The Master Plan

          The moment I walked into the master’s study, I was appalled by all the antique, tranquil decorations plastered among every wall. He was upset by the fact that I couldn’t translate the Russian written on his old, stolen maps that hung among the wall across the bed, covering up the archaic yellow wallpaper underneath. There were photographs in wooden frames everywhere, exposing the inner workings of his manic brain. There were trees, swaying in the wind outside the window by the bed, calming me. It was the place I looked when my mind got too heavy to comprehend the plan.

            The first night I had arrived, I was still recovering from my acid trip the night before. Nothing seemed real at first, until he showed me the special book with a wrinkled and flaky brown leather binding. When the other mistresses would walk into the study, the books pages would go completely blank as if it was predicting a bleak future for all of them. It was a special thing only the master and I could read.

            His skin was white as alabaster, and he held a deep voice underneath his crooked smile. He lured me in with his sweet talk about past lives and uncrossed paths between the two of us. I should of known then this would end in pure trouble. He began to persuade me again, brushing my cheek with his hand as he called me beautiful.

“You’ve helped me out in the end of every life,” he said. The master began a story about being burned at the stake, and how my parents from the local dairy farm allowed me to freely give him a glass of goat’s milk before his execution.

“What does a horse carriage mean to you?” He asked.

“My parents.”

He did not understand, his silence egged me on to go further with the blasphemous story I wanted to hold inside my gut forever. The lump in my throat told me it was time to let this go.

“They were weak people” I began. “My mother was missing half of her body, as if her chest couldn’t hold a heart, so they had to cut it out and replace it.”

His dark brown eyes scanned mine, reassuring me this was a secret I could keep safe with only him.

“My father once was shot with a bow and arrow in the head. He wasn’t quite right either. There was…a joker there in the safe house where we stayed. I was insanely attracted to him, though he was too old for me. They tried to keep me away from him, but all we were doing was playing chess.”

There was a gulp in his throat I could spy by concentrating on his adams apple.

“The horse carriage,” I went on, “well it drove us children away right before the building blew up. My parents watched me as the horse galloped away, before they were burned to death by the explosion.”

“Who was driving the carriage, do you remember, Miss Henry?”

“Yes, the joker. He saved my life.”

He then planted a quick kiss on my lips, and afterwards he looked scared as hell.

“I would do anything for you” he managed to muster with a cracked voice.

It was obvious to me then what he was saying. He was the joker and I was not allowed to love him, even though my heart so insanely did.

Dixie Cups

The brisk fall air whipped around me, chilling my bones as my chest became heavy, as I felt my fear become suffocating, my pulse quickening, my hesitation flickered through the broken street lamps, like intermittent radio waves. It was unexplainable why, as I stood there fixated on his little light blue house with its crumbly exterior, what rushed to mind was the Dixie cups. The inside of the house was covered in those tiny paper cups, some still containing what Rosalie had left behind the night, or afternoon before. Rosalie was his mother. Every morning, she’d paint her nails a classic crimson shade, spend hours on her face, perfect her curly up-do while splashing herself with a rustic floral scent. It didn’t cover up the smell of bourbon, much like several coats of mascara don’t hide the pain behind hazy, lonely eyes.

            It occurred to me then how meek and cowardly I really was; how right my aunt had been all along. I couldn’t do it. My detailed six-month plan didn’t include the panic that ran through my veins, freezing me on the corner of Main Street, anxiously reminding me of the silence of the night. How could it slip my mind that Rosalie was a part of the equation? She’d scream. It would be impossible to remove the stains from her silky cream-colored nightgown. I was too weak to slit a pair of throats and drag them a half a mile through the muddy ravine to get to the creek. The whispering winds mocked me. I couldn’t muster the courage to begin the journey back home.

Messy brown curls peeked out between the stained beige kitchen curtains, taunting me further. Though weak and discouraged, I convinced myself it was best to inch myself towards the house, against the gusting wind and my diminishing sane inner voice. I had to get closer to her to test my senses. Perhaps a few swigs of mommy’s favorite drink would help me become the animal I knew was deep inside me. Rosalie wouldn’t let me though.

            I saw her jump as the steps crept under each step I took. I froze at the door until it cracked open, her eyes peaking out at me with disdain. Expecting she didn’t want to be seen at that moment in time would’ve been understating the truth, and she especially should have wanted to keep in hiding from me. I had that what she cherished most closely to me.

The wind picked up pushing through me and as frail as she was, it was hard for her to maintain the distance she’d made between us as the door couldn’t uphold it’s battle against the sudden gush. She wasn’t a skeleton, the meat that she did have her bones were residual bloat from being an alcoholic for years. She stood a mere five feet four inches, and held a tiny frame. Though I know she has seen me, I was shocked when she sort of hobbled onto the porch, leaving the door wide open as she came closer to me.

“Elyse, when I saw you, I thought I must have been dreaming.”

I shook my head slightly, not understanding what she meant, but she was so robotic and sleepy, she couldn’t read the expressions on my face.

She went on.

“I can’t have visitors” she said, “I’m not well. I…”

“I’m sick too.”

She sighed, “Elyse, honey, I’m atrocious.” Her fingers were trembling as she worked to smooth out her slept-on hair. “It’s 2am,” she whispered, in a way that suggested I shouldn’t be out.

            A chill stilled me, reminding me in every inch of my bones why I had showed up there in the first place. Maybe it’d be easier to kill her if she trashed, if I could trigger her enough to be mean and sensitive. That could really set me off. But if I had to think that hard about it, I must not have a truly evil place in me. However it could be like a volcano, with time I could become more than I was at that moment, I would erupt.

            “I’m going to have a quick drink and then off to bed.”

I couldn’t have expected any less. It was then that I had truly given up.

“Is Peter home?”

She hesitantly told me he hadn’t come home yet from his senior ball.

“But it’s 2am,” I said.

She stared at me then like a deer in headlights, so sick from her own disease, she couldn’t keep her eyes open to the truth. He face said she wouldn’t believe a word I would say.

“I’ll check the library, and then the study,” I said.

She sighed, knowing this was not the end.

The end was near, but not close enough for me to taste it.