Belladonna

Chapter 4

I feel like I'm drowning. Everything seems to blur. I think I remember nodding weakly and rushing up the stairs. My fingers scramble for anything to hold onto, and I find a small hand mirror.

I look at myself for a moment. Half of my wavy, raven hair has made it's way out of my bun, straggling around my head like a bizarre halo. My cheeks are flushed, and my blue eyes are unnaturally bright.

That look on my face. I remember a mirror expression. It was a day before Dad died, and he was in the worst condition he would ever be. That was the day he had confronted my mother, asked her if she loved him.

That was the day she said no. She probably thought she was helping him. That when he heard the truth, he would realize his foolishness and be cured of love forever.

Instead, my dad had nodded, as if he had expected it all along. Then he put on his coat, kissed my forehead, and went out.

He came back in a body bag.

The sound of breaking glass and a sudden burning pain in my hands brings me back to reality. I had been smashing the mirror on the ground again and again until it was obliterated.

"Antiope?" My mother's voice wafts up, faint. She's probably still in the living room. She sounds slightly irked. "What's happening up there?"

I touch my cheeks. My fingers come away wet with tears and blood.

"Nothing! Just tripped and a whole bunch of stuff fell." I call back without so much of a quaver. I've become very good at hiding when I cry.

I go to the bathroom and plucked the glass shards out of my hands. As I was bandaging them a memory hit me.

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"Matthew, I'm going to the store. Watch over Antiope." Mother tells Dad. Dad smiles at her. On reflex, I smile as well. Something about his grin just makes me happy. Maybe the way it enveloped his face so it seemed like he was glowing. Maybe the fact that I always know it's genuine.

"See you later, sweetie," Dad says, and leans over to kiss her. Mother draws back a little. Dad quickly pretends he was just going to dust off her coat. When he withdraws, his smile is smaller and less beaming.

Mother walks out the door, and closes it behind her. Is it my imagination, or did it close a bit harder than usual?

I toddle up to Dad and throw my little chubby arms around his leg. He looks down and his real smile comes back again.

"Well, hello, little Birdie," he croons, lifting me up. "Do you want to fly?"

"'Fly! Fly!" I giggle, and he swings me around and around until we're both dizzy. We sit on the floor, laughing, and watch the room revolve around us. Father and daughter.

Then I ask for it again. And again.

Soon, though, with a quick look at the clock, Dad frowns and puts me down.

"Fly?" I ask.

"No, little Birdie. Mommy's coming home."

I pout, but I know it's no use. The first and last time Mother caught us playing, they had such a big fight that I could hear it upstairs, with my comforter thrown over my head.

"You're poisoning her!" Mother had screeched.

Father didn't answer.

After that, we always played when she went away. When the time came for her to start going home, we hurriedly disassembled towers of blocks, tucked away all drawings, and retreated into our separate rooms.

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It wasn't until now that I understood why we had to be so clandestine. What we were doing was prohibited by society, and eventually, law.

I let the doubts in and finally something clicks.

Dad really had poisoned me. I gasp and press my palms to my head. It all makes sense now. Why I've been so emotional. Why normal things like selling his things bothered me so.

I love my Dad.

I love him, even though he's dead. The only person who was himself around me. The only one who cared.

My hands start shaking. Yes, I love him.

And now I'm going to die.