Part I: Trembling Fawn
Mother brought home another one of her "friends."
Normally I would be seething – forced to come up with an excuse to get Lacy out of the house for the night – but this time, it's different.
I keep telling myself that as I raise my fist to the green door.
I bang on it once. Twice. Three times.
Silence.
I sigh for a moment and wait, the blood of the doe I shot – now tied and propped beside the door – warm and sticky against my neck. Having seeped through the collar of my shirt and into my skin. The summer's heat only makes things worse.
Even after braiding my pale blonde hair about my head, my entire body felt moist with sweat – gathering under my arms, at the small of my back, staining the collar of my tunic. At least summer meant the forest was teeming with game. If it were winter, we'd be desperate.
I frown at the door's peeling paint. No sounds trickle through the sizable gap between the door and the floor, wide enough for even the fattest rats to meander through.
I bang my fist against the door again; louder this time, fueled by anger. Screw whomever my mother was sleeping with. As soon as they see me covered in blood, they'll run out.
Clipped, precise footsteps sound from the other side of the door. Each more pissed than the last. I brace myself for the onslaught of verbal lashings, long since numb to my mother's venom.
Besides, this is what she gets for losing the house key in one of her many late-night drunken walks home from whatever seedy tavern she frequented. Afraid of someone finding it and being pathetic enough to try it on every house in the village, I went to our local locksmith and got a new one put on the house. It took a slight portion of my father's death money, and I kept telling myself it was worth it. If it meant another safety for Lacy. I've asked my mother several times to get the key molded for the three of us, but of course, she never does.
In fact, she takes whatever money I don't hide from her and spends it at the taverns. I'd sooner skin her if she tried to touch my father's insurance.
The snap as she unlatches the lock might as well have been a gunshot. The door is yanked open, the knob twisting so hard I wonder if she's imagining it as my neck.
My mother already wears a scowl. But there she is.
And she looks like hell.
"What do you want?"
"I live here." I growl. I grab the doe by its bound legs and heave it inside, the sound of fur against wood grating on my ears. My mother steps back, her eyes raking over me with that blue-grey stare that always kindles my temper. The summer heat follows me inside, the windows useless whether they're opened or closed.
She wears a man's shirt. Worse, she wears only a man's shirt.
Uncaring of the trail of smeared blood I leave, I give her my own half grin I know brings out her claws. "Rough night, mommy dear?"
I take a calming breath as I haul the deer onto our dining table. She hits it with a thud, rattling a ceramic cup on its other end.
My mother stares at it, her throat bobbing as she swallows. "Where did you get that?"
"Where do you think I got it?"
There's a flash in her eyes that's become too common in recent weeks. The realization that I could kill her just as easily as the other animals if I wanted to. If she pushed me too far. I assumed she never fully processed the expanse I was going to with my hunting – probably too drunk to really remember – only to resurface in her wine-stained memory whenever I brought home big game.
I don't dare take off my bow and quiver; not until that man – whoever he may be – leaves. We've had more than our fair share of assholes in this house, more than Lacy needed to see.
A gun would've been better in regards of intimidation, and ever since one incident during the winter, I've always kept a handgun on me – but I preferred the bow due to its stealth, it's quietness. Not to mention arrows are cheaper than bullets. Regardless, I'll shoot any man dead before he even moves an inch towards me.
"Kick that sorry bastard out and I'll get the meat ready." The deer takes up the entirety of the rickety table that served as our dining area. "You can eat half the meat this week," I say, shifting my gaze to the doe. "Dry the other half, and I'll go to the market tomorrow to see how much I can get for the hides."
My mother doesn't seem to notice my wording, my subtle hint at implication. Instead, her eyes widen with high brows.
My lips pull back from my teeth. "You think I can't hear him in your bedroom, trying to quietly put on his clothes and sneak out the window?"
As if in answer, a muffled thud comes from the bedroom. My mother hisses.
She folds her arms and turns to head back into the hallway. No mention of the blood on me. No asking of Lacy's whereabouts. Not that she's shown any care even when sober. My father was the only one she truly loved and respected. I've long since given up hope of her actually noticing whether I came back from the woods every evening. At least until she got hungry again.
Her bare feet pad across wood and carpet. I try to ignore the pinch of tightness in my chest at how small and frail she looks. As if she might crumble into dust.
