[Genre:Â Gothic Horror, Grimdark]
[Content Warning: Violence & Gore, Physical Abuse, Sexual Assault, Medical Torture ]
The city of Letcham was lorded over by a vampiric ruling class from Castle Sangmont. However, twenty years ago they had been massacred, and in their stead the church took hold of the city. Their religion was less about gods and more a worship of human kind's advancement and, when the plague swept the city, bloodshed. This plague was not a normal sickness, it turned folks ravenous. They acted more like beasts than men when infected, so they were called as much.
One day a young woman named Mayme was sent to get supplies from the city in her ailing father's stead. The only issue was that she was the daughter of a leech of Sangmont. A monster the church would not take too kindly too-- nor would the man in Letcham who made it his life's mission to slay the rest of her wretched kind. The very man she was forced to rely upon when she got trapped outside with the beasts by the city's nightly lock-down.
The girl sat at her desk, she stared at the paper in front of her with a tenseness in her brows and her lips pushed upwards in concentration. It was her list of words to learn for the week: again, place, years, know, over, wear, old, boy, home, and seven. Seven was the girlâs age, so she felt like that was the most important on the list, but it was important for another reason too. Seven started with an S, the very letter she thought the word she was trying to spell started with.
Words were confusing, she was always told to sound things outâ but she knew better than that. O's and U's were so similar. Th's and F's were as well. Then there were silent letters sometimesâ how was she meant to sound out words when it was possible half the letters made no sound? Nonsense! Spelling was nonsense! Yet, she tried. She felt as if figuring the word out would clear it up somehow, as if it would help her make sense of the meaning and situation.
S⊠Su? So?
She only heard the word once last Saturday morning from her mother's mouth. It was hardly said gently, it was yelled in fact. Screamed, maybe. The girl could feel the phantoms of the hot spittle against her forehead and eyelids, though most of the details of the interaction had been eaten up by her brain. She just knew the feelings the interaction causedâ how it felt to sink into her shoulders as if her body could collapse in on itself and whisk her away. How tight her little hands grasped at the hem of her night dress, her knuckles were bone white against the pastel pinks and yellows of the dress. How heated her face got as she held back tearsâ or tried, since she failed miserably. It was humiliating, this ordeal had been in front of her new step brother and she didnât want this cool new teenager in her life to think she was bad. He was her friend! She and him already had so many secrets and played all the time. Why did her mother always do this in front of her friends?
The specifics of the words yelled at her were a blurâ all but that one she did not know. This one word was the crux of what got her punished. The reason. She needed to know, so she would not repeat it.
She wrote an S down on her paper and tapped her pencil on it several times. Specks of lead dusted over it and tumbled into the indent her tapping had created. She still did not know what to follow it up with, but the one letter felt like an accomplishment.
S⊠Se? Sa?
Her eyes flicked towards the teacher. A round, happy woman, but she seemed a bit aloof. Even at the girl's young age she thought the teacher dressed gaudilyâ though she lacked the word to describe it. The woman always wore mismatched, bright colours, big chunky jewellery, and a huge smile. The colours were nice, so was the clanking sounds of the jewelry, but deep inside the girl knew it was better to fit in and blend into the background. She hated attention. Still, fashion aside, the teacher was smartâ smart also started with an S. Surely she would know how to spell this other S word that was plaguing the little girl! However, she snuffed that idea out of her head nearly as quickly as it came. She shook her head and hoped that idea would fall right out her ear.
Adults didn't listen to her, and when they did only bad came of it. If she asked her mother too much she'd be screamed at. If she repeated some of what her step brother taught her, her friendâs parents made ugly faces, talked to her mother, and the prior issue would repeat. She feared this word she was seeking might be bad, thus would make the teacher call home, resulting in the same outcome. She had to do this by herself. The girl knew that.
S⊠suâŠd. Yes, it was definitely S-U-D!Â
She jotted it down on her paper with haste, afraid she'd lose the letters if she took too longâ the pencil scratched across the paper in long, heavy strokes.Â
Halfway there, she thought. She tapped the eraser of her pencil to her chin as she tried to remember past the feelings of that morning. The sun spilled through the window towards the back of her room, but she stood in the shadow of her step brother as she faced the door opposite the window. Gaps in his shadow allowed rays of lights to splash her legs and lower back. Her mother was in the doorway, her face a deep crimson. There was a sneer corrupting her pink painted lips, cracked it into the snarling maw of an animal. She spat nearly as much as she spoke, growled with frustration half as much as that. Her eyes were so wide it reminded the girl of a bug, at least looking back. Her mother was pointing between the boy's bunk and the girlâs pillow on the floor.
