I shut the door just as her footsteps clicked past. I sighed in relief as I heard them continue down the stairs.I grabbed my afghan off the bed wrapping it tight around my shoulders. My body relaxed under its familiar weight. I plopped the book down on the bed and sat blocking it from view of the door. Its cover was ornately carved leather with symbols I couldn’t quite make out.
I turned it over, studying the strange patterns. No words on it except for the spine which read “Madam Braun’s explorations in gerontology”. Who is Madam Braun? Why does Braun feel so familiar? What is gerontology? Why would Elanor have this book in her study?
I turned the book over with the cover facing up again. I placed my hand on it pulling the cover open. It didn’t move. The afghan began to fall from my shoulders as I pulled harder making sure not to damage it. It stayed. I tried opening it from different parts of the book, from the middle, from the back, but it was as solid as a brick.
I untwisted my skirt, and hopped off the bed. The scissors llay on my desk, sun glinting off of their silver blades. I returned and started to gently work on the book. Prying with the scissor blades gently, trying not to tear anything. It must have something sticky on the pages.Then, finally I thought I felt a puff of air as I got a corner to come loose.
I stopped. I thought I heard something from downstairs. I leaned closer to the door, inching towards the edge of the bed with the book held tight in my hands, ready to be hidden in the twitch of an eye. Quiet.
I cautiously returned to forcing the cover open. After a few excruciatingly long minutes tediously prying I pushed one last time and the cover was open! I leaned in to read the long loopy script.
The words were hard to make out, but the signature was clear. Madame Elanor Braun. I felt an itch streak from my tailbone to the top of my spine. The inside of my chest quivered. I rushed to my desk and unlocked the bottom drawer with the key I kept around my neck. I rifled through the books and loose pages, tearing more wildly as the moments multiplied. Until, at the very bottom tucked in the back of an old diary it fell out. I walked over to the golden framed full length mirror.
In the photo was a younger happy me with round rosy cheeks and thick brown curls.
I looked into the mirror to find a shadow of my former self staring back. I rubbed away the makeup with my sleeves and the tears that began to stream down. There I stood. Sallow cheeks, thin stringy hair, dark circles under the eyes, and a dead expression. All disguised under extravagant clothes and makeup.
She did this to me! In only 2 years!
The door hinges groaned as a small black pointed shoe peaked in, followed by a sweeping emerald green skirt. The laugh in her eyes betrayed her true intentions as she said.
“Are you alright dear? I thought I heard something.”
Her full cheeks glowed with a natural flush, her hair bounced up in long brown locks. Her eyes shone bright with vigor.
A stark difference to the frail old woman who I met the first day she arrived.
How could I have missed it for so long?
My own governess, almost mother?! My dear teacher who I spent almost every waking moment with.
I can’t believe it. That she was using my body for herself. How? How is it possible to drain the life out of someone and use it for yourself? Science? Magic?
I crumble to the floor with the afghan gripped tightly between my fingers. Tangled in the knots, stitches, overlapping. Mangled, disgusting.
Her. I look closer at the blanket tears blurring my vision. Hers. This was hers. The only gift she ever gave to me. I drop it like a live fish. Untangling my fingers from its grasp. It held tighter. When I got one finger loose the stitches found their way right back. I teared at it, screamed, stamped on it. Throwing it to the ground as it began to envelop me further.
“No!”
I could feel my skin prickle at the sound of a laugh bubbling forth. The sun glared in my eye. Revealing to me the scissors. I took a step and stumbled, tripped by the further choking afghan. I used the frilled bed to pull myself up. Looking directly into her cold evil eyes. I lunged for the scissors, knocking them off the bed. They landed near the door out of reach.
I stretched myself as far as I could, barely able to breathe or move. The blanket burned as it burrowed into my skin.
My heart pounding so hard I could barely hear the grating cackle. Her skirt moved and sent the scissors across the floor, two feet, one foot, 4 inches, my fingers grazed its cold sleek metal.
“Are you causing trouble again my dear?” she said malice filling each word as she picked up the book off my bed.
The cold metal of the scissors pressed against my burning skin. I got it! My wrist scorched hot, the blanket trying to steal my life from me. But my grip held. The hem of her skirt brushed my face. I looked down at myself to see where to cut, to find clothes smoldering. It was tighter than my skin and my vision started to grow dark. I made one final attempt to save my life and pushed the scissors at my body, clamping the blades down with as much strength as I had left. I breathed my final breath as I heard them slice through cloth and a distant scream coming from somewhere…
cover image from unsplash
https://unsplash.com/photos/nLNimOqmbpg
* * *
[Editor’s Note: This piece is part of the “Beat Boltsy Flay (And His College Testbook)” contest collection. In response, and in spite, to a section in his creative writing textbook which explicitly discouraged such a piece as ineffective and inadvisable, M&M admin Jenson Doan, whose Discord username is HeroBoltsy, challenged writers to tell short stories under 2000 words in the fantasy, espionage, horror, or romance genres; and, furthermore, to write more such qualified stories as a group than him in the span of four weeks. The current score of the Beat Boltsy Flay challenge stands at M&M 5 – 6 Jenson. There are 0 days, 7 hours, and 4 minutes left on the clock.]
