The Seamstress

The Point of No Return

The woman slowly trudges back to her cabin. Her footsteps are slow, painful, weak, weighed down by lack of food, exhaustion, and how the girl was slowly killing her.

She needs to eat.

Perhaps it will be that young lady she saw taking out her trash last night...

*

The next morning, we're ready.

"Bring the cloth and thread," Aunt Queenie says as I emerge from my bedroom, buttoning up an old blue sweater I've had since I was 11.

"How do you--"

"I'm Absinthe's assistant, of course I know."

"Why do we need them?"

"They'll be essential for her death," Aunt Queenie says, nervously twirling a lock of brown hair around her finger. There's fear in her eyes, I can see it; it's the way she shifts her gaze from one spot to the other, how she clasps and unclasps her hands, chewing on her lip.

I understand; I'm scared too. How could I not be? All I've ever been since I got here is scared, nervous, worried, angry, sad, alone.

So, so alone.

I gingerly touch the giant bruise on my face. The entire spot feels like it's stabbing my head, literally inside my head, so intense it feels like my skull is splitting open.

And it makes me look like a sweet potato.

I swallow and feel my shoulders tremble. "What if we fail?" I whisper. "Absinthe is powerful, she--"

"Is going against the two of us," Aunt Queenie says firmly--with confidence I know she doesn't have. "Now, where is that butcher knife..."

*

Aunt Queenie urges me to eat, but I can't; I just push my pancake around my plate, staring at the wall, thinking.

When she's finished and the clock strikes 8:00 AM, we walk side by side to the door. The fabric and thread are in my left jeans pocket, and my knife held firmly in my hand. If the butcher knife started this, it might as well end it.

"Are you ready?" Aunt Queenie asks.

"No," I answer, feeling a tinge of annoyance as I press my hand against my forehead. Does she have to talk so loud?

As we step into the fresh snow, leaving the first footprints of the day, I suddenly think about consequences.

People are going to wonder where Aunt Queenie is.

They're going to ask questions.

They're going to ask me.

Me. I'm going to murder Aunt Queenie.

And when she's gone, then what? What will Zinnia and I do? Will the phones work if Absinthe is finally gone? Will we be able to call our dad and ask him to pick us up? Or should we call the police?

I clear my throat as Aunt Queenie and I go round the back of the house. "What... what will we do when you're... gone?"

Aunt Queenie reaches into her pocket, bringing out her phone. "Call your parents," she says. "Or the police. Whoever you think will help you."

I scoff. "You don't care who I call?"

"I care that you're safe, and that won't happen until Absinthe is dead."

"But then what?" I cry, stopping in my tracks and pulling her sleeve to face me. "What happens after I go home? Nothing will be the same again! Zinnia and I can't go back to school, not with all this weight on our shoulders. We'll need therapy, for Pete's sake! And I'll have--I don't know--nightmares!"