She had brought her pillow down from the top bunk since it was too hot to sleep so high up. She had learned in science class heat rose, so the floor was her best option to stay cool. She remembered trying to explain that through sobs, but couldn't get more than three words out. Her mother screamed the girl down, she peppered her barrage with insults the girl also didnât knowâ but knowing they were insults and bad words was enough for her.
âLiar! I know you were down here to _____ him, you stupidâ!â
S-U-D⊠Oo? Yeah! Oo. That was easy, two O's made that sound! And another S to follow! She got it! S-U-D-O-O-S.
Sudoos.
A toothy smile broke the girl's rather serious thinking expression. She was so proud of herself, however the joy of spelling this mystery word faded quickly as she realised her belief that mastering its spelling would clear up its meaning was false. Her face as well as her heart fell. She sat there and stared at the letters messily scrawled across the bottom of the paper. It seemed even her own brain failed her too.
Lila had been fussing over this stench that pervaded the house for nearly twenty years now. It smelled like a deer carcass left out on a hot summerâs day. It always clung to her hair and clothes, always lingered deep in her nostrils and at the back of her throat, but was at its worst within her home. For a long time she assumed it was her daughter. She was a rotten child from the start. Lila had tried her best with her, truly, but she kept misbehaving. No matter how much she was punished, no matter how many times she was locked up overnight in the basement or beaten with a belt she kept being awful. She plagued her mother's life for years with asinine mistakes and destructive clumsiness. She was inept at most everything, or perhaps just played that part to be irritating. She had vanished a few months agoâ her final act of disrespect. Abandoning her mother without so much as a goodbye. Perhaps her rot had seeped into the walls during her time living there, perhaps it had taken such hold even her estrangement could not uproot it.
After another day of nonstop cleaning Lila finally packed up her supplies. She gathered up the tins of cleaner and collection of rags into her arms then traipsed over to the bucket that usually held them. She was about to toss everything in when something caught her eye in the low lamplight; rivets of mop water from earlier in the day still strung themselves along the bottom edges of the bucket. She hissed about how the cloth she had used to dry the thing was worthless under her breath. She dropped the rest of the supplies roughly onto the table in a heap. Tins clinked together and glass clanged, normal sounds⊠bar the one crack-pop. Like a wound, the mound began to bleed. One of the glass bottles filled with soap and grit had finally given way under her less than delicate hand and broke.
âWorthless piece of shite!â She cursed through her clenched jaw. Hot spittle flew from between a gap in her front teeth. She snatched pieces of the pile away before the leaked soap could touch them and, like a toddler having a tantrum, threw the unsullied items into the bucket she had been so disgusted by prior. While grabbing things by the handful a stray shard of glass bit into her gnarled hand. She yelped and pulled back; there on her finger was a small cut. Her eyes bulged and her face reddened as her lips peeled back into a sneer. She was about to start screaming more expletives, but they caught in her throat as the cut began to weep.
Just a drop of black liquid. It couldnât be blood, it was far too dark and viscous. That one droplet filled her nose with the awful smell that haunted her. Lila was shocked, her fingers began to shake. With her other hand she grabbed her digit and pressed as if more would come out like a paste from a tube. Nothing.
No, there had to be more, she could still smell it.
She slammed her hand against the table again and again, the supplies that remained bobbed and jumped with each hit. They slowly parted to reveal the shard of glass that sported just a pinch of black on its edge. Lila reached for it as gently as her pudgy hands could manage and brought it to cut finger. She bit her cheeks and sucked in a breath as she pressed it into her skin. For a moment nothing happened, but with just a little more force the slice swelled and birthed a single writhing maggot. It fell to the floor and more black pooled around where the glass was pressed. Â
Lila let out a shrill scream as she stumbled and crashed to the floor with a thud. Her eyes watered from the sweet, but sick stench of decay that overtook the air. She was suddenly hyper aware of her body. She could feel that goo coursing through her. She could feel how hard her heart had to strain and squeeze to circulate it. She could feel wriggling against the underside of her skin. She could feel the little bugs that gnawed at and nested within her muscles and fat. She whimpered as her eyes slowly followed a dark, lumpy vein up her arm, past her sounder, and towards her chest. Every vein looked just as deformed. They inched like worms all over her body as globs of this unknown black mass traveled through her.
