of pain shot into them.
“Stand up,” she said.
And so I did. The fragments of glass dug in.
“Walk to the window.”
With each step the shards embedded themselves deeper. My soles were ribbons of bloody meat as I approached the window.
“Open it.”
I did.
“Tell me what you see.”
Peering out, I looked all the way down the six stories below. The boulevard was not entirely asleep, despite the hour.
“Some cars. Someone’s digging in a garbage can. There’s a homeless woman with a cat in her shopping cart. She’s singing it a lullaby…”
“Shut up.”
My jaw fastened like a deadbolt. Behind me, I heard my mother’s delighted titter.
“Do you see the ledge?” she asked.
My paralyzed lips could formulate no response.
“Answer me.”
Power of speech seemed abruptly regained. “Yes.”
“Step out onto it.”
Everything within me wanted to disobey. My shredded feet begged to run. But it seemed that my mother’s will controlled me; not my own. Helplessly obedient, I crawled out of the window.
I stared down to the strip of black pavement. It appeared a billowing river under the streetlamps. Cars swam over it like schools of metal fish. Directly below me the sidewalk waited for my next step.
My mother’s face appeared at the window.
“It’s such a pretty night,” she said to me. “Do you feel like taking a walk?”
Again I felt helpless to respond until she commanded it.
“Answer me.”
“No.”
My mother traced the trail of blood with her eyes. “You’ve made quite a mess out here. Imagine the mess you’d make falling down there.”
At her whim, I did imagine it. I was free-falling; I even felt the drift of air as I cut through it. It seemed strangely sensual. And then I knew the crack of breaking bones, felt my skin split and blood seep out onto the sidewalk. Clear as day I saw beneath me a dead girl, mangled in a pool of red.
“Is that what you want – to end up down there? Answer me.”
“No.”
Satisfied with my predictable response, she gave her next command, “Come inside.”
Again I did as I was told. I fell clumsily into the room. My arms did not fly out in front of me to shield the impact. I landed face-first, busting my lip. The warm taste of blood filled my mouth.
“Up,” she commanded.
New rushes of pain from the injury to my mouth made my head swoon. But nothing would stop me from rising to my feet.
“See these strings.” It was not a question.
At her prompting I saw ribbons of yellow light flow from the tips of my mother’s fingers, wrapping like shackles around my wrists.
“You are tied to me, CiCi. You belong to me and you will never leave.”
Then my mother led me in an inelegant ballet. I twirled and leapt as she conducted some imaginary symphony for her own delight. The strings of yellow light held fast, even as I stumbled over the floor. She hummed and swayed until she lost her breath.
“Stop,” she snapped.
My legs crumpled beneath me. I landed hard on my knees. My mother came to stand over me. I sat in disgrace, kneeling at her feet and tied to her sickness. If I’d had a will of my own, I would have forced myself to die at that moment.
“That’s how this works,” she said as if letting me in on a secret. “You dance when I tell you to dance. Why is that such a hard thing to understand?”
Her amusement ended swiftly and she became desperate to make me comprehend.
“Dance when I tell you to dance. Jump when I tell you to jump.” She lowered herself to my level, eyes drilling into mine. “And cry when I tell you to fucking cry.”
I steeled myself, preparing for what would be my greatest humiliation. My mother’s voice sounded blithe as a birdsong’s trill; her dominion over me felt so secure she had no need to emphasize the word.
“Cry.”
Compliance felt instantaneous and severe. Every corpuscle in my eyes ruptured. Seeping streaks of liquid flowed unch
ecked. Dehydration cracked my lips and swelled my tongue; finger pads shriveled. Water turned to sappy globs of yellow that splattered to the floor, checkered with dots of red. All fluid in my body had been diverted to my tear ducts. Life drained out of me.
My mother watched without expression. Her voice remained impeccably calm as she issued the next mandate.
“You will cry ten thousand tears before you stop.”
She rose to her feet and strode purposefully to the doorway. There she paused, framing herself in the opening with the lights of the boulevard discoloring her features. She looked supernatural, draped in a mantle of supremacy. Tranquility exuded from her and it felt far more devastating than any outburst of rage had ever been.
