Something Peculiar

Prologue

Eleven Years Ago

A few things made that day stand out more than any other: it was my sixth birthday and my mother was wielding a knife. Not a tiny steak knife, but some kind of massive butcher that glinted in the light like a bad horror movie. In fairness, maybe the knife didn't glint. Maybe my memory added it in like some silly CGI effect. I can't say for sure. What I do know is that Mom definitely tried to kill me.

I've tried to think of the days and years that lead up to that one, to see if there was something that I should've noticed about my mom. Unfortunately, everything before it is pretty hazy. When I ask my older brother Tae about it, he always answers vaguely with things like "She's batshit, Jennie. That's what happened." He's seven years older than me, so I know he has a better idea about the things that happened, about what Mom was really like, but never wants to talk about it.

The horrible truth is that I actually have no memory of Mom before that day. Not a one. I can remember doing Christmas and birthdays and I can even remember my dad, who died when I was five, but not her. Psychologists have insisted that it's just my way of processing trauma, but I just wish I could remember. Even if it was all bad things. Especially if it was all bad things.

I'll be the first to admit that I was a brat growing up. My aunt Jessica attests to this, but in a very light fashion and always follows it up with a hug and some reassuring sentiment about loving me no matter what. Tae won't even joke about it. Whenever anyone makes a comment about me misbehaving as a child, he just purses his lips and insists that I was a normal, curious little girl. I definitely wasn't, but I'm not the only one suppressing things, I guess.

We lived in the Hamptons at the time, and my mother was a lady of leisure. Celia wasn't there that day, and in retrospect, I'd say that was the big trigger. Celia was the third nanny I had, which is further evidence of my unruliness as a child. Taehyung had the same nanny his whole life until I was born and I proved to be too much for her. Celia and I got on rather well, but she had an emergency and left the night before. That meant my mother was in charge of me, for one of the few times in her life and there was a party going on that day.

Okay, I lied when I said I had no memory of my mother. I very distinctly remember her yelling for my brother, or my father, or the nanny, or my aunt, or anyone anywhere every time she was forced to interact with me. It was as if she couldn't stand the sight of me. As it turns out, she probably couldn't.

My aunt Jessica came over a little bit later to help get ready for the party, and she eventually managed to rescue my mother. I was still in my pajamas with chocolate soy milk stains on my face, and she offered to get me ready. To this day, I have no idea how Mom ended up taking  that over. It was so unlike her, and nobody can remember why she decided to actually take charge of me.

The bath was a horrendous ordeal. I was an unnaturally filthy child and she had to scrub at my skin, which only made me wail petulantly. My hair was the worst. It was a constant state of snarled mess, no matter how hard she combed at it, but that wouldn't stop her from trying. I sat on the stool in front of her vanity, her hands holding me down tightly, so I wouldn't squirm away. She had ley me wear her oversized plush robe when I got out of the bathm and it made me feel grand somehow. My hair was still damp as she raked the brush through it, and I screamed bloody murder and tears ran down my cheeks.

She had a tri-mirror on her vanity, so I could see her from three different angles as she brushed my hair. Her cheeks were red from straining, and she was out of breath. Her own hair has been pulled back in some kind of ratty bun, so I don't know how she could complain about my hair. She was still the wearing my father's red silk robe the same way she had been every day since he died. Mom finally managed to get my hair ro her liking, putting in clips with little pink bows on them. She chose some frilly pink dress to go with it, and I remember protesting like mad about it. I hated dresses, but she tackled me and forced me into it. Finally, she put on little lazy socks with shiny white shoes, and let me go so she could get ready herself.