What had happened to her? She was normal before her daughter was born. Her daughter⊠Yes, her daughter must have caused this somehow. Lila did not know how, but that was the only explanation. Of course that rotten child would do this. Not visiting or replying to letters wasnât enough, she had to do this too.
Lila's expression shifted to an enraged but determined one. However, when she grabbed the shard with both hands and pressed it to her swollen gut she shook like a leaf. Oh once she managed to clean up this putrid sludge within her core she would show her daughter hell for causing this. Lila was sure of it.
She plunged the glass shard into herself with a triumphant yell. Her soft flesh bubbled around the makeshift blade, but all it took was a flick of her wrist to quash her bodyâs final attempt to save itself. This time the black did not come out in just a drop. It erupted from her stomach with force, popping like a zit. A wet tearing sound was quickly overtaken by a heavy slosh as the gaping wound spouted out thick globby ropes of the rancid black like a geyser, it painted her walls and clothes in gelled splatterings and even more rice sized maggots. It was more than just corrupted blood that raced out of her quickly hollowing torso, but putrefied inners as well. Chunks of what once were organs, now blackened slime, spilled out onto the hardwood and caked themselves within every crease and crack. Slivers of bone slid out with the current, but were so grinded down they were indistinguishable from larva that came out alongside them. Even her fat and muscles had liquified and melded with everything else seamlessly as it decorated the room. It was a dramatic explosion of the woman's unrecognisable viscera, but was over almost as quick as it started.
A husk now, Lila was merely an emaciated pile of shriveled skin. She laid on the ground in a pool of the putrescent blackness she had hosted. With the pressure inside her once plump body gone, the explosive bleeding slowed to an effervescent ooze. It was all out of her now. She gnashed what remained of her gums, as her teeth had fallen away too, and breathed more curses at her daughter for doing this as she fadedâ not once even considering perhaps Lila had rotted her insides herself.
âThis should help,â The smiling man behind the counter said as he set the medication down in front of the young blonde on the other side.
The young lady tried to smile, but her face was numbâ so much so that it was hard to even open her mouth to speak. Frost crept from her purple lips and crackled as she tried to pry her jaw open enough to say something. âThank you.â It was said in little more than a breath. She took the bottle in her puffy reddened fingers and stowed it away in her pocket.
The bell above the door gave a weak jingle as she left the pharmacy and began her treacherous trudge home. Snow engulfed the town, but filthy muddled walkways carved up the streets, leaving heaps of gravel and snow to tower either side of them. Sheer winds and blizzards had bleached the once colourful storefronts a hideously dingy grey. The moisture that breathed within the walls and roofs slowly ate away at them and caused the buildings to sagâ they were ever tired of their endless fight against the elements. The trees that lurked overhead were barren and rotted black, only held in place by the frozen soilâs suffocating embrace and the densely packed snow at their bases. It wasn't fresh, fluffy snow. No. It was solid, the top layer cracked away in chunks. Below the surface it was sticky, it clung to clothes and shoes in little balls should anyone try to traverse it.
It had not always been that way. Once this town was lush and green. But those days were long gone. The woman knew she must have had memories from back then, with someone special. She was sure if she dwelled enough on it she could dig them up, but the ground was essentially a layer of permafrost now. It wasn't worth the effort to dig up anything. All that mattered was the all encompassing cold that took hold of her heart in adolescence and spread from there. The very curse that bestowed this everlasting winter upon her.
At first, the curse was small. Some days her breath could create a frosty mosaic upon her window if she pressed her face too close. Sometimes sheâd require an extra fuzzy blanket during the night. However, as she aged the tendrils of this tragic cold would follow her more and affect her daily life. It would kill the grass where she stood, it would chill every meal she tried to eat, it made it so she could not touch anyone without the prickles of winter piercing them. Most would dismiss her. Most blamed her and scolded her for this cold heart she was cursed with. Most would avoid her. Most, but not all. Her best friend was always by her side. Though she could not be sure if this cold heart was contagious, she grew to assume it was. Troublingly, he was never as bitingly cold as she was so she did not see his infection until it was too late. As bitter as it was, this memory was not one she had to dig for.
