I waited until I heard Jimmy leaving the camp with the new recruit before leaving my tent and returning to my picnic table. Even standing there alone for a few minutes made my stomach turn and my blood cold.
My father seemed to have gotten angrier, stronger, in the last few days. He no longer smiled menacingly at me from the shadows. Every night he attacked; screaming holes in my brain, puking blood down my throat. I was so tired I didn't know what was a dream and what was reality anymore. I saw him everywhere; in the line of trees that surrounded the field, in the audience members of the show, in the reflections of mirrors. He was here because of what I did to him, he wanted his pound of flesh and he wouldn't stop until he had it.
I sat stiffly on the bench and put my face in my hands. I longed to smell my mother's green scented perfume, fleeting and sweet. When I was a real girl, my mother would brush my long blonde hair and whisper the legends of the Vikings. She told me that to slash each other to ribbons in battle each day and be put back together each night was the Vikings' idea of Heaven. I didn't understand her then, but I did now. I was living it; eternal slaughter. Every night my father would come and tear me apart in my bed, only to have me wake, whole again in the morning.
"How're you doing, Bridget?" A thick English accent asked from behind me. It took me a moment to realize that it was me that Paul was speaking to. In answer, I shook my head and pressed my finger tips into my temples.
I felt Paul's weight drop onto the bench beside me. He set a Mason Jar full of garish brown liquid on the worn top of the picnic table. I raised one eyebrow at him before he motioned with his small arm for me to take a drink. I hesitated a moment before raising the jar to my lips.
"Ugh!" I sputtered after I had managed to swallow the offending liquid. It burned the whole way down, setting fire to my belly. Paul laughed and I glared at him.
"I'm sorry," He apologized, "I should have warned you."
"It's not so bad." I assured him. The fire had dulled, leaving only a pleasant warm sensation behind, "Once the burn wares off." I continued.
Paul was staring at me, his eyes roaming over my face and my shoulders, my skunky hair. I self consciously rubbed my arm. Despite the heat of the day, I felt a chill.
"You're having a tough go of it, huh?" Paul asked kindly. I wasn't sure what to say. I was used to fielding Jimmy's aggressive and accusing inquires but Paul's kindness was something else entirely.
"Do me a favor," Paul said, sensing my unease at his question. He pushed the Mason Jar at me, "Take a drink, close your eyes, and breathe."
I rolled my eyes, "That's dumb."
Paul smiled and pushed the jar toward me again, "I know, but do it anyway."
I sighed, sipped, set the jar back down and closed my eyes. The sounds of the camp seemed to slowly fade away with the burn of the liquor. The sun felt warm on my face and bare arms.
"Keep breathing." Paul ordered, his voice a distant rumble of thunder.
The wind lifted my hair off of my shoulders, reminding me about my need to go to town and buy more dye. Every time I washed it seemed to grow lighter, like the blonde underneath was struggling for freedom. I got my coloring from my mother; fair, almost translucent, our hair the color of a peeled banana.
When I opened my eyes a minute later, Paul was watching me closely.
"Better?" He asked.
"Better, thanks."
Paul was so sweet, so freakishly kind that I forgot to be a bitch and fell into like with him the moment I had finished his little breathing exorcise. Suddenly, I had a friend. A real friend for the first time since I was a real girl. Having a friend made everything seem to suck less. Even if he was technically Jimmy's friend first.
"Elsa's waiting for me in her tent." Paul said, grabbing the jar off of the table and standing.
I nodded, sad to see him go. I didn't feel safe alone anymore.
/
It was with trembling hands that I reentered my tent after our performance. The throbbing of my fresh tattoo matched the rhythm of my heart pounding in my rib cage. I stood in the middle, letting the heavy air settle around me. It felt different tonight, threatening but also not. It unsettled me and left me restless.
A faint green mist crept around my bare ankles. I halted my breathing and clutched the hem of my dress in both hands. I closed my eyes, sure that was the moment when my father would finally exact his revenge. I swallowed and lifted my chin; I wouldn't be a coward in my final moments.
"Child, what in your life has brought you here?" It was not my father's voice, creaking and halting. It was soft and smooth as butter.
I turned around slowly and nearly fell to the floor when I saw a handsome man in a black cloak and top hat, leaning lazily on a cane, one leg crossed over the other. He was watching me with black eyes.
I couldn't find my voice. Jimmy was dead wrong. Edward Mordrake was real, and he was standing in my tent.
"Come now, I haven't much time." He urged me.
I swallowed, "I-I'm not sure what you mean."
"I want you tell me your story, my dear." Edward stood up straight and looked at me almost...kindly, "Don't lie. It will know."
I knew he was talking about the 'Demon Face' that was concealed beneath his top hat.
"I killed my father." I spat quickly, trying to control the tremor in my voice, " In cold blood. I knew exactly what I was doing. And I am not sorry." The words burst from my lips, fell from my mouth like stones, like the rancid blood that poured from my father's throat every night.