“You wouldn’t let me inside your heart, little girl; so, now I’m inside your head.”
I heard something clicking in my ear; some wraithlike cockroach burrowing into my brain. And then I knew her full intention. Galinda Frank would never be satisfied with a mere puppet to entertain herself. She wanted a replica – a suitable vessel to pour her madness into. The cockroach would gorge on my gray matter, digest my thoughts, and regurgitate the ravings of my mother’s twisted imaginings.
She pivoted to leave the room. The binding that joined me to her felt persistent and elastic as she walked away. My mother threw her next command over her shoulder, not bothering to watch that I comply.
“Come to the living room and bring your pillow.”
Electric jolts of pain soared through me as I stood. The glass ate into my soles, but my feet could no longer bleed. Vertigo made my senses swim. I would have vomited but I hadn’t been given permission.
Staggering, I managed my way to the living room, pillow in hand. My mother was already there, standing at the foot of the hide-a-bed and watching Little Luck as he slept. She motioned for me to stand next to her. The bindings reeled me in like fishing wire.
My stepbrother sprawled out over the scanty folding mattress, mouth slack. Only the rumble of his deep breathing let me know he wasn’t already dead. But that would soon change. For all my suffering, the greatest pain seemed in knowing what I was about to do. Little Luck would die tonight. At my hand.
“It’s time the Frank girls start to give as good they get, baby.”
Little Luck shifted in his sleep. My mother stabbed him with her eyes. Any moment she would give the order. I only hoped that she’d then send me back out on that ledge and finish it this time. Set me free.
Greedily, the cockroach ate away at that wishful thought.
“Who did you think you were messing with?” she hissed at the sleeping boy. “Taking over my house? Taking my baby girl away from me? Your worthless father thinking he could dump you on my doorstep and run off?”
All composure had left her. Her words gained volume with each accusation. Little Luck began to stir. My stomach tightened. I couldn’t bear it if he opened his eyes, if his final vision was that of me lowering the pillow over his face, if he believed even in his last second of life that I had acted of my own accord. My endless tears became weeps of shame.
“Galinda Frank doesn’t roll over and let herself get fucked,” her hysteria reached a crescendo. “I’ll cut your dick off and feed it to you first, you little shit!”
Little Luck’s eyes flew open. He stared up at my mother. But spoke to me.
One word, infinite questions: “Casey?”
Helpless to answer, I stood mutely and waited for the order. Betrayal set in his eyes. Even the veil of endless tears could not blind me to his pain and fear. I felt ready for this to be over.
My mother laughed at the trembling boy. “You didn’t really think she loved you? You’re no family to us! Why would she need you when she’s got me?”
She turned to me. I readied myself. Once the strings were pulled I would move as my puppeteer instructed.
My mother enunciated each word sharply, “Lift your pillow. Place it over the boy’s face. Hold it there until he stops breathing. Do not take it off of him until you are damn good and sure he’s dead.”
Involuntarily, I raised my pillow and dragged my tattered feet close enough to reach Little Luck. My heart ticked like a bomb and I only hoped it would detonate before I could do this terrible deed. I stood within reach and lowered the pillow toward him.
“Stop!” Little Luck screeched.
I became stone, a statue posed in the commission of a heinous act.
“What is wrong with you?” demanded my mother, “answer!”
My dry throat could only choke out the words. “I. Can’t. Move.”
“Bullshit. Do what I told you to do.”
My body regained flexibility. I resumed my terrible task.
“Don’t do it,” Luck’s countermand sounded firm. And again I went rigid.
A light went on in Little Luck’s face. Intuition surpassed understanding. He knew.
“Casey,” my mother’s voice felt desperate now, “do it.”
Little Luck stood up on the bed. “Don’t listen to what she says; listen to me, Cici – only listen to me!”
The manacles at my wrist cracked opened and the yellow bonds of light fractured, flittering away like so many butterflies.
He stretched out his arms. “Save me!”
I reached out and Little Luck flew into my arms. My mother wailed in rage.