A note addressed to her in the mailbox. A heartfelt goodbye. That was when the snow began to drift down from the blue skies above. She had dropped the letter and ran barefoot to the lake they both loved so much. There she saw it. The result of this cold heart curse. Her best friend was face down in the water, blue, bloated, and unmoving. The snow became a furious storm as the sky darkened. From her unprotected feet the horrific frost blossomed and overtook everything around her. The ground. The lake. The town. Her whole world. She could never go to that lake again. She knew his corpse was still frozen in its once serine waters. She just knew the snow could never fully bury that scene.
The slush sloshed around her as she dragged her feet all the way to her front door. She braced herself against it and forced it open, the ice that had built up during her time out cracked and protested, but quickly gave. Within the walls was no warmer than it was outside, simply more desolate. Icy stalactites clung to the ceiling by the dozen. Foreboding spears that hung like an executioner's axe above the young woman's head. Threatening for now, letting her anticipation eat away at her, but solid and sturdy. They would only fall if she shook them with slammed doors or screams of an emotional meltdown. A simple solution was that she could clear them. But she had let them build up so much and simply, she had grown to like them.
She took slow, steady steps across the slick floor. The frost stuck to the fabric of her socks like velcro, it grabbed and tried to hold her still, but she meandered on. Past the kitchen who's food was rock solid and inedible. Past the bathroom whoâs pipes had long cracked and broken. Past the living room that held the frozen memory of her family. They stood like statues in the middle of the room, her fatherâs face contorted in angerâ but a deep worry was behind his eyes. Her mother had her head in her hands, hiding the tears and snot that her now silent wails produced. The young woman didn't even glance their way anymore. She opened the bedroom door and pulled the medication out of her pocket. They skittered about within the bright orange container with the movement. How odd it was to see such little things move about. They had yet to slow and freeze like everything else. With it in her hands she crawled into bed under a dozen blankets, and cradled the warm pill bottle in her palms. Her eyes were glued to it. Her blackening fingers twitched towards the lid, aching for relief.
Yet, she could not bring herself to take them.
It might cure her frozen heart, or it might make it worse. What if it dwarfed this never ending winter she had conjured with an ice age? And should it work, what if this frost was who she was, would it erase herâ who was she under it all? Though these questions haunted her, a far more grim outcome surfaced in her mind: What if it worked and everything around her also thawed? All she had done, all she had destroyed, all she had hurtâ she would suddenly have to deal with it. Her neighbours might blame her for all the trouble her cold heart had caused. Her parents might never forgive her for how frigid she had been. Her friend, who still laid frozen in the lake, would have to leave and be put properly to rest. Her grey-blue eyes flicked away from the bottle as it rolled out of her hands and onto the floor. She turned and faced the wall to watch the ice crawl up it. It was easier to stay cold, even if she knew it meant sheâd one day freeze in place too.
Energetic, whimsical music silenced in the circus tent as a pair of heavily pierced and tattooed carnies brought out a box that was relatively small against them. No person could fit in the thing, at least that's what someone would think at first glance. The crowd knew better and they cheered as the box was set down. It was painted blue with white polka dots. âRaGdoLLâ was written in what appeared to be a child's handwriting on the front in bright sunshine yellow. The fierce hot lights focused on both it and the twin hosts of the event as the two who carried out the box vanished into the darkness behind the stage.
âNext up,â one of the twins started with a dramatic gesture towards the box and a wide grin, âI'm proud to introduce you all toââ
âAlways so formal, Jekyll!â The second twin mocked with a hardy chuckle and dismissive hand wave, earning an exasperated sigh from his co-host. âThis little toy needs no introduction! Letâs take my favourite little dolly out of her box!â
He kicked the box and the flaps popped open to reveal a young lady. Bent and twisted in ways most unnatural. Her spine was folded over completelyâ her buttock resting on her shoulder blades. Her limbs crammed at odd angles all around her.
âEveryone welcome Ragdoll!â Jekyll called out as both the twins once more gestured with wide arms to the woman. Practised grins on their painted faces, their bold makeup that was cracking under the intense spot light outlining the expression. The welcome was almost not heard over the clapping of the crowd.
