It probably had something to do with her turning seven.
Seven was a magical number: Lucky Seven, Seven Dwarfs, Seven Gates of Hell... There was just something intriguing about it, something that caught your attention. Something that made you look up in surprise- or, in this case, bow your head with the confirmation of reality.
Joe was seven. Seven years old. Seven years old and she still had never spoken a word, still had never taken her first step, still had never stopped those hysterical fits and still had never so much as blinked when anyone walked into the room. Seven years old somehow meant she would never pass that stage, never become a real child. She'd always be a vegetable.
That thought had passed briefly through Bri's mind three days earlier at the party- when he and Sheila had blown the candles out for their daughter, while Sheila's theatre friends, the ones who gave half a damn anyway, clapped their hands, and Bri's mother wiped what might not have been a forced tear from her left cheek with an old lacy handkerchief. It had occurred to him slightly when they had all sat in the living room afterwards with drinks. It had rushed through his mind before he'd gone to sleep that night, as he heard Sheila sigh on the pillow next to him, her back to him and his to her; the soft rush of late-night cars passing outside.
He hadn't really thought of it since.
Bri was currently standing in the kitchen washing his lunch dishes, because Sheila was off rehearsing for a show while he was on a "sick day" from work- bloody kids, couldn't get a break from them unless he invented excuses for himself- and Joe was sitting in the corner in her wheelchair, fish-like eyes cast to the ceiling, not moving, not speaking... not doing anything. Just like always.
It was hot for an early spring day- unseasonably hot. Bri wiped the film of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and plunged his hands again into the scalding water. He would have to open a window.
Putting his plate in the drying rack and rinsing and wiping his hands, Bri went to the kitchen window, unlatched it, and tried to open it. It was stuck.
Damn.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead again. He was going to cook in this little hellhole of a kitchen if he couldn't cool off soon. Maybe something was wrong with him- it couldn't possibly be THIS hot.
Maybe he'd just go up into the attic a bit. Hell, he didn't have anything else to do. It was probably cooler up there, and he could get some painting done while he was at it.
But on his way out of the kitchen towards the living room, he suddenly felt himself stop.
He hadn't even got to the door. He had stopped dead within four feet of little Joe and her wheelchair.
Bri tilted his head like an inquisitive child, almost in the same way that his daughter always had her head flopped to one side- flopped to one side and up, staring at the ceiling.
What was so god damn interesting about the ceiling?
"Snap out of it, Joe," he heard himself whisper, looking down at his daughter. He expected some kind of affirmation from her that she had heard him, some kind of unintelligible moan or grunt, a twitch of the shoulder or the eyelid. Something.
Anything.
There was nothing.
"Joe?" he asked again, more desperate this time, and his eyes got wide as he studied his daughter. Suddenly she seemed so perfect, so porcelain- her dress, lovingly ironed by her mother just moments before she had been put in it, blemished by not one wrinkle. Her skin, smooth as satin and eternally pale. Her eyes, black empty pools. Her hair, dark and straight and soft and not one strand out of place- like doll's hair. Little Joe was a porcelain doll, that's what she was. The heat didn't bother her, the noise didn't bother her, she didn't seem to notice her father's penetrating gaze at all. She was a decoration; not even a plaything, the kind of doll a grandmother places on a high-up shelf away from the children, who could break it- oh so easily.
Bri kneeled in front of his daughter, blinking, confused, a deer in the headlights. What had happened here? This wasn't a little girl- she'd been a girl three days ago, a six-year-old girl with some problems. Now she was a seven-year-old doll with nowhere to go. With just one destiny- to sit up on that shelf for the rest of her days, never changing and never truly aging, save a small chipping of the paint or fading of the lustrous glow of her skin.
It was still staggeringly hot in the room, and the temperature continued to rise as Bri kneeled there and looked at his daughter, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement of his existence from the very thing he'd helped to give life to. He breathed out hard in desperation, wiping the sweat as it poured from his temples. Move- make a noise- DO SOMETHING.
A doll can't do anything.