With shaking fingers I extracted a cigarette from my pack and flicked the lighter.
"That was a symptom of a much bigger pain." He watched me through the smoke from my cigarette. A symptom? Is that all it was? The reason my father beat me daily, whored me out to his writer friends, it was all a symptom?
I toyed with my cigarette, watching the paper around the cherry as it curled and blackened like my father's skin.
"I was thirteen years old..." I started, closing my eyes.
Georgia: 1944
My mother had been in bed for nearly three weeks. It was one of the longest bad spells that I could remember. I was playing outside in the garden, picking armfuls of dandelions and tossing them in the air around me, when I heard the back door open.
My mother watched me, blinking in the light for a moment before walking to where I stood. I stopped twirling in the falling flowers and watched her, pleased that she had chosen such a beautiful day to come back to the world.
She knelt down, her nightgown brushing the blades of green grass. She began gathering the fallen blossoms with her thin, graceful fingers. I thought she looked like an angel, kneeling beside the heads of fluffy yellow weeds, the sun illuminating her pale hair like a halo. She smiled as she braided the stems of the dandelions, her fingers deftly twisting and bending them into a crown.
She fingered the hundreds of soft petals. "We are the ones who sacked Rome." She said, still examining her chain of flowers. That confused me; I wanted to ask her what she meant, but she suddenly snapped her head up and looked around as though confused as to how she got from her bed to the garden. When her eyes fell on me she paused, as if she were seeing me for the first time, "You're a woman now." She said it as though she was surprised to look up and find me not five anymore.
She stood slowly, unsteady as a fawn on her legs. She placed the crown of flowers on my head and kissed the sun warmed top of my hair.
"Don't forget who you are, Elizabeth." She whispered, running her hand along my face, her thumb tracing my cheekbone.
She turned and I followed her quietly into our house. The moment felt surreal, even to thirteen year old me.
I stopped in the living room while she turned and walked down the hallway. I heard a door shut and then the water for the bath running. I smiled, she was coming back to me.
I settled on the floor and watched the dust motes swirling in the rays of sunlight that filtered through the windows. I felt like I was inside of a snow globe that had just been tipped over. I extended my hand and watched the way the disturbance of air sent the dust flying.
I don't know how long I sat there like that, mesmerized by the dust. Too long. The water for the bath was still running. I slid the flower crown off of my head and tip toed down the hall. I pressed my ear to the bathroom door. After so long, the hot water must have run out. Was she taking a cold bath?
"Mom?" I called through the door. She didn't answer. Unpleasant goose bumps prickled my arms. "Mom?" I called louder, rapping my knuckles against the door.
I felt something wet on my toes, when I looked down I saw water leaking out from beneath the door. My heart stopped.
"Mom!" I screamed, banging on the door with my closed fists. The door suddenly swung open, as if someone on the other side had simply let me in. I stood in the doorway, paralyzed.
The bathwater was tinted a deep red making it seem as though there were gallons of blood. Her head was rolled unnaturally to one side, her eyes were staring but not seeing.
Jupiter, Florida: 1952
I had dropped to my knees in front of Edward Mordrake while telling my story, I wanted to finish it. He needed to hear the end.
I tried to stand but my head felt all wrong. I couldn't focus on anything; not on the ghostly whisper, "Not the one.", Not on the green mist disappearing into the stale air. I felt panicked, like I needed to be moving. I stood without thinking and burst through the flap of my tent. I vaguely heard Paul's voice calling me to come back, but I ignored it. It seemed like it was coming from a million miles away.
I ran for what felt like miles, hot tears pouring from my eyes. When I couldn't run anymore I fell to the ground and let it catch me. I laid on the muddy bank and let the memories overtake me because I couldn't hold them back anymore.
My beautiful mother with the blood pouring from her wrists into the bathwater; her face that didn't move even though I screamed at her to look at me. I was screaming and her face stayed still no matter how hard I shook her. I screamed and screamed until someone came and took me away.
That was how the story went. That was how it really ended.
/
I don't know who found me that night, laying in the field, drenched with sweat and shaking like a leaf. I don't know who carried me back to my tent, laid me on my bed and tucked me in. I may never know, but I was never so grateful for my little cot, for warm hands brushing my hair from my face, for kind words whispered softly like butterfly wings.
My daze lasted into the next morning, I woke only long enough for snippets of conversations to float in and out of my ears.
"Killer clown!"
"Jimmy's a hero!"
"Saved all those kids."
"Meep was innocent. It was the clown the whole time."
I wished for the strength to get out of bed, but I couldn't find it. Instead I let the heavy darkness of unconsciousness settle over me like a lead blanket and drifted away like she used to.
A/N:
Seriously, if you or anyone you know is or may be experiencing suicidal thoughts please ask for help. I know there is a stigma associated with depression but there shouldn't be. Please don't let the fear of what people will think of you stop you from getting help.
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