The contortionist crawled out of the box like some kind of inhuman horror. Spindly limbs reaching out and turning to plant themselves on the ground, her torso twisting in ways that accentuated her ribcage and just how solid it was compared to the limberness of her spine. The movements made the crowd cringe and squirm in their seats, but their excited eyes could not tear away from the spectacle. They were there to see the oddities of the circus, after all. She finally freed herself and stood up straight before the crowd. With an overdramatized limpness to her every movement, she cocked her head with faux confusion at her situation. Then she bowed to another roar of applause.
The music for Ragdoll's act filled the stuffy tent air; a both childish and uncanny piece to fit the character she played. The lights left the twins to focus solely on her. The boys vanished into the shadows and behind the waterfall of velvet red curtains just off stage. Out of view from the amazed crowd, but they could still see Ragdoll as clear as day.
The twin who played the more antagonistic role in their act, aptly given the stage name Hyde, always insisted on watching Ragdollâ or Clarabelle, as he knew her. It wasn't as if he wanted to just see her act. He had seen it a dozen times over completed, and hundreds of times in practice at her request. He just wanted to see her. She was gorgeousâ even in the goudy polka-dot unitard covered with tulle to make it vaguely dress-shaped and oversaturated makeup that made her look like a bewildered raggedy Anne doll. It was garish and ridiculous, but that was par for the course given their line of work, and charming in its own way.
None of the ridiculous outwards appearance phased Hyde as he stared at her. He was completely lost in his thoughts; imagining how it would feel to run his fingers through her silky golden locks, how soft her sun-kissed skin would be against the palm of his hand, what her small rosy lips might taste like⊠He felt selfish for wanting to know these things about her. He knew enough about her already, more than he had any right to ask for. He knew the warmth her gap-toothed smile and dimpled cheeks brought to his soul. He knew the song his heart sang every time she laughed and snorted at one of his stupid jokes. He knew how gentle her touch was from how she'd casually brush the pads of her slender fingers against his arm in conversation or even playfully slap him on the back or chest during lighthearted banter.
Maybe that all meant something. However, he knew better than to get his hopes up. So he told himself: it was pity and not flirting. It had to be. She would never flirt with the likes of him.
Unless it was worse than that⊠Yes, he could convince himself of that. So often he'd catch her eyes lingering on him or his brotherâ no doubt taking in how freakish they were. She'd invite them to watch her practice, showing off what her body could do in nothing but spandex shorts and a sports bra as a taunt. Ask them out for brunch as if sheâd actually want to be seen in public with them, she probably was just waiting for them to accept so she could laugh and turn them downâŠ
Malice not interest, he told himself. It had to be. She would never be interested in the likes of him.
âYour favourite little dolly?â Jekyll teased with a small, stifled giggle, âChanging to the script now? Youâre hopelessly smitten. You should talk to her.â
Torn from his downward spiral by his brother's voice, Hyde rolled his eyes. He could feel his cheeks radiating heat. His heart battered hard within the disfigured mess that was its prison.âI figured it was in character. The antagonist being possessive over a girl that isn't his.â His eyes did not leave Clarabelle as he spoke.
Jekyll's teasing demeanour vanished in a blink. Hyde had not even tried to obscure his feelings through jest as he usually would, there was none of his old tired threesome jokes or mockingly calling his brother a cuckold for suggesting such. There had been a dark pit of sadness to his voice. Jekyll let out a long breath and reached over to give his brother a comforting pat on the arm. He knew well how Hyde felt about Clarabelle, in fact he felt similar. He wished his encouragement would one day convince Hyde to make a move, since he himself would be too cowardly.
Hyde didn't bother to acknowledge the action of his brother, not even with a glance. Granted, he hardly ever looked at his twin outside of in a mirror. It was difficult, awkward, strenuous⊠How could it not be? He hated looking at reminders of their predicament, more so in moments like this. Both half a person, more or less. One arm, one leg, one head each attached to one disfigured, ugly malformed torso they were forced to share.
Hideous. Monstrous. No doubt thatâs what Clarabelle thought too. However, before he could feed into those thoughts even more, the contortionist bent over backwards for the audience and was left briefly facing the back of the stage. She caught the glint of Hydeâs stare. She gave him a smile, cracking her makeup in the process. The sweat on her brow kept half of her bangs stuck to her forehead. Ridiculous. She looked ridiculous. She gave a playful wink and stuck her tongue out at him, and just like that the moment was gone. She regained composure to finish her set. Yet that little exchange brought a smile to his sullen face.
