The Catharsis

Chapter 4 - 40oz On Repeat

Thanksgiving

By Amethyst Turner

Gathered around a long wood table

I wait and wait to see the angel

Who tells me what I'm thankful for

Why life isn't just a bore

She never appears

The devil just jeers

At all of the pain he has served me for

XXX

Of course, the child lived on. Richard found her passed out in the drawer, hit Libby across the face, and that was that.

She didn't stop trying. Libby founded a package of those little magnetic marbles she used to play with as a kid in the basement. They had been recalled after several children had swallowed them and had their organs torn apart by the magnets searching for their brethren inside of them. Amethyst seemed to enjoy playing with them, but showed no interest in eating them.

She added half a pint of bleach to her milk, but Amethyst didn't like the taste and abandoned it after one sip. Libby tried to force it down her throat, but the girl began to wretch violently.

She left Richard's broken beer bottles on the floor, hoping the child would accidentally slit her own wrists, but thought better of it. She would be blamed for that, wouldn't she? Neglect, abuse, manslaughter . . . was it still manslaughter if the victim was a baby?

Amethyst was growing. By Thanksgiving, she hardly fit into her old baby carrier. Richard would have to get a new one soon. Libby managed to fit the straps over her, ignoring the child's shrieks of pain as she did. "Shut up," she muttered, slamming the door and climbing into the driver's seat.

Libby couldn't remember the last time she'd driven, but it was her only option. Richard refused to come. He hated her family. To be honest, Libby would have rather stayed home as well. Still, sitting on the couch with Richard, eating frozen turkey sandwiches sounded like a dismal alternative to visiting her family.

Besides, everyone had been pestering her to see the baby. This was a perfect opportunity to get them to stop bugging her.

Amethyst had grown a little halo of blond curls and a face like Libby used to have. Richard was always commenting on how pretty she was. Libby was prepared for a whole lot of that at dinner.

The four hour drive passed in a whirlwind of scary thoughts and Aimee's crying. I could drive off the road right now . . . she's not strapped in right. She'd go through the windshield, and I might survive . . . maybe she'll choke at dinner.

The Virginia suburb in which Libby's parents lived was clean and crisp with warm fall energy. Red and orange leaves dotted the yards, blanketing the place with a uniform color scheme. Libby was hit by memories of childhood; playing beneath the shade of these same trees, peeking over these same bushes at the neighbors.

She glanced down at her watch. They were almost thirty minutes late. The sun was beginning to set. Libby realized that she would have to drive home in the dark.

Aimee had fallen asleep in the backseat. Libby sighed, heaving the ten month old out of her carseat and setting her down on the road beside the car to get out the baby bag. Maybe a car would drive by and that would be the end.