She might've been beautiful once: long bare legs, an elegant sweep of hips, tapered waist – too damn thin – and full, inviting breasts that are at odds with the new, sharp angles of her body. But now she might as well be a hollow shell with her dirty blonde hair limp and dull. Her blue-grey eyes dead and cold as slate.
I'd go as far as preparing the meat for her, make sure she's set for when I permanently leave. As for the money . . . I'll be giving that to Luiza to devote to Lacy. The latter of whom is already at the woman's house, probably devouring bowls and bowls of soup and baskets of bread.
I'll spend tomorrow preparing the deer's remaining parts for consumption, then I'll allot a few hours to currying up the hide before taking it to the market. I know a few vendors who might be interested in such a purchase, but I had my eyes set on The Duke. He is a good man despite his hefty size and posh appearance. His prices are fair, and his inventory is seemingly immeasurable. I've given him enough patronage for him to know me by name, and to find a few extra coins in my purse during our trades.
I turn and pull a knife from the drawer, the blade long and retaining a little shine. The cabinets were once white in their prime, but now their paint, like the door, is peeling. Pieces having been chipped off or worn with age, while the stove has acquired some rust, its insides no doubt as ashen as my mother's skin.
Our house is the same as some others in the village – a single floor with the kitchen, living room, and dining room all sharing one large space before narrowing into a hallway that leads to the two back bedrooms and single bathroom. We may be comfortable now with my father's insurance money, but with my mother unable – and unwilling – to work, I took on the task of hunting as means to provide a flow of coin.
And at the age of eighteen; to give a solid foundation for when winter came and there was little profit to be made.
My father passed from illness almost two years ago now, and he taught me all he could even before he was diagnosed. And when he passed, I used such teachings to provide for us.
Grief buried my mother, and now she drowns herself further in wine and liquor. Another reason for needing income; she'll take whatever money and run with it to the taverns. But as long as it distracts her from my father's insurance – to which I'd carefully hidden throughout the house – dipping into it only when necessary, such as the brand-new lock.
Movement sounds from the back bedroom, and I start my work on the skinning the deer. I'd only learned to prepare and harvest my kills thanks to the instruction of others. I'm not the best, but it was enough to earn a gaze from my mother's nightly "friends" when they walked towards the door.
I've made quick work of the head, but I saved the belly for when the man walks out. I don't look at him, but I can recognize him from around the village. He's handsome, as most young men are – brown hair and average built. I could feel his eyes on me as he buttons his shirt.
I made a show of gutting the deer from nose to navel, pulling out the intestines and dumping in the sink with a thick slap. It rattles the dishes left unattended. I grin to myself as the man hurries out of the door, nearly forgetting to put on his shoes.
My mother hisses as she closes the front door behind him. I meet her stare as I cut out the doe's heart. She scurries back into the hallway, slamming her door shut, as if I just embarrassed more than she already had bearing herself to a stranger.
I pause, looking at the blood on my hands, thinking back to when Lacy retracted from me because of the dirt and blood cresting beneath my nails. I've always been different here in this village. Sometimes I wonder if I was born in the wrong place. Here the woman wore such cumbersome dresses with their hair tied neatly and content to live a life of menial chores around the house. My father could see it: my defiance, my difference, and he allowed me to hone it. To embrace it and love it even with the whispers and gazes that pelted us every time he allowed me to walk throughout the village in pants and a shirt.
Lacy had only been four, but somehow, she's already grasped the concept of death. Enough so that she cried the night our father passed, after being by his beside and handing him a few flowers Luiza allowed her to pick from her garden. I sat behind her on a stool, giving my sister space as my father pulled her in for a hug, his entire arm wrapping around her little body in a pink nightgown.
I could still hear his final words to her, Listen to your sister. And never forget to smile little Bumblebee.
Lacy was always Bumblebee, as cute and as chubby and clumsy as one. She always ran around the village on winged feet, some sort of flower always in her hand. He never really gave me a pet name, and I never bothered to ask. I probably would've hated it, anyway. Maybe he knew that.
Were it not for him . . . Every time I looked toward a horizon or wondered if I should just walk and walk and never look back, I hear that promise I made those couple of years ago as he wasted away on his deathbed. Stay together, and look after them. I'd agreed, too young to ask why he hadn't begged my mother. But I'd sworn it to him, and then he'd died, and in our miserable human world, a promise is law; a promise is currency; a promise is your bond.