He reached out and touched her cheek with his knuckles. The kitchen's heat was stifling, but somehow his daughter's skin felt almost cold as ice. He touched her hair- such perfect polyester hair. His other hand reached up.
And suddenly he had both hands around her neck.
Joe didn't struggle. She didn't make a sound. The only movement she made was the slight rising of the head as Bri squeezed her throat shut, and the flopping backwards onto the wheelchair when he finally let go.
Bri stood up, his hands tense at his sides, studying his handiwork. She hadn't changed, except for the fact that her head now lay on her left shoulder instead of her right. Nothing had changed.
He rushed past her, opening the door to the living room.
And woke up.
The clock read 2:25 AM. The neighborhood was silent. Sheila, asleep, breathed softly behind him. He was in bed, in his bedroom.
'What an odd dream', he thought.
By 2:56 he had failed to get back to sleep. He finally rose, fetching his robe from the closet, hoping that a little time up might make him ready to go to sleep again. He walked out of the room barefoot, and on his way to the stairs happened to pass Joe's room.
The door was open- it always was left open, to help them hear better in case she woke up with a fit in the middle of the night. Bri paused and looked in- in the dim light, his daughter was a dark, unmoving shadow on the small bed.
He headed downstairs.
The next morning- Saturday- Sheila walked downstairs to find her husband asleep on the couch. She woke him up, ready to be rushing off to rehearsal, reminding him when he asked her why the hell she had awoken him that someone had to look after Joe.
Joe.
Right.
That afternoon, Bri stood in the kitchen washing his lunch dishes. Joe sat in her wheelchair in the corner. Eyes cast towards the ceiling.
Not moving. Not speaking. Not doing anything.
Just like always.
Bri put the last dish in the drying rack and rinsed and wiped his hands. Maybe, he thought, he'd go up in the attic and paint a little. He didn't have much else to do today...
On his way to the kitchen door he stopped.
His head tilted to one side.
"Joe..." he said very quietly, looking at her, and for a moment it seemed he was trying very hard to think of what to say.
He sighed, remembering, and turned back towards the cupboard.
"...it's time for your medicine..."
Seven was a magical number: Lucky Seven, Seven Dwarfs, Seven Gates of Hell... There was just something intriguing about it, something that caught your attention. Something that made you look up in surprise- or, in this case, bow your head with the confirmation of reality.
Joe was seven. Seven years old. Seven years old and she still had never spoken a word, still had never taken her first step, still had never stopped those hysterical fits and still had never so much as blinked when anyone walked into the room. Seven years old somehow meant she would never pass that stage, never become a real child. She'd always be a vegetable.
That thought had passed briefly through Bri's mind three days earlier at the party- when he and Sheila had blown the candles out for their daughter, while Sheila's theatre friends, the ones who gave half a damn anyway, clapped their hands, and Bri's mother wiped what might not have been a forced tear from her left cheek with an old lacy handkerchief. It had occurred to him slightly when they had all sat in the living room afterwards with drinks. It had rushed through his mind before he'd gone to sleep that night, as he heard Sheila sigh on the pillow next to him, her back to him and his to her; the soft rush of late-night cars passing outside.
He hadn't really thought of it since.
Bri was currently standing in the kitchen washing his lunch dishes, because Sheila was off rehearsing for a show while he was on a "sick day" from work- bloody kids, couldn't get a break from them unless he invented excuses for himself- and Joe was sitting in the corner in her wheelchair, fish-like eyes cast to the ceiling, not moving, not speaking... not doing anything. Just like always.
It was hot for an early spring day- unseasonably hot. Bri wiped the film of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and plunged his hands again into the scalding water. He would have to open a window.
Putting his plate in the drying rack and rinsing and wiping his hands, Bri went to the kitchen window, unlatched it, and tried to open it. It was stuck.
Damn.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead again. He was going to cook in this little hellhole of a kitchen if he couldn't cool off soon. Maybe something was wrong with him- it couldn't possibly be THIS hot.
Maybe he'd just go up into the attic a bit. Hell, he didn't have anything else to do. It was probably cooler up there, and he could get some painting done while he was at it.
