The Half Killed

Prologue

It wasn't your fault. Mama forced you to do it, one hand on your sleeve, the other combing through your curls, and all while she whispered in your ear, saying it would be all right, that it would please her so much if you would just show yourself in front of the guests. And with such enticement, what choice did you have? So you said yes, and adjusted the bow in your hair, and waited for the uneven smile to tease the corners of her mouth.

The planchette sat in the middle of the table, Mama's favourite one, carved to resemble an ivy leaf, the slender veins aligned to the placement of her fingers. She took such good care of her hands, always aware of how often they would be on display. Papa never complained about the amount of rings she wore, though he had to have known how much of his fortune decorated her pale skin. You remember he mentioned it to her, and she laughed in that way of hers, with her head thrown back and her eyes closed, and he was so charmed that he never introduced the subject again.

There were several people around the table, their faces warmed by the light of the candles. And they were so large to you, then. You, The Little Darling, as Mama called you, her fingers still in your hair, then sliding down to your back, pushing you forward against your will. But you didn't stumble, and the shadowed faces around the table were not the least bit frightening. Even in the faint illumination, you recognised Father Crusoe, and Papa, the both of them lending a sombre contrast to the light Mama seemed to pull into the room.

And Aunt Anne was there, too, still in black and crepe, as if her Roger had passed away only two months before, instead of a dozen years. It surprised you, after all her complaints about your demonstrations, that your gifts should have been put to better use. She smiled when she saw you, the familiar light gleaming in her hazel eyes, her eyelashes fluttering. But you failed to return the unspoken greeting. Mama had already warned you not to smile, or to laugh, or to appear too frivolous. There you were, barely nine years old, carrying the expression of one five times your age. And so Aunt Anne's grin faded away, and you wished you would have committed that last smile to memory, the details of it: the deep dimple in her left cheek, the curve of her mouth. It would've pleased you to remember her that way.

Mama begged you to sit, so benevolent in front of others, and she gave you a moment to smooth your skirt, the pale blue satin shining under the light of the candles. Her own dress was a deep red colour, maybe burgundy, but it has been years since you could remember the exact shade. Her hands glittered as she moved them over the table, and you wondered if she had done something to her skin, treated it in some way that made her very flesh pick the light out of the air.

The prayer came first, six heads bowed at once, but you kept your eyes open, stealing glances at Mama to your right and Aunt Anne to your left. And then they placed their hands on the table, their fingers spread apart like a fan, Mama's rings glittering even while her hands stayed still. She said something, a few words, barely audible, and they crept across your skin, settling at the base of your throat, curling around it like the cold hand of some deceased thing.

You had done this before. Sat still and calm in the circle, the voices ringing in your head, nearly drowning out your own voice as you asked questions to the darkness. But what was different this time? Why did the shadows twitch and writhe at the corners of your vision?

Your hands slipped off the planchette. Mama kicked your leg with her foot, and you knew there would be a bruise, but you refused to obey. The little triangle of wood trembled without your pressure, agitated by your refusal to cooperate. And all while the cold tightened its grip around your throat, spreading across your shoulders, down your arms, prickling in the tips of your fingers.

And when you looked up at Aunt Anne, you realised she sensed it, too. There was no smile on her face, only an increasing horror, and as she pushed her chair back and stood, you cried out to Mama that you wanted to stop, that you wanted to go back to your room and hide where the voices could not find you. But she wouldn't allow it, and the planchette continued to move beneath her touch, and her head tilted back, her eyes closed as she began to laugh.

Except it wasn't her voice. And yet you had heard it before, though the memory of when and where would elude you. But the familiarity of it stole through you, though you could not give it a face, as if it had chattered to you in your sleep for some time, years perhaps, pressing at your consciousness, at your sanity. And now it came from your mother's mouth before she bit down on her bottom lip, and you saw the blood, black in the faltering candlelight, trickle down the side of her chin.

Beside you, Aunt Anne cried out. Her fingers clawed at your shoulder, tearing at the sleeve of your little dress until you swatted her away. But the room became darker, and though the candles continued to burn, it was as if their light was smothered. And you looked at the walls and the ceiling, at the darkness spreading across them, down to the floor, flooding the carpet like water.

In your head, the voices—your constant companions—laughed at you. And they grew louder until you couldn't see, and you couldn't think, and with your hands pressed to your ears, as if the vile sounds came from outside of your head instead of within, the first sobs broke free of your chest, and the hot tears spilled down your cheeks.

Mama remained at your side, and her hand was on your head, toying with the ribbon in your hair, before it slid down to your throat, and her fingers wrapped around your slender neck, pressing down until you couldn't breathe. So you struck out at her—something you thought you'd never do—her flesh beneath your nails, and the warmth of her blood, but you told yourself not to fret, because it wasn't Mama anymore. The voices told you she was already dead, and it gave you some comfort to believe them.

***

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