All the Things I Know
nadia the demented one
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Mother beckons me; her shrill voice cuts harshly through the sombre night air. Immediately, I abandon the lifeless rag doll, letting it drop to the dusty ground. I sigh. Tomorrow, Mother will make me clean the floors, the fireplace, anyplace where soot resides. I hurry down the corridor and stand to a halt at Mother's side, smiling cherubically.
"Angel, you're here," she sighs contentedly. She slips further down the green armchair, settling in comfortably. I bite my lip – will Mother hit me if I sit on her lap?
She takes a sip from her glass, something that she refuses to let me touch. "My old bones creak," Mother wheezes. I do not say anything in fear of punishment. She is not dreadfully old like our neighbours are, but she pretends she is. Maybe she really is getting old and tired. I wonder if she will die like Grandfather did, slip away unnoticed in the dark. The drink might fall out of her lifeless hand and make a mess on the floor. Even in death, Mother would command me to clean it, excusing herself because of her 'old age'.
Mother's eyelids flutter close, like the wings of delicate butterflies. I start to panic; I mustn't let her fall asleep now! If she doesn't tell me what I have to do tonight, she'll yell at me later. Then Father will come out of his study and wonder what the commotion is about, and give me the Look. Oh no, I should never get the Look. It burns a hole in the soul. If I get too many I won't go to Heaven and meet God. Must be perfect, mustn't be like her.
Must never be like Mary.
"Mother, what do you wish me to do?" I ask sensibly. Her eyes snap open and bore into mine; giving me shivers like the time I picked up a spider from the garden and it crawled over my hands.
"Bread and cheese is ready for her on the table. Remember, don't dawdle." I nod and hurry away to gather the food for her. We must never say her name. It is a curse, a sin, Father told me once. The neighbours will pry if they know, so we keep hush like little mice, tip-toeing around the house. So many secrets we have, and they must always stay like that. I snatch a few things and stealthily creep away, seeing from the corner of my eye Mother snores like a gentleman.
Mary lives in the smallest, darkest room in the house. I'm forbidden to go near it. Mother and Father insist that the devil resides there; it is he who has taken my sister away from us. Late at night, she howls like a ghoul, and Father has authoritatively informed me that she wants to crawl back into the seventh circle of Hell, to join her sinning acquaintances. Never must I talk to her.
I quiver as I stand in front of the door. The stone is exuding a foreboding air and my knees knock together. If I were at the playground, the other children would laugh. I almost drop the bread in the grime, but I catch it quickly. Thank God – if I had dropped it, Mary would have gone hungry! She would wail, and they would know. I'd probably be in there with her. I take tentative steps towards the door, hesitating with every heartbeat, every breath. How can my own sister frighten me so? How does she make me feel afraid of my own shadow?
Three more steps to go. I hate this; this makes me want to bawl my eyes out. This makes me want to bury my head in my mother's best silk gown and ruin the satin fabric with my salty tears. This makes me want to run away where Mary doesn't exist, where she doesn't humiliate me. Sometimes, I wish Mary would go away. Sometimes, I wish Mary would die.
Please, God, don't punish me! Please don't punish me for what I'm saying.
"Cynthia?" hearing my own name makes me cry out softly. Admittedly, her voice is like that of an angel, the perfect contrast to her demeanour. I swiftly whirl around, facing my back to the door. The door watches me; it is her eyes. I clamp my eyes shut, wishing for her to be quiet. Doesn't she know Mother will hear?
"Cynthia? I know you're out there…Cynthia? Cynthia, I'm hungry."
The tremors begin, nervously starting from my hands, growing until my body takes on seizure movements. Please, Mary, go away.
"Cynthia? How long will you hide?" Mary's voice is lilting, mocking. But it isn't her, no, I shan't believe that. It was the devil, crying for sustenance.
"Cynthia…please! I'm hungry… Cynthia." She makes me feel guilty. Of course she is hungry! I have been procrastinating at her door for several minutes and she has waited so long already. Does this make me as bad, because I never wait but make her wait?
I hesitantly turn around, my hand reaching for the brass handle. I turn it, slowly, feeling the grains of sand pouring away, down my neck, giving me shivers. The door is open, and there is my sister. The semblance of wicked beauty, staring through me, burning into my memory the sunken eyes and hollow frame. Her skeletal hand reaches towards me and instinctively, I shrink away, evading her wintry touch. I push the plate towards her and watch her incredulously as she greedily snatches the plate and scarfs down the food. Mary looks miserable as she licks off the lone crumb remaining. My eyes tear at the sight and I resolve to sneak her more food from the pantry. Mother shall not notice. I will be as quiet as a feather landing on a blanket of feathers.
I reach for the dish when Mary's hand lashes out like a bolt of lightning, tightening around mine like a tourniquet. I cannot help but look into her soulless eyes, hypnotising me.
"Thankyou, darling Cynthia," she whispers.
I can only nod before hastily retreating. She frightens me when she uses her powers. Father says she manipulates us all with her deceitful performances, but mercifully, Hell awaits her and redemption can never be fulfilled, regardless of perdition. God will thank me and rewards me, will he not? The Good Samaritan must steal a little to save someone, so it would not be sinning. But I am cut short from my angelic duties.