He tried to squash his fluttering heart. Once more he tried to feed that self hatred and to snuff out the flame he held for Clarabelle. He knew it was wrong, cruel, and horrifically unfair to create this vile visage of her in his head. Yes, he knew deep down she was about as genuine and kind as a person could beâ maybe a bit rambunctious and immature, but never mean or malicious. Yet he tried to bring that visage to the forefront of his mind again. He had to. It kept his heart safe, for a rejection from it was just a rejection from himself. A rejection that would save him from having to even risk hearing one leave her lips instead.
Thousands of white petaled flowers danced in the cliff top's chill breeze. Stuck in one spot as they tried their hardest to free themselves and tango with one anotherâ or to saunter across the grassy plain into the heavenly blue beyond the cliffâs edge. But alas, they failed to uproot themselves. The soil they found themselves in acted as their jailers. Frigid and unmoved by their desire for freedom. Though the soil refused to let them dance, their fate was not shared by one flower. This lone flower was very much different from the rest. She was larger. Peach and pink, oh so full of life yet so close to death with her roots damaged and far from her soil. But this did not stop her. The lone flower danced alone gracefully between the others, blades of grass squished between her tattered roots with each bouncing step she took. The wind washed over her, making her leaves flutter against her stem, caressing it. Her petals were as soft as silk and flew through the breeze, rolling around her and trying to join the swirling gusts high above in the fluffy clouds. The warm oranges and pinks from the sunrise bathed her and made the dew that fell from her in drops glisten and sparkle.
The little white flowers looked up, pleading to join her in her Waltz. Their prayers were answered as soon as the lone flower noticed her imprisoned friends. She plucked them from their spots as she went, freeing them from the ground that kept them as trapped as she once was. They joined her in her dance. The soil loathed this. It tried to sink the flowers back into its muddy hold, but the lone flower lifted her friends high.
âMy roots are too damaged to ever take hold again,â she said to the others, âI will keep us all from being tethered down ever again.â
The little white flowers clung to her leaves and whirled alongside her to the wind's melodic tune. The soil tried to speak to her, tried to tell her freedom was wrong, but she knew better and did not even humour it with an argument. She knew the soil was rotten, and she had a plan on how to rid herself of its petulant whispers.
The flowers danced to the cliff edge and stopped. Way below them were huge ocean waves that had their own gala. One far more grand than the one the flowers were having so high above. Currents that danced all across the world in lockstep, waves that weaved through rocks and swayed onto the sand. Roaring chants and cheers and laughing as millions of droplets swung one another over the slick shining rocks and onto the white sand. It looked so joyous and captivated the flowers.
âWe can join that dance and be free,â the lone flower said, âOur soil might keep up alive longer than the ocean below, but what kind of life is that? To be stuck in one place until we die? We should dance and be free until our last! We should join the currents and dance all around the world! See something beyond this cliff edge!â
The little white flowers quivered with apprehension at the idea.
âWill the ocean really take us?â One asked.
âHas the ocean ever met flowers like us?â Another pondered.
âThe ocean has seen many things,â the lone flower said, âWe will tell it our names and Iâm sure it will welcome each and every one of us below its waves.â
âOur names?â the little white flowers asked in unison.
The lone flower hummed and hawed for a moment before plucking one of her friends from her leaves and declaring, âYou will be Hope!â She picked up another, âand you Joy! And you Wonder! Love! Laughter! Whimsy!â She continued on naming each flower in such a fashion, each earning a name worthy of their beauty.
And with that, the small white flowers cheered and leaped from her leaves and floated to the ocean below. They held each other as they giggled and spun in the winds that carried them down to their watery bliss below.Â
The lone flower stood at the edge. The blades of grass squished between her muddy toes. The wind stilled and her fluttering, caressing dress drooped limply at her wobbly knees. Her eyes were puffy and pink against her pale peach skin, her lashes damp and clumped with tears that poured down her flushed cheeks. Her waist length hair, once soft as silk and straight as an arrow, cascaded over her shoulders in knots as the swirling winds had left it behind. The woman watched as all the flowers fell from the canopy she had made for them in her dress and plummeted off the cliff edge. She watched the whole descent into the treacherous ocean belowâ the sunlight that reflected upon it with hellish hues almost made the water look like lava. It was only polite for her to watch unblinkingly until the end, for each small white flower was a funeral. For her hope, her joy, her wonder, her love, her laughter, her whimsyâ all things that had long withered and died somewhere within her. She even kept watching as the vicious currents sucked them under and tore them to smithereens. She watched as the battered remains of each named flower were bashed repeatedly into the rocks below. Once they had been completely destroyed she knew it was time to cast away all the awful things that festered inside her too.
