The Deal

Forty-Four-Bernadette

I'm traipsing around my living room like a zombie right now. If the dumbfounded neighbors were to peek through the blinds right this minute, they'd see me and think I'm on drugs or something. I seriously need to lie down and rest.

Being knocked out, apparently, only weakened me afterward. Well, stabbing Bill was exhausting. At least Baduza took care of his body. I'm safe. All I need is a shower. I open the guest bedroom door and slowly; I feel the stress ease down. It's like staring at a beautiful piece of art in a gallery.

Andy looks so divine and helpless. Both hands are raised and tied together to the bedpost. I spread his legs before tying them, just so I could make him comfortable before he wakes up. I also gagged him with black tape. I know it's too soon because I'm a bit unprepared. I slam the door, lock it, and sprint upstairs. The damn creak of the wooden steps irritates me again. Get that fixed, I remind myself.

It's unbelievable. Despite all the twelve months my dead father tortured me, I'm inhabiting his......traits. I'm becoming so much like him.

Opening the children's bedroom door, I remember when he would force me to bathe with him. Watching him play with himself with my hands tied with barbed wire, naked and helpless. Being forced to do the Aneska dance every night, only naked this time and in his bedroom.

Touching myself for him, while he filmed everything for his personal home videotape. This happened for a whole damn year. I turned twenty-five the next year. Now here I am, in my midlife, thinking of doing so much worse to an innocent man. I thought the things I did to my past hook-ups and husband were a projection of my trauma.

I don't have a husband; I remind myself. I'm Imani. A Single mother. Where the hell are the stupid kids? I close the blinds and lock the windows to make sure no nosy neighbor or robber sneaks in. I want the peace of mind I deserve. It dawns on me; if I played Aneska for one full year, I could convince people I'm Imani for as long as I can count.

Sprinting across the road, not looking sideways, I rattle the neighbors' front door, hoping they get the impression that I'm in a bad mood. When the young lady answers, she gives me a puzzled look. At least she's in a decent bathrobe this time.

"You're here for your kids, right?" She asks.

I scoff. "I don't know if that's supposed to be rhetorical. Please, tell them to bring their butts out here. I warned them not to be sneaking out without permission."

I hate being a mother, but I seem to do a decent job pretending to be. Even playing Puleng had its cons.

Instead of doing what I say, the chick folds her arms. "Can I ask a personal question? When was the last time you fed them, Imani?"

"Is that also rhetorical?"

"No. I'm being serious. I don't mean to pry; I know I'm not their parent. But clearly, there's something wrong with the way you're handling Kaya and Richelle."

My fists clench tight. She has some nerve. She's going to be in trouble. Kaya and Richelle are going to be a problem. I'll get rid of her soon. The husband as well. Very soon, they'll be another dead couple in my conscious. I sigh in relief as the young man brings them both. They're sulking, as usual.

"You're in serious trouble. Both of you. I'm sorry for—"

"They were hungry, Imani," the young man says, killing my mommy-vibe. "It was only breakfast they wanted, so we gave them something. They didn't cause any trouble."

Seriously? They're making me the villain here? Oh, well. They'll have to go. By nightfall, this house will be completely deserted.

"I'm doing everything I can," I blurt out with a shrug, making sure my voice sounds whiney and mellow. "Money has been tight. You know how the economy is. I'm not the kind of person you think I am."