Nearly crippled, my depleted body shutting down, I staggered for the door and groped blindly for the knob. Pulling and twisting, I begged for it to give way but got refused.
That sick laughter felt its way up my neck. I turned to face my tormentor. Pulling the deadbolt key from her robe pocket, my mother taunted me.
“I made sure nobody would ever leave me again,” she announced triumphantly. “There’s no way out for you, little girl…and his way out is in a bag.”
Little Luck gave the order. “Run!”
My body had no choice but to obey.
I shoved past my mother, knocking her to the ground. My injuries and the weight of the child in my arms made it a pathetic, limping gait. Only an instant ahead of my pursuer, I found the way to my bedroom and slammed the door behind me, setting my body against it as a meager barricade.
Our only exit seemed back out onto the ledge and down the fire escape. Little Luck refused to be put down, and I waited anxiously for him to put me into action.
“Open this door!” my mother yelled.
I did not budge.
Little Luck’s whisper sounded so small that I barely heard it over the ruckus at my back. “Tell me what to tell you to do.”
It was the command I had been waiting for.
“Tell. Me. To. Fight. Her.”
Little Luck slid out of my arms. He ran off to hide as I’d taught him to do many times before.
“Fight her,” he ordered bravely, “and DON’T DIE.”
I watched him get into the closet. Then, without turning, I twisted the doorknob behind me, flung the door wide and let my frenzied mother fall into the room. She stumbled past me and tumbled to her knees.
“You will do as I tell you to do,” she demanded, even as she struggled to stand.
My mother’s words had no effect. I sprang forward, lunging before she could get her feet steadily under her. She punched me in my broken lip and sent a shockwave of renewed pain through my mouth. I felt already half-blind from the endless tears, and now the room around me faded to black.
She was still bigger and stronger. The battering I’d already taken only gave her that much more of an advantage. But my primary directive had been to fight—and to not die. And so I set my will against my mother’s, landing my balled fists on any part of her body they could find. Even in my exhaustion, I could not stop.
She threw me off and I rolled onto my back as another current of pain bewildered me. Her knee met me squarely in my side and a grotesque crack told me my ribs were broken. I choked for air as the lung deflated.
I’d failed Little Luck. He’d told me not to die; that seemed one order I would
be unable to follow.
My mother snarled at me, “How could you think you could ever beat me? I told you already—you belong to me. I own you. When I say dance, you dance. When I say jump, you jump. When I say kill…you fucking kill.”
She left me there, a crumpled ball, and went to the closet and the cowering child inside. Grabbing him by the hair, she dragged Little Luck to the bed and threw him down.
“This could’ve been so simple, so painless. But you two brats just don’t know how to be good and do what you’re told.”
I struggled to come to a sit, willing myself to carry out my mission — to fight, at least, even if dying could not be prevented. But, my body simply refused to stand. I fell limp with my back against the foot of the bed, my head rolling to one side disjointedly.
I could only watch defenselessly as my mother took up the plastic baggie containing the remains of the mysterious, enslaving substance.
She addressed Little Luck. “Your dad promised me this would work like a charm. Told me it’d get my baby girl back in line and she would take care of you for me. Kind of a bizarre wedding present…but it’s the thought that counts.”
I heard a lift of amusement in her tone then as if she and Little Luck shared an inside joke. “We both know how well the shit works when done right. Don’t we?”
Little Luck didn’t answer but I knew the truth. Just as Leif must have used the powder to influence my mother to take him in, he’d also used it against the boy.
My mother clicked her tongue and shook her head, coming over to me. “I think I know where I went wrong,” she sighed. “I forgot the most crucial command—the very first words I was supposed to say: ‘You will listen to me and only me.’” She winked. “Now I know why that was so important.”
She bent down on the floor next to me and measured out a helping of the powder into the palm of her hand. The heavy perfume hit me hard in its concentrated state. My already-dazed senses spun.
“I won’t make that mistake again,” she vowed.
Putting her hand up, she kept it a careful distance from her own face. It felt so close to me that only a single puff of air could’ve dispersed the particles. My empty lungs did not have the capacity to push that much air. I felt helpless.