Friday afternoon, the final school bell rang and teenagers spilled out of the building. There was so much happy chatter and joyous giggles on the school grounds. Sunshine radiating from hundreds of ecstatic faces as they thought of all the fun they'd have over their two months of freedom. Yet, in the middle of the crowd there was a dark cloud by the name of Marlo. He wore an expression of absolute misery behind his huge round spectacles. His fists tightened in unspoken frustration around his ragged backpack straps. He hung his head and began his trek homeward without any fanfare.
He trudged through the streets forcing each leg forward with much difficulty; it felt like he was dragging cinder blocks behind him, but all he dragged was his untied heavy boots against the pavement. He sunk into his oversized hoodie, wishing it would swallow him whole. His eyes remained glazed over and downcast for the entirety of his walk, they only flicked up once when he approached his house. The sight made his guts tense and twist. His motherâs car was parked out front.
He made sure each act was deliberate, he unlocked the door at a gruelling pace. Each click made his skin crawl and his body physically recoil. He knew exactly how to put pressure on the door's hinges so they would not squeak as he opened it. Inwards and up until he felt the door shift ever so slightly. He slipped his feet out of his boots and tip-toed into the house. It was like entering through a wall of cigarette smokeâ the smog made him feel ill, but he knew better than to ever comment or even let his facial expression falter.
He had slipped into the kitchen when his stomach emitted a low growl. Like a frightened deer he stood still, his breath caught in his throat as he listened to hear if anyone would stir. No one did. The only sound was the blood rapidly coursing through his ears and the turning of a bookâs page the room over. He shuffled to the fridge, using his fingers to slip under the door and open the seal without the popping sound. There wasn't much. Condiments and a nearly finished jug of milk that made his stomach sour just looking at it.
His mind skipped back a couple of years, having half a glass of milk with some cookies on a Friday night. He had finished what little was left in the jug. At one a.m the transgression was noticed and the screaming began. His mother threw him out of the house for the âheinousâ crime and only allowed him back in an hour later, still peppering his sobbing thirteen year old self with insults. Most of the words from that night had been lost to time. All but one:
Bitch.
She loved that word. Miserable, worthless, useless, selfish, horribleâ they all ended with âbitchâ. One of his earliest memories was her calling him one of a useless variety at the age of five. He swore he remembered it being screeched at him more times than he remembered her ever uttering the phrase âI love youâ.
He closed the fridge just as delicately as he had opened it and decided to just go hungry until she went to bed. Heâd just have to persist off the leftover salted crackers he had for lunch for the time being. He slunk into his room and slid the door shut. He twisted the handle so the latch would not make a sound as it passed the door frame.
He took off his hoodie that acted as a protective shell. His bare arms, much like a picture, spoke a thousand words. Drawn lines he painted himself, but he had no part in colouring them in. Vibrant greens, reds, and purples splattered across the pasty white canvas. An ever changing and growing painting that echoed the same things she would yell at him: he was the biggest mistake of her lifeâ He ruined her life. She would not let him forget that. If he forgot the words, the bruises would surely remind him.
Sometimes Marlo found himself dreaming of her death. Maybe one day all the smoking would rot away her lungs and replace them with cancerous masses so he could stand over her withering, skeletal frame and listen to the heart monitor flatline. Or maybe sheâs just up and vanish, abandon him like his father had. Frankly, heâd take whatever to be freed from her. Heâd even accept his own demise in all honesty.
But no, his dreams never came to fruition upon her nor himself. He was stuck there. Stuck another three years, at least. Stuck being beaten with solid wood statuettes since hands didnât phase him anymore. Stuck being burrated and insulted for things as minor as having half a glass of milk when it had never been an issue prior. Stuck on eggshells knowing an undesirable sound or even being seen at the wrong time might put him in danger. Stuck in his cramped room afraid to even move anything lest it makes a noise. Stuck in this shitty, lonely, pointless life without the reprieve of school for the next two months.