There were times when I hated him for asking that vow of me. Perhaps, delirious with fever, he hadn't even known what he was demanding. Or maybe impending death had given him some clarity about the true nature of his children, his wife. On the other hand, Lacy has always done everything I've asked of her, no questions asked. It was admirable, if a bit strange; and a part of me wanted to encourage her to think of herself. To not be afraid to ask questions.
The sound of rummaging catches my attention and I soon hear the sound of turning knobs and running water. Don't know why she's bothering to freshen up, especially if she's just going to head to another tavern – if they'll even accept her.
By the time she's finished washing away the sweat and other remnants of last night, I've finished with the deer. She emerges in a gown of deep navy, her hair partially, sloppily up and held by two combs of ebony.
She scans the small living area for her shoes — around the sagging couch, a soot-stained hearth, a moth-eaten armchair —then traces her steps back into her bedroom. I already found her shoes in opposite corners of the kitchen. One reeked of spilled wine and ale. But I'll let her figure it out on her own.
She comes back and manages to find time after a small tumble, steadying herself on the counter before perching on the edge of the couch, sliding on her shoes, tugging at the laces.
"You could make yourself useful and tidy up the place." I say sharply. We've been beyond pleasantries for a year now. "Some fresh air might do you some good."
As I drop the scraps of the deer into the bag, guts and entrail and all, something wafts by my nose. I sniff loudly.
It says enough.
"Did you even bother to use soap? You could at least try to pretend that you're not an ignorant peasant."
My mother simply ties the lace on the first shoe and looks up at me beneath lowered brows. "What business is it of yours?"
I shrug, doing my best to bury my fury as I wash my hands in the sink. "You stink like a pig covered in its own filth and wine. But I bet it's hard to look good when you're out until the darkest hours of the night, drinking yourself stupid and fucking anything that comes your way."
"Hasn't stopped anyone yet." She says smoothly as she ties the other shoe. I track every movement.
I hadn't thought about how I was going to break the news to her. Torn between telling it to her gently, or just outright before walking away from this place with the rest of my father's insurance. The latter of which I've already given to Luiza.
My mother will get nothing.
And I don't care.
She doesn't deserve it. I won't even leave her with the money I'll get from the deer. Maybe it'll actually shock her enough to go out and do something with her life.
Hell, she might not even care I'm leaving. Maybe she expected it at this point.
Fuck it.
I don't bother looking pleasant as I twist to face her. I lean against the counter, resting my hands along the edge. "I got a job at Castle Dimitrescu.
She stills, cutting me a sharp glance. I could've sworn something like pain etched itself across her face.
"I start tomorrow."
My mother freezes like the doe did before my arrow impaled her heart. She whispers. "You can't. You won't."
I let out a low laugh. "You don't give me orders. You lost such privileges when you left Lacy outside in the snow."
My mother winces. She had been passed out drunk on the couch, Lacy was playing outside, and I was working on Luiza's livestock when I came home at nine in the evening to find Lacy huddled on the front step, her little body covered in snow despite her winter coat.
I feared I had lost her, wept has I held her still body in my arms, but she started to whimper, and I rushed her to a neighboring house to warm. I left her there and nearly broke down the door trying to get inside before my mother answered it. I tackled her and raked my nails down her face, trying to pierce her neck.
I was so furious, so encased in a red vision that I really, truly would have killed her that night, were it not for the husband of that same neighbor yanking me off of her.
She never apologized to Lacy.
"As of tomorrow, I'm moving into the castle." I nod eastward, towards the castle carved into the mountains. "It's not up for negotiation."
"Like hell it isn't."
"I've already decided that Lacy is to stay with Luiza until I return."
My mother's fingers curl into fists at her sides. "You can't keep me from my daughter. You can't just up and leave and make decisions for this family."
I bark a cold laugh. "Family?!" I spit the word at her, wielding it like one of my hunting knives. "We haven't been a family since Father past!"
"Don't –!" She points a finger at me, taking a step closer. I place my hand on my handgun holster strapped to my hip.
Her eyes flare, but I suppress my grin at her hurt; the distrust in my eyes.
"Every hour of the day you chose wine and liquor over your two daughters!" I scream. "You chose to sully yourself with these pigs of men while we nearly starved; you chose to spend our money, you chose to become this indecent cist of existence! And now, all of that is done."