But on his way out of the kitchen towards the living room, he suddenly felt himself stop.
He hadn't even got to the door. He had stopped dead within four feet of little Joe and her wheelchair.
Bri tilted his head like an inquisitive child, almost in the same way that his daughter always had her head flopped to one side- flopped to one side and up, staring at the ceiling.
What was so god damn interesting about the ceiling?
"Snap out of it, Joe," he heard himself whisper, looking down at his daughter. He expected some kind of affirmation from her that she had heard him, some kind of unintelligible moan or grunt, a twitch of the shoulder or the eyelid. Something.
Anything.
There was nothing.
"Joe?" he asked again, more desperate this time, and his eyes got wide as he studied his daughter. Suddenly she seemed so perfect, so porcelain- her dress, lovingly ironed by her mother just moments before she had been put in it, blemished by not one wrinkle. Her skin, smooth as satin and eternally pale. Her eyes, black empty pools. Her hair, dark and straight and soft and not one strand out of place- like doll's hair. Little Joe was a porcelain doll, that's what she was. The heat didn't bother her, the noise didn't bother her, she didn't seem to notice her father's penetrating gaze at all. She was a decoration; not even a plaything, the kind of doll a grandmother places on a high-up shelf away from the children, who could break it- oh so easily.
Bri kneeled in front of his daughter, blinking, confused, a deer in the headlights. What had happened here? This wasn't a little girl- she'd been a girl three days ago, a six-year-old girl with some problems. Now she was a seven-year-old doll with nowhere to go. With just one destiny- to sit up on that shelf for the rest of her days, never changing and never truly aging, save a small chipping of the paint or fading of the lustrous glow of her skin.
It was still staggeringly hot in the room, and the temperature continued to rise as Bri kneeled there and looked at his daughter, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement of his existence from the very thing he'd helped to give life to. He breathed out hard in desperation, wiping the sweat as it poured from his temples. Move- make a noise- DO SOMETHING.
A doll can't do anything.
He reached out and touched her cheek with his knuckles. The kitchen's heat was stifling, but somehow his daughter's skin felt almost cold as ice. He touched her hair- such perfect polyester hair. His other hand reached up.
And suddenly he had both hands around her neck.
Joe didn't struggle. She didn't make a sound. The only movement she made was the slight rising of the head as Bri squeezed her throat shut, and the flopping backwards onto the wheelchair when he finally let go.
Bri stood up, his hands tense at his sides, studying his handiwork. She hadn't changed, except for the fact that her head now lay on her left shoulder instead of her right. Nothing had changed.
He rushed past her, opening the door to the living room.
And woke up.
The clock read 2:25 AM. The neighborhood was silent. Sheila, asleep, breathed softly behind him. He was in bed, in his bedroom.
'What an odd dream', he thought.
By 2:56 he had failed to get back to sleep. He finally rose, fetching his robe from the closet, hoping that a little time up might make him ready to go to sleep again. He walked out of the room barefoot, and on his way to the stairs happened to pass Joe's room.
The door was open- it always was left open, to help them hear better in case she woke up with a fit in the middle of the night. Bri paused and looked in- in the dim light, his daughter was a dark, unmoving shadow on the small bed.
He headed downstairs.
The next morning- Saturday- Sheila walked downstairs to find her husband asleep on the couch. She woke him up, ready to be rushing off to rehearsal, reminding him when he asked her why the hell she had awoken him that someone had to look after Joe.
Joe.
Right.
That afternoon, Bri stood in the kitchen washing his lunch dishes. Joe sat in her wheelchair in the corner. Eyes cast towards the ceiling.
Not moving. Not speaking. Not doing anything.
Just like always.
Bri put the last dish in the drying rack and rinsed and wiped his hands. Maybe, he thought, he'd go up in the attic and paint a little. He didn't have much else to do today...
On his way to the kitchen door he stopped.
His head tilted to one side.
"Joe..." he said very quietly, looking at her, and for a moment it seemed he was trying very hard to think of what to say.
He sighed, remembering, and turned back towards the cupboard.
"...it's time for your medicine..."