A dramatic wail engulfs the sinister ambience, resonating through the stone foundations. The waves pierce through me like a thousand knives, stabbing me, over and over. Momentarily, I am frozen, rooted to the ground like a tree. The bloodcurdling scream is ear-splitting, positively awakening the dead. Mother jerks awake, straightening in the chair and dropping the glass.
"Dear God!" she exclaims angrily. Mother stands up, faltering as she puts pressure on her gelatinous nerves. "Charles!" she hollers. There is no response.
"Mummy, is Mary okay?" I question, now standing directly behind her. She glares at me and I shrink away, into the shadows of the walls. We both jump at the succession of screams Mary brings on again, each one speaking a torturous tale. She knows something is going to happen tonight. Am I cursed if I say I know something is going to happen too?
Three sudden, swift knocks at the door arrive and I feel as if though my heart has been punctured wildly and capsized in my blood. My mother squeezes my hand and I realise that it is the opposite of Mary's hand, much warmer. I can feel the blood pumping. But it is not a reassuring hold. I'm so afraid. Please, God, protect us all. Please, God, don't let anything bad happen…
Although Mother and I pretend we are not eavesdropping, both of us are discreetly straining our ears, hopefully trying to catch snippets of the muted conversation between Father and the unknown stranger. Who could it be? Not many people come by to visit us, they don't like our beliefs. Daddy says the heretics will all suffer in God's wrath in due time.
"Louisa!" Father impatiently beckons with his voice. Mother drags me along in tow into the corridor where Father is standing with two men robed in blankets of white. There isn't a single stain. It's almost like… perfection.
Mother shiftily looks at the men donning their unwavering expressions. "Charles, who are they?" She probes him silently with her eyes. I too questioningly look up at Daddy's shady face. Father refuses to look at us.
"Louisa, these men are from the Institute."
Mother gasps, her eyes darting wildly form the strangers standing to my father. "Why?"
Father finally looks up. "You know why, Louisa. There's nothing else we can do. I made an enquiry to the Institute. She is out of our hands, and we all know that. We must let her go and pray to the Good Lord for forgiveness."
Mary's sobs have been playing in the background for quite some time. Sporadically, her wails crescendo and I want to scream at her so much to tell her to be quiet! And then they disappear, as if they hadn't been there at all. Just like she always does. I think it is her way of saying that she's still here with us.
Father inclines his head infinitesimally and the men enter our house, heading towards my ostracized sister. Her screams get louder and louder, each one despairing cries for help. I start towards her but Mother's vice grip is reinforced. Mary's hysterical moaning makes me want to rip my hair out!
"Oh, Father, save me! Mother, please!" my parents both close their eyes, shielding themselves from the terrorizing shrieks. "Please, if you love me!"
For one brief second, the whole world is silent. No one moves, no one breathes. This is the deciding moment, where the most important decision is made. Hang on or let go?
"No." Father's resolution is absolute, heartbreaking. My mother emits an odd noise and begins to break down herself.
Mary is still, very unbecoming on her character. It unnerves me. The men finally bring her out, carrying her. Mary: emaciated, limp and pale sister. Her eyes are still open but they are glassy, like on a corpse. My epiphany is immediate – Mary is beyond the stage of catatonia. Mary knows what Father's choice was. She no longer exists. We killed her.
Eventually, the van drives off into the direction of the Institute, my sister bundled up in the back. My mother is slumped against the wall, sobbing. I am wrong then. Mother does care about her.
Father holds my hand, the one Mother let go of. "Cynthia, do you know what's happening?"
I only stare at my father, let him look into the eyes of a child who obviously saw too much.
"Those men were angels and Mary's being taken to a place of God. They will help bring the Devil out of her. It will not be long, you'll see, dear. Mary will be back very soon."
Father is only convincing himself.
He lets go of my hand and staggers off into the direction of his study.
I wish to dear God, the Good Lord, that Father is right. Mary will come home soon, healthy as a cherub, and we can play happy families again. But the darkness rests in me now. I know, we all know that Mary will never, ever come back again.
I have discovered tonight that it is possible to die and still remain alive.
Mary was one example.
In due time, I will be too.
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A/N: I started this two months ago and finally was able to finish because of someone. I'm not thrilled with the last half but it's all I can muster at the moment. Pre-emptive strike: Mary is Alice, of course, and Cynthia is her sister. This is the night when Mary is admitted
to the mental institute because of her visions. Yeah, it's not the greatest story ever, but I'm feeling overwhelmed at the moment.
This was, I'll admit, a difficult one shot. I don't like working in the present tense but a challenge is good. And I hope I haven't hurt any feelings and such because of my reference to God. They were religious, I'm sure about that. My stance isn't the best as I'm not whatever they were (I can't remember!) but yeah, I tried. :P
And there are heaps of mistakes, I know. Let them be.
Dedicated to the person I love the most, and right now, hate the most. You shall never know who you are, but I hope this story answers your question.
nadia the demented one