"You can't do this." My mother spits. Another step.
I take my own towards her. "I can, and I already have. I went throughout the entire village – you know, while you were drowning in your own vomit – and had a petition signed, allowing Luiza to be Lacy's guardian until I return. It also says that you cannot come within a hundred feet of her house, or of Lacy."
Her lips pull back from her teeth. "Do I have no choice in the matter?"
"No."
"You have no right."
I raise my hand to my chest in exaggerated shock. "I don't have the right? You've done nothing for this family ever since Father died!" I repeat. "We wouldn't even be alive if it weren't for me! You've become pathetic and useless!"
"My daughter needs to be able to see me."
My fist tightens at the implied insult that she doesn't consider me her daughter.
"Lacy agreed to this hours ago. Her things are already packed and move, not that I'm surprised you hadn't noticed. You didn't care before. Why now?"
My mother recoils.
I don't relent. "Lacy knows how to contact you. If she wishes to visit you, she is free to do so. Luiza and her husband would gladly take her to you."
The words hang between them, so heavy and palpable.
I hold my spine ramrod straight, back aching with the effort. "I don't care what vitriol you spew my way. Lacy is under Luiza's guardianship, you will not be getting any money from me or from father's insurance, and I will not care what becomes of you and your miserable self!"
My mother's breath saws in and out of her. And her eyes line with silver.
"I never want to speak to you again." she seethes.
"That's fine. You won't have to. I'm done watching you selfishly destroy yourself and us."
My eyes blaze as I grab the pelt, leaving the hollowed husk of the deer on the table. "Lacy is waiting for me."
"I want to talk to her."
"She'll come visit you when she's ready." I snarl, razoring my words so they find their mark. "You're not my mother. And you're not her mother. You're just a half-wild beast with the nerve to bark orders at me as if you actually care. Keep it up, and someday, Mother, you'll have no one left to remember you, or to care that you ever existed."
I fling her title like an insult, and my jaw aches from clenching it so hard. My mother gazes at the floor, her face pale and gaunt, eyes blazing.
Screw preparing the meat. She can eat it raw for all I care; die of some parasite if the alcohol doesn't kill it or her first.
I can still sell the pelt for some coin. My father's insurance should be enough to hold Lacy over for a few good years. I'd be foolish to think I can collect enough money before it runs out. But I'm luck that Luiza is such a kind woman. Her children are already grown and out of the house; perhaps she would enjoy raising another.
"Erika." My mother calls, her voice breaking to a near whimper.
I don't reply. But I do pause.
How long has it been since she called my name? And that encourages her enough to place her hand on my elbow. The silence hums in my ears, rippling across my flames, suffocating them, stilling the unbearable wrath. Utter, frozen silence.
I still don't say anything, partially because I'm afraid of what else will come out.
I dare a glance over my shoulder. I had forgotten how much taller my mother was, if only by a few inches. Either we've been distancing ourselves for too long, or I've only inflated my own ego since I became the sole provider of Lacy.
Every instinct tells me to keep going, to walk away and never look back, but –
Stay together. Look after them.
Still, I refuse to acknowledge the look of panic and hurt in my mother's eyes. Refuse to believe it.
Instead, I smother it with the memories of all the terrible neglect she dumped on us; memories of hearing her get fucked by a stranger for the first time; of having to get Lacy out of the house in nothing but her pajamas and blanket before she would awaken to such vulgar sounds. So, she wouldn't have to ask about the stranger man in mother's bed, or why she's with someone else who isn't our Father.
When one of those strangers dared to put a hand on me . . . The sound of my dress skirt ripping. The feeling of wood pressing into my back.
The pure, undiluted fear and panic . . .
Then that memory of little Lacy – five and bundled in only her coat and boots that one winter – huddled on the front step of their home. Cold and shivering and forgotten.
"I wanted you to try. To fight for us. But you didn't." I whisper. "You would've let us all starve."
I wrench my arm from her grip. I could've sworn I felt her tremble.
I ignored it, just as she ignored me.
"That you only care now just proves what a wretch you are."
I don't wait for a response as I yank the door open and step outside.
I don't look back to see if she closes the door. If she falls to her knees and weeps. I just keep telling myself I don't care, that it doesn't matter. That she's half-wild and would rather wallow in self-pity than to fight for her children.
But truthfully, I don't know which one of us is more bitter and hollow.