He hated it. Hated his life. His mother. Himself. He just wanted this ball of dread and vitriol that festered under his ribs in place of his heart to go away, to bleed out of him so he could get even a brief moment of inner peace. He settled on his bed and reached into his nightstandâs drawer. His fingers paused as they brushed over the cold blade he stole from art class. An amused smile appeared on his lips as he thought, âFunny how an unfeeling, fridged, sharp razor blade against my skin is more warm and comforting than a motherâs love.â
The man kicked his boots against the side of the house. The mud and grime that accumulated over his shift at work tumbled in chunks onto the snow covered ground. It blotched and corrupted the purity winter painted around the house. His hot breath disrupted the crisp air.
He prepared to slip on his mask once more. It was a mask of his own flesh. He hated itâ but wearing it was a skill he long ago learned. He had to. It was how he survived childhood, and now how he functioned in society. No one wanted a broken person, not even himself.
He could feel his soul seeping through. Spreading its miserable rot from the inside out. He felt the decay rake the underside of his skin. Grasping, clawing, gripping⊠but not breaking. Once it reached the surface something terrible would happen. After all, last time this festering took him wholly he hit a drunken brute and watched that beast bleed out on the floor. That was different, that wasnât himâ thatâs what people told him. A beaten child that finally snaps and pushes back isnât truly cruelâ truly wrong. That monster deserved itâ for he was the one who viscerally shoved this rot into the man's living corpse. Breaking skin and bone until the innards they were meant to protect melted into a toxic ooze.
Though filth squirmed under the skin, it was contained. He entered his prison. The smell of dinner cooking permeated the air. His wife was a great cook, or so everyone said. And perhaps he thought so in his youth, too. Now, however, the once mouthwater aroma of her stew only made him nauseous. He knew when he ate it later he'd taste nothing but his own bile.
As he took off his boots and put on his house slippersâ of which his wife had lovingly made for him on their first anniversaryâ the woman had hurried to the door to greet him. It was the same thing every day so the man had grown used to this performance. A hug and a kiss as she welcomed him home. She always beamed seeing him, a smile he once thought lit up a room. The man could no longer see that, too distracted by how he wished to peel away every inch of his flesh she touched.
"How was your day?" She asked. Her voice, once angelic and sweet, was grating and shrill to his ears now. Like hundreds of claws trying to carve into his skull.
"Eh. Same shit different day," he replied, "What's for dinner? It smells good."
"Beef stew, your favourite! Come see." His wife had already started back to the kitchen, he followed her.
There their young son sat at the table munching on some vegetables the wife had set aside for him. He looked up from his snack and his bright emerald eyes widened. A gleeful smile spread across his chubby face. The remains of carrots stuck in his little teeth. It would have been heartwarming to someone less broken.
"Papa!" The dirty creature squealed, spit dripping down his puffy lips. He climbed down from his chair to toddle over as fast as his blubbery stubby legs would allow. His feet obnoxiously slapped across the tile floor with meaty thuds the whole way.
The man knelt down and caught his son, picking him up and causing a flurry of much more happy screeching. It tortured the man's ears nearly as bad as his wifeâs voice. His disdain for the thing couldn't grow much more. The child was little more than a reminder of how that vile witch ruined his lifeâ used him for her own pleasure and wishes. The only reason it drew breath was because she wanted it. He didn't even see it as his child. It was just her spawn. A manifestation of her desires he once felt he had to help bring to fruition.Â
Still, his mask never slipped off his decaying interior. He smiled and gently tossed the boy up, never letting his son leave his hands for more than a second. "How's my little man doing?"
The spawn squealed and giggled, but gave no real answer beyond that.
The man's wife looked at her husband and son with such a warm, soft expression. Bliss, maybe. No doubt she was admiring her loving, amazing family. The man hated that. He hated that he brought her any kind of satisfaction anymore. Perhaps he could get the axe out back in the middle of the night and free himself from these shacklesâ from this bitch and her pup. Though he knew deep down in the rotting quagmire of his soul he once loved that selfish woman. He once set aside everything to make her happyâ as he thought a normal, unbroken man should.
 Besides, he thought, taking a blade to himself would be far more pragmatic. Satisfying, even. What better way to get rid of rot than to carve it out?
