Chapter 7

Sara slowly and carefully drew a thick black stripe on her eyelid. She paused to examine her handiwork, and smiled.

She rummaged through her jewelry, and picked out a long chain, which she attached to her belly-button ring. She made a face. Fantasy would have a stroke if she saw that. She pulled her shirt down a little further.

Fantasy, who's first malevolent act towards her daughter was naming her Serafina! She had gotten the name out of some shitty book (The Golden Compass) she had read once. Then Fantasy had the gall to try and make HER read it!

Sara had demanded since she was old enough to talk to be called Sara. Her mother had fought her bitterly on that point, exclaiming in a never-ending mantra that it was, 'just too cute!' but that was a battle Sara intended to win. Finally, after five whole years, Fantasy quit, and mostly just called her 'you there.'

Sara slung out of her room, wearing hot pink and black biker shorts, neon green socks, black tennis shoes, a short, ruffly black skirt, a t-shirt striped every possible color, a stop-sign red hoodie, and a huge, yellow smiley face pendant.

Sara smiled. She was a wild girl! Maybe Dean would ask her to be part of his band! She could play the keyboard for them. Maybe those piano lessons Eddie had forced on her hadn't been wasted after all. Too bad he had never once stopped talking about his dead mother the whole time, and how great she was at the piano, and how Sara should strive to be like her, yadda yadda yadda.

Sara snorted. She had seen photos of her grandmother, and she wasn't all that great. Short, gloomy looking woman. No wildness there. Sara was glad she would never have to meet her. Just some scary looking goth, even as an adult.

Sara slid a tube of chunky red lipstick around her lips, and smirked vainly at her reflection in the hallway mirror

--

Eddie adjusted his collar, and looked around at the grand house. He was fond of this place, it had been in the family for three generations, and he hoped Sara would live here as an adult too.

His grandmother, Delia, had sold the house to Lydia and moved down to Florida with her sickly husband, Charles. Unfortunately, he had died soon after. Something to do with heart trouble. However, if the letters were to be believed (and he wasn't sure he did, they didn't seem possible) Grandma Deetz was still alive and kicking like the Rockettes.

Eddie awoke from his reverie as Sara rushed past him. He grabbed her shoulder and spluttered out, "Young lady, what in the name of god are you wearing?!"

"Clothes?" Sara suggested. "Look Ed, I'm gonna be late for school." And with that parting shot, she bounded away, her skirt flapping up alarmingly high.

Ed stood immobile, absolutely mortified. Ed? Since when was he just Ed? Whatever had happened to Dad, or Pops, or even a good old formal, Father? God, maybe she didn't consider him to be her father anymore! Was this her way of trying to tell him he'd been a bad parent?

He heard a sharp snap in the air, and dully looked to see what else had gone wrong. He had accidentally snapped off one of the handles to his briefcase.

He remembered all the small acts of defiance that his daughter had indulged in through the years, which had been growing in intensity over the last couple months.

There was no doubt about. He was losing his daughter.

--

Fantasy slowly and deliberately wiped the expensive china dish clean. She stared at her reflection, distorted by the water and bubbles sliding down its smooth surface.

When the dish was dry, and shiny enough to use as a mirror, she slowly pivoted, holding the dish between two fingers, and watched expressionlessly as it slid from her fingers and crashed onto the floor. She carefully picked up another plate, and began wiping it.

Fantasy was throwing a temper tantrum. Her husband had not said good-bye to her, hadn't said I love you, didn't kiss her, didn't hug her. Just stomped in like an ape from a zoo, ate his breakfast, grunted at her, and stomped out. Then that monster people would have her believe was her daughter came in and had the gall to call her Fantasy. Not Mom, or Mother, or even Ma'am. Just Fantasy, as though they were equals.

Fantasy dropped another plate, and ground her heel into it, pretending it was Serafina's face. The ungrateful brat didn't even appreciate the beautiful name she had given her.

Fantasy picked up her husband's coffee cup, narrowing her eyes at the permanent stains inside. She picked up a butcher's knife, muttering, "It was time for you to go anyways." She neatly cut the heavy plastic cup in half with a strength no one would have believed of her. She did this to every cup in the sink.

She picked up a champagne glass. It was truly a beautiful piece of glass, delicately fluted, and shaped like a rose.

She smashed it on the edge of the sink, and went into the living room, proceeding to tear up the leather couch with the broken glass.

There was a family portrait over there. SMASH! Not anymore. The grandfather clock. She had wanted it to be by the kitchen, but Eddie had insisted it be by the piano. She dragged it over where she had wanted it, never mind the marks it left on the floor. And speaking of the piano, they never played it anyways. Who needed it? Not her! She ripped out the strings.

Smash anything that'll break, kill the rage before people come over that she could hurt. No use in getting arrested.

She never liked that broom, it had bad bristles and didn't pick up the dirt. Out the window you go! Oops, the window wasn't open. Oh well, it is now. There's that dumb cat that isn't allowed to go outside. Would you like to meet the great outdoors, Mr. Whiskers? Of course you would. Out the window too, be sure to avoid the glass. Even she isn't that cruel.

There's the plastic doodad Sara had made when she was four, and given to Eddie. Sara hadn't made Fantasy anything. She tossed it in the trash compactor.

Ah ha, jackpot. Sara's diaries. Burn them; or read them, and use them for wallpaper?

Wallpaper, of course.

She got a pot of glue out, and painstakingly ripped out every sheet, and glued them to the dining room walls. She let loose a very unladylike curse. She had stepped on a piece of glass.

Ignoring it, she continued her fevered rampage on the house. Medical supplies were thrown down to the basement. Portraits of family members were taken off of the walls and stomped on.

She came across a portrait of her mother-in-law.

It's just a portrait. Stomp on it, too. Oh god, it's glaring at me! Like she knew when she had the picture taken! Burning, accusing eyes. I always knew she would've hated me. Everybody does.

Get a fork, gouge the eyes out. Make her stop staring! Stab them, that'll show . . . must stop talking to self. It's just a portrait. It can't hurt you. Stab the eyes out anyways; it's like a trick portrait, with the eyes and the staring. I hate it! I hate her; he never stops talking about her! Stupid, stupid . . . He'll never forgive me for ruining a picture of his mother. What do I do?

I've just ruined the whole house . . . why? There was no real reason. If you were a better woman, you'd just eat a gallon of ice cream, like everyone else does.

Fantasy uncurled from her fetal position on the floor, and began to go upstairs, to look at the checkbook. Her temper tantrums had always been messy, as well as expensive.

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