Page 10 of Miserable Marionette

“No crying, you’re ruining it,” I seethe, before taking a deep breath. It’s not her fault she can’t compare; neither could the others. It’d been over a year since I’d taken a woman. A year I’d resisted the fucking urge to dive headfirst into the pits of my insanity… until the first letter came , this one from Jackson himself. He knew he was sick. He’d asked me to go back, to help him take the load off so he could get well again. It was a reasonable request, but what it was really demanding was that I be in her presence again. The very thing I dream about every night, the only thing I’ve ever dreamed about. The only thing I can’t—couldn’t do.

Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey.

She hiccups, taking a deep breath to mirror mine, the colored contacts making the whites of her eyes tinge pink. If I were keeping her, I’d add drops to soothe the redness, but there’s no time. I need this, maybe worse than I have since those first years without her. “Gideon, do you… love me?”

I need it because if I can have this, I can keep my promise, at least half of it. If I can just get this part right, I can leave Audrey in that fucking town. I can burn ties with Bell Funeral Home and purge this putrid obsession.

My dad knew I couldn’t stay, but I can’t imagine even he knew how bad things would get after he forced me to leave. Hell, I didn’t even know. The first was… an unpleasant surprise for us both. I’d nearly stumbled when I walked into the parlor of the funeral home my father had gotten us jobs at. There she sat, so much like my Audrey. Messy blonde hair, teary hazel eyes. The first of a long list of disappointments. Mine and my father’s. He didn’t cry when he saw what I’d done to her. He didn’t ask why; he knew. If I live another fifty years, I’ll never forget the look of blank resignation in his eyes as he pulled on his gloves and told me to get in the shower.

I clench my jaw, taking another calming breath. “Make your voice softer, like you’re scared to ask.”

She repeats the line, still far enough off base to agitate me, but it’s close enough. Some things can’t be helped. I adjust the glasses on my face, my response already held on the tip of my tongue, aimed straight for the wrong person. It’s not the response I gave that day, so I give it now. Like if I’m suffering enough, desperate enough, time will turn back just for me. For us.

“Of course I love you.”

My hand drifts over to the cart, clasping a scalpel; the metal is cool in my hand like any other day. Be it client or puppet. I lift the tool, making an incision from the bottom of her breastbone down her belly. Despite the way they make it look in movies, it takes three passes to get through the dermis, meaty tissue, until she fully opens there. She thrashes, screaming and blubbering, like they all do. I just stare at her, rigged up in the perverse contraption, wondering if I’d find any degree of satisfaction from shoving my cock in the opening I just made. I wouldn’t. Not even a little.

I let her see it as she bleeds out how disgusted I am by her failed portrayal of my Audrey before I turn and stalk away, readying the clean-up.

5

Enmeshments & Flushing

Audrey, Thirteen Years Old, 1981

I linger in the beams of sunlight soaking in through the large windows overlooking the front porch. Staring at Gideon as he glares at the front of my house, his eyes are so cold they seem to eat up the warmth, even from across the road.

I’ve seen Gideon mad before, but never like this… never at me.

It’s been two days since I bolted up from where I’d been lying on my stomach, drawing in our clearing while he watched me. My stomach had been hurting all day, a deep, twisting kind of hurt. Like really deep and… low. I knew what happened the moment I felt my underwear get wet, really wet. Mom told me I could be any week, any month, any year now for the past few years. I was informed, as any girl could be, I suppose, for my first period, and heard the girls in school talk about theirs while mine was nowhere in sight. I just didn’t think it would happen when I was with Gideon, in the middle of the freaking woods at that. I didn’t think it would be that much, you know, blood. Mom didn’t mention that part; none of them did.

I tried to be casual, gathering up my things and telling him I was ready to go home. Of course, he saw straight through it. Gideon knows I never want to be home. Not when their screaming keeps me up at night, keeps them up. Both of them, with dark circles under their eyes, avoiding each other’s stares and barely concealed scowls the next morning. The tension is so thick that every bite of cereal tastes like ash. He just kept asking me questions, but all I could feel was the discomfort between my legs. Was I bleeding through? Could he tell? What if it smelled bad? I laughed, telling him I just wanted to go home, before turning to walk back down our trail so fast my ponytail slapped me in the face.

He jerked my colored pencils from my hands, the ones Uncle Rodney had given me. He knew I wouldn’t leave without them. Tears welled in my eyes when he took Krissy next. He’s fifteen now, so much bigger than me. There was no point in fighting for them back.

“What the fuck is wrong, Audrey?” he nearly yelled. “Where are you trying to go? Why don’t you want to stay with me?”

I’d never heard him fire off so many questions in a row, had never seen that panicked, nearly crazed look in his eyes. All I felt was another leak between my legs.

I did exactly what he didn’t think I’d do.

He was being a jerk, but I knew my pencils and Krissy doll were safe with him.

I ran.

Gideon didn’t like that.

I watch as my mom nears him across the road, my heart pounding in my chest as she tells him I don’t want company today. He doesn’t even look at her. My hand accidentally brushes the lacy curtain, making it move, and somewhere, even from behind it, those frigid blue eyes meet mine. I want to go out to explain to him I’m not mad at him. He didn’t do anything wrong.

Ask for my Krissy and pencils back, but I don’t.

Mama said it’s normal, that there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but I am, and I had bled through my very pale denim skort by the time I scrambled up the steps of our porch, sobbing wildly. Did he see?

Will he think I’m gross?

When I hear the car door shut, my mom’s tires on the gravel drive, I ease away from the window, curling up on the couch to watch The Smurfs, hoping the medicine she gave me kicks in soon so my stomach will stop feeling like it’s being ripped to shreds. Wondering how I’m supposed to do this for the rest of my life, one week out of every single month. It seems miserable and really freaking unnecessary. Babies seem objectively pretty loud, sticky, and terrible, so why should I be punished for not getting pregnant with one?

Soon enough, under the blankets, with the warm sun baking the living room, my eyes are heavy. Any attempt to keep them open is washed away, the TV lulling me deeper into sleep. I don’t budge again until the sound of the side door creaking open jolts me awake.