You’ve walked past this house a hundred times I’m sure, never quite aware of what was inside, but always a little wary.
Did your hands shake a little in your pockets? Did the back of your neck begin to tingle? Did you swallow the urge to stop at the window before, and peer inside?
Yes. Oh yes, you did. Didn’t you?
Couldn’t resist. Couldn’t quite say no. Had to say yes.
Yes.
YES!
What could it be? What was inside the house that hangs around in the back of your mind, long after you’ve arrived home to the safety of your own house…
So, you take a look.
One window, just below ground level. Grimy and long forgotten, with such little light, and such little of the world to gaze upon.
What could be inside? I’m sure you’ve wondered many times, but tonight is the first time you’ve ever stopped.
It’s open for the first time, and so, naturally you’re curious.
It can’t be anything so bad, you tell yourself. It’s probably just a studio space, or some stroppy teenager’s den, and yet… the window is open, and so is your mind, and I address you, like an old friend, or a lover, so you stop, crouching on the pavement to listen.
I was born in blood.
It sank into my skin as my screams swam around the delivery room, overwhelming my poor mother.
In the distant winds, I could hear something calling to me. My tiny ears strained as I called back, struggling and fumbling with my lack of language.
It was all quite messy, and I’ve often wondered if that was where it all began.
It’s never been quite right, but how was I to know? How could I have known? And how could you?
My father held her as she fell from this Earth, to somewhere he couldn’t reach, both of them, bathed in the blood, dripping and drowning in it as I lay in a clear crib, covered in tubes.
He could barely look at me for years, and so he had to make a new life.
New wife, so quickly that the people around him gasped and whispered behind their hands, and a boy, bouncing and beautiful, with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen.
No time for the other. She stayed in the basement with her books, escaping to ancient lands and far flung fantasies. It worked. It was fine. Daddy could be happy. He had a woman, his heir, and somewhere in a dusty corner, his mistake.
He only cried a little after a while. Some might think he had forgotten, or found a way to heal, but every now and again, he would look at me, and I would know that he couldn’t quite get over it.
Still, there’s no use dwelling on the past, and all its problems. The blood, bound to be with me always, and all the silly things I’ve done.
I suppose you’d like to know it all, hmm?
Well, Mummy was the first, and I suppose that gave me a taste for it.
My first day was full of mayhem, and so, I needed something more. The world wanted more for me. I could feel it.
In those quiet, lonely hours, I could hear a call, gentle and full of understanding. Something was waiting for me, and so, I had to get its attention.
My Brother had a hamster, until he didn’t. Oh, and the poor boy would have so many accidents. Scraped knees, sprained wrists, smashed skull. The brat was never quite the same after that one, and neither was the way that Daddy dear would look at me.
Shame. So much shame and sadness.
He couldn’t understand what I was becoming. He couldn’t appreciate the honour of it all.
No. Too obsessed with holding together his new life, mumbling about the first wife, and what became of her. Ungrateful. Unyielding in his arrogance, but I was patient, until my patience no longer served me.
There came a point when I didn’t need him anymore, and that was the greatest day of my life.
As always, I could feel the calling, deep inside my growing bones and reverberating through the air that surrounded me. I was being called to battle. Something was coming, and when it did, I would finally be at peace.
We first met at my sixth birthday party.
The party was over before it had begun, to be honest. Story of my life.
No guests.
No gifts.
No games.
The other woman had spent the whole afternoon fussing over my little brother, and the cake’s icing had begun to congeal. Daddy was working late, as usual, and I had nothing but the rain outside for company.
The whole scene was so sad.
If I hadn’t been so surprised by his arrival, I’d have been awfully embarrassed.
He had a kind smile, and a real sense of style. His plush purple suit would look silly on somebody else, but he wore it in such a way that I gasped, glowing as his large, lilac eyes surveyed me.
He spoke, but for a second, I could barely hear him. Transfixed and bewitched by the beauty of his gaze. His pale, shimmering skin and his big, beautiful eyes, in his fancy outfit–the fabric, soft as anything, as I ran my hands down the breast pocket, leaning my little head against his chest.
Again, he spoke, sweeping me into his arms, his bones creaking and creating a simple, soft melody as the world faded from view, and we were together in the dark.
“Kill the baby, Louise.”
Daddy didn’t like that very much. He stared around the sitting room, his bottom lip trembling as his hands shook atop his thinning hair. He wouldn’t look at me, but he didn’t want to look at his brat and his bitch either, so he settled on the pooled blood by my feet, tears trailing down his fractured face.
“Kill the baby and the bitch, Louise.”
The hours had gotten away from me, and by the time he arrived home, I was a mess. My new party dress was spoiled, stained with the spare sibling and the spare spouse. I dipped the cake into the blood for a sweet treat, watching my lilac love pace around my father, both of us bursting into laughter as the man sank to his knees, sobbing and screaming.
Oh… what had we done?
What? Oh what had we done?
What had we done?
Well, what we must.
We did what we must.
He didn’t understand, and truthfully, neither did I, but it was the perfect birthday game.
Such fun.
Such satisfaction.
Unfortunately for me, that was when Daddy decided something had to be done, I suppose. I can’t say that I didn’t see it coming.
Ankles and wrists bound to the wall. One meal a day. One window in the room, always closed with cardboard crudely taped across it. One glance from his glistening, glum eyes as he fed me whatever bland and boring concoction he had made that day.
I think that he wanted me to cry, or to beg for release. I was supposed to learn a lesson—to be good, so that he could hold onto me with a little less pain in his heart, but I didn’t speak to him at all.
I didn’t need him.
I had my lilac love, who adored me more and more as I grew into a young woman.
We spoke in silent stares as the days passed. Not a word or a single sound. We needed nothing more than those small moments of stillness together for me to understand him completely.
He only ever spoke when it was time.
I’m not really restrained, you know. Not in a way that I can’t handle, anyway.
That stupid old man ties me up again, even chains sometimes, but it’s no use. He knows I will be free if I want to be, and when my darling whispers to me, I simply must find my freedom.
Broken wrists and ankles are no longer bound, and off I go, wherever the feeling takes me, crawling on bloody knees as my sweetheart soothes my wounds and makes me whole, so that I may satisfy him.
We’ve been all over the place, and had all kinds of adventures.
The brat was not enough. I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now.
There was old Mrs Barnaby next door.
Such a sweet soul.
Such a sweet meal.
“Kill the nosy neighbour, Louise.”
Oh, how she screamed, as if the whole world was ending, and how my father wept as he dug deep into the chalky earth to hide what was left of her.
The charming tutor that father found. Finished off in one afternoon, his bones crunching, drowning in bonny blood as Daddy dear fell to his knees and howled like a wounded, woeful dog.
“Kill the interfering tutor, Louise.”
I was obedient, and father was beside himself.
It continued, as he had begun to accept it would. He would pray sometimes, hovering by the door, barely able to look at me as he begged his God to save my weakened, wayward soul, and when God ignored his pathetic pleading, he would kneel by the door, weeping and wailing.
Sometimes, father would have fits of rage, snapping and splitting into pieces, as he threw my food around the echoing, bleak basement and finally found the courage to look at me.
“Why is it never me?” I was just polishing off the last of the last babysitter he sent me, when he pushed his face close to mine and screamed those words, as if it was ever an option. We were still for a moment, and we stared, never speaking, not even moving for a minute or so, before he ran from the room, overcome by his tears.
We said no more about it.
Father continued to make his bland broths and stiff bread rolls, and I continued to wait for calls, my tired head lolling on my weary shoulder, until the sunlight of my lover’s voice fell upon me, and I was rejuvenated.
The silence surrounded me, yet again, and so I waited, as I always did, for the war to come back around.
There was always a war, you understand. That’s what the silly old fool couldn’t see. There was a war, and I was a soldier, the chosen champion of my darling.
That was how it had to be. He would give the call, and I would spring forth, spritely and valiant.
There are things much more dangerous than me on this Earth, friend. That’s what he says.
Some see them as innocents, but he knows what they hide beneath them. My lilac love always knows, and he can see deep into their dirty bones, so I must destroy them. I must bring it to an end.
It all rests on me.
I couldn’t stop it, even if I wanted to.
It won’t end, until it is time for it to end, and all the world is free of the things that we must fear. That’s what my darling says.
He hates my father. He scowls at him as the stupid old man paces the room and pleads with me to be what he needs.
“Please, just be good Louise.” My darling and I scoff at his weak willed whimpers, and the disdain my darling holds in each withering look is delicious, but…
Sometimes, it does make me wonder.
Why was it never him?
Why was my father spared?
Why does he ask the same thing ever since he first let the thought escape his trembling, tear soaked mouth?
“Why is it never me?”
…
Why can’t I stop thinking about it?
He doesn’t matter. I have all I need. I have always had what I needed.
Before me, as we speak in this moment, are those large, looming, lilac eyes and they see me. They really, truly see me, and the sky is smiling upon me, but…
Why is it never him?
What have the others done?
What have I done?
“Kill the baby, Louise.”
I follow my orders.
“Kill the baby and the bitch, Louise.”
I can feel the warmth of his love beneath my fingertips as I work.
“Kill the nosy neighbour, Louise.”
I am a soldier.
“Kill the interfering tutor, Louise.”
But when will the war end?
When will the war end?
Why did you have to stop here tonight?
Why did you have to look through this window?
Why did you have to listen?
Why won’t you stop me?
“Kill the passer by, Louise.”
Stop me.
“It’s time to kill them, Louise.”
Stop me!
“It’s time to kill them, Louise.”
STOP ME! THE WINDOWS AND DOORS WILL NOT CONTAIN ME!
“The war is afoot my child, so kill. Kill. Kill.”
STOP ME! I CANNOT CONTROL MYSELF!
“The war never ends my child, so kill. Kill. Kill.”
Sincerely